It's 11. 30pm. I'm in my bed, not able to sleep, tossing and turning. I look right to my bedroom window, covered with bamboo shutters. Through the slits I can see the view to our cow field under the moonlight, and I think to myself, gosh, I love my view. I look to my left, to my other lovely view. My husband's sleeping next to me.
I can see his face because I know his face better than I know my own. And I wonder, does he have, I lift up the covers and I look, yes, he has socks on. I think most of us in Europe are sleeping with socks on under the cover. We are in a war and the energy prices are raising out of the pan. By the way, raising out of the pan is a Dutch saying, and I'm Dutch, so I know my sayings.
And I also wear socks to bed at night. I've been Dutch for 20 years. My kids are born here and Lebanon is my birth mother. The Netherlands is my adoptive mama. I say this very often. Well, maybe I don't say this that often, but I say it if someone wants to hear it. Before I became Dutch, I grew up between homes and bomb shelters.
I was born in a war zone, and the war raised me. I was not raised by my parents alone. I was raised by the entire neighborhood because we all shared that bomb shelter and there was really nothing to do for grown ups but spend time together and raise each other's kids. Throughout my entire childhood, so much needless pain and suffering.
And now when I'm in my home in Diemen and the world start closing in on me, I go to my safe zone, to my childhood. I go to this somehow wonderful place. memories of my childhood in Beirut as a teenager. The war in the Ukraine has stirred up old memories, some of them traumatic memories, but the war in Lebanon is a long time ago and I have moved on.
My family didn't. But I am far away. It's easier for me to choose not to live in the past. Presently, among many things, I'm a proud mom of a seven year old son, and the other two are teenage daughters. As you know, doing teenage things, sometimes with teenage boys. And the combination of the five of us creates a war zone in my house as well.
As a proud mom, I have the delusion that my kids are telling me everything they do. Sometimes, I don't want to know. It worries me. The more I know, the less I sleep at night. And when I don't sleep at night, I start thinking. My parents, they never asked us anything. In their minds, we weren't doing anything.
We are in a war, what could we possibly do? And here I am in my bed, still awake. I reach to my phone to check my daughter's location. I want to see where they're hanging out. Please do not judge me. I want to know where they are. And when the dots are together, I have the illusion that they are fine. I think my parents had the illusion that we are fine.
I think they must have trusted us, and I can't yet figure it out. Was this their weakness or their strength? In the end, we all survived, and our memories also survived with us. And now, I will take you with me to my memory for when I was 13 years old. I'm primarily living underground, spending most of my time in a bomb shelter surrounded by massive concrete walls.
On the ceiling shines neon light 24/ 7, just like in a prison. When there were no threats outside, everyone would leave the building to catch some air. And this was one of these days when everyone left to breathe. I can see most of the beds neatly made and everyone's personal stuff next to their personal family space.
It is if like the entire neighborhood moved inside. Our neighbor outside on the street is also our neighbor inside in the bomb shelter. This was the same for everyone. Your neighbor outside is also your neighbor inside. The homes and streets have moved. And in times of war and bomb shelter, life goes on.
There were fights, games, loud TV sets with various kind of news on them, tons of music cassettes. And my favorite, the recorded music videos. Because when I was 13, I had this obsession of watching music video. And at night when I lay in my bed, I would obsess even more about one day going on my first date.
And this was soon to be a reality because back then I have met a boy. There was short ceasefire. My parents allowed me one evening to go and visit my friend. Her parents were still in the bomb shelter playing poker. As teenagers do, she threw a party and way too many teenagers showed up, including this attractive 14 years old.
I see him standing in the living room, leaning against the wall. He was dark, tall, and handsome. He runs his hand in his 14 year old lush hair. His jeans is casually dirty, and his blue shirt is casually saying, Hey! His name was Antoine and everyone calls him Tony. Not one girl was brave enough to come near this Tony Coca Cola drinking hottie.
Except me, Roula, the daughter of Pablo Escobar. Okay, wait, my father is not Pablo Escobar. But in my eyes, and in the eyes of everyone in the city, he was pretty damn close. Can you imagine we knew who Pablo Escobar was before anyone else did? My father's real name is Fawaz Abou Haidar, and he passed away in 2012.
