I met her on Facebook, as another friend who used to “like” my statuses and links I shared on the public wall.

When Rabi’ died I sent her a message on Facebook, I had a breakdown and I had no idea why I sent her the message.

I met her at Rabi’ mourning ceremony the next day. It was the first time we meet. It was the first time I see her. I stared at her with admiration, looking at her choice of clothes, her undone hair, she was carrying her huge laptop that must be ages-old. “I am sticking with her,” I told myself.

She didn’t stick back. She left me alone in the ceremony, she left me because that’s the right thing to do at these situations. You leave people at times of need because there are more pressing issues in Syria.

Then Bassel died three days later. I don’t want to go there yet.

A month later I sent her another message on Facebook inviting her to drink Arak with me and a friend. She gladly accepted the invitation and that night a huge argument occurred between both of me and Lulu, and my friend, who for some reason thinks 14 March people in Lebanon are authentic in comparison to 8th March guys. I loved Lulu’s politics that night, I was proud of myself for assuming to have good judgment on people.

Then I started seeing Lulu in demonstrations for the coming two months. We held hands and shoulders. We sang and danced in the streets among tens of other protesters. She started to become part of my life and imagination.

Barzeh is under shelling.
The same Barzeh we used visit to demonstrate and carry our weird banners, whose activists and families protected us from regime raids, that Barzeh, the smiles and unexplainable feelings, are all under shelling.

I called Lulu on the phone: “Barzeh, Lulu! Barzeh!”

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