For me, he was my hero, but also the most terrifying man I've ever knew. In the early years of war, he'd been kidnapped by militias, to then be tortured and killed. Yet, one week later, he returns home with a smile on his face, telling us stories about his new friends who no longer would bother him anymore.
This incident has made him the most dangerously charismatic man in the bomb shelter and beyond. Every woman wanted to flirt with him and every man wanted to be his best friend. You see, my father inherited his Escobar traits and good looks from his parents, who, by the way, grew and sold Lebanese hash in their own fields in the Bekaa Valley.
Papa managed to organize high stakes poker games in the bomb shelter when bombing was pouring on us like tropical rain. He also got his claim to fame when he helped deliver a baby. Well, kind of. But the man is invincible, and I, Roula Abu Haidar, am his daughter. On that evening, when I was looking at this 14 year old, My father's reputation rubbed off on me, and I got the self confidence to make my move on him.
Before I know what's happening, we were dancing to the music of Rick Astley, Never Gonna Give You Up, Never Gonna Let You Down. I think I impressed him with my Madonna dance moves. Because when the music stops, Tony says, Would you like to go for a walk on Sunday? Honestly? Tony was much more attractive leaning against the wall drinking his coca cola than him dancing.
But I can scream from joy to the thought that I'm finally asked on my first date. So I answer, very cool. Yes, why don't we meet at 10 in front of the church? Tony nods and he walks away. I am so excited I'm going on my first date. I don't know if I really like Tony, but this is not the point. The point is that I'm going on my first date and I must look at my very best.
Luckily, I had my mom make for me a replica of Madonna's outfit from her video clip Dance into the Groove. A blue fake leather biker jacket, short flowery skirt, and white lace gloves cut off at the fingers. I am a fashion statement. And I spend my time thinking what to do with my hair. So I decided to go for the short hair look of Pat Benatar, ironically from her video clip Love is a Battlefield.
So here I am, ready on Saturday, one day before my date, sitting at the table with my father, mother, sister and brother to have lunch, when we hear a huge explosion. The windows shake, the table, the floor, there is glass scattered everywhere. And I hear people screaming inside and outside. A planted car bomb exploded a few blocks away in our street in front of the church.
Our lively street was silenced in seconds. My father jumps up and run outside to see how he can help. My mother, brother and sister follow him to help dig in the rubble and save the life they can save. But me, with my 13 years old body on the chair, I could not move.
What the fuck? Why now? I have a date tomorrow. What if he doesn't show up because of this? I know, I'm young, I'm selfish, and instead of thinking of the people who are injured, killed, and the destruction, all I can think of is my date, because I really want to go on one. And to be fair to myself, I am born in the war, and bombs never stopped.
But now I know, they also have a bad timing too. Besides, The bomb exploded on the spot where I'm supposed to meet Tony. That afternoon, I sat at the table and cried until my father came in and asked me to go to bed.
The next morning, my father doesn't want me to leave the house. No, it's too dangerous. But I have to go. I really have to go and even my dad will not stop me from going. So I say. Dad, the bomb yesterday really scared me and I must go and pray in front of the church. My father looks up. He nods. I don't know if he nods yes or no.
All I know is that I run as quick as I can to change into my Madonna Benatar outfit. And just before I reach to the door and leave the house, I hear my father yells, Roro, you're not going to leave the house in these clothes, are you? Quick on my feet, I run outside and yell. But Papa, I'm super in a hurry, I must leave.
And I run my ass off in the direction of the church.
Now this part is really difficult to talk about, because I wish I listened to my father. When I run into the street, I can see for the first time the destruction. I can feel the pain, and I can see the destroyed buildings, the fresh blood everywhere, and I can feel the loss in the air.
A car bomb is nothing like a regular bombing. It's a whole different level of massacre. But for me, there is no turning back now. My father thinks I'm going to the church to pray, and I hope by now Tony is waiting for me. So I kept walking towards the church, and I could see Tony waiting for me. A bit awkward, with a red rose in his right hand.
I walked to him in utter silence, and he handed me the rose. Bit confused, we stood there silent for a minute or two. After which we managed to say hi and grow silent again. So here I am on my first date as we continued walking, hear people crying, see more destruction and feel the loss in the air. After 10 minutes, I looked at Tony and he looks at me and I say, I think I have to go.
Tony says, Yeah, me too. I just like that. We walk away, still with a flower in my hand.
This was the first, and by far, the worst date I've ever had. As I continued walking, I put down the flower in front of the church, prayed God to forgive me, and I wish my father wasn't there. I never told him the truth. I was too ashamed.
My father also didn't know about a date that my sister had a few months later. She also needed an excuse to leave the house in a pitch dark evening when there was no ceasefire. And she used me as her decoy. Just like I used the praying in front of the church. She holds my hand, run out of the house screaming.
I have to bring her, it's not safe for her to go alone. And before my feet would touch the ground, I found myself sitting in the front seat of her car, a golden Honda Civic, bombed and bruised by all kinds of random accidents and bombing debris. She obviously does not notice me, and I am used for one of her plans.
So I say, where are we going? Shh, I'm thinking. And she drives towards the bakery that is still open, buys a pizza, throw it on my lap. I'm wearing shorts and the pizza is hot, so my legs are burning and she doesn't care. She's a total bitch. As you can see, the atmosphere is not really hunky dory and she drives further.
I am young and a teenager, but I am old enough to know that she is up to no good.
After few minutes I realize, we're heading towards enemy lines. Yes, enemy lines. We live very close to the border, so it took her only 10 minutes to get there. And I'm thinking, what is she doing? Once we arrived at top of the hill, she stops. Let me be clear. At the bottom of the hill is Khatamis, the trenches, the enemy lines and our separated by a big wall of stacked sandbags.
She stops the car, puts it, puts it on neutral, turn off the lights and turns off the car. She lets it roll down the hill. When we got to the bottom, she slowly pulls up the handbrake and we come to a dead stop. This is where for the first time she opens her mouth and shh and whispers. Roro, you stay in the car and you don't make a fucking sound.
No matter what happens, you wait for me. She grabs the pizza from her burning legs and disappears in the darkness in the direction of the sandbags. Oh my god, I am 20 meters away from the sandbags. I can see in the wall of the sandbag holes that are used by snipers and I can see the shadows of the soldiers sitting there.
I am scared shitless. I'm scared shitless, not specifically of the situation at hand. I'm scared shitless of what my father would do to us if he knows about this. My sister was away for five seconds, five minutes, which felt the longest five minutes in my life. Then I see her coming back and this shadow of sandbags behind her, next to her.
The most gorgeous soldier I've ever seen. He is wearing his militant gear, helmet, his white shoulder carrying a big gun, and in his hand, the infamous pizza box. They arrived to the car, and my sister leans against my door, blocking my entire view to this beautiful stranger. They kissed passionately. I knocked very hard on the window.
She gets in the car and says very calmly, That was easy. Now how do we return home without Papa seeing us? Really? Papa was waiting for us on the porch. When we arrived, he looks at her, he looks at me and says, It's late. Go to bed. I'll deal with you two tomorrow. I'm again scared shitless and I think my sister is scared too.
When the morning comes, my father had other things on his mind. And we were saved by enemy bombs.
Sometimes I don't sleep at night because of these stories. But I also sleep very well because of them. Because I survived. I had fun and it was my life. And I am proud of what I've been through. And I am proud of my family. And very thankful. That I lived and now I'm here in Diemen next to my snoring husband and my seven year old son and my lovely teenage daughters.
And yeah, somewhere not far away, there is a war today, the Ukraine. I think of that too. And then I reach to my phone again to check, find my, find my iPhone app and see my daughter's location. I can see the dots. are together somewhere around the light plane in Amsterdam and I think they are fine but I also think of the underground parking lot in Demon that will do just fine as a bomb shelter if the war one day comes our way That even in the most dark times, we are still making our stories.
That someday, my kids, if they're lucky, will share with total strangers from behind the mic, telling them about that evening that their mom thought they are at the lights playing in Amsterdam, while they're truly We're buying weeds to go and smoke in the back of the alley. Well, you know the rest.
And then I look at my husband. I smile, close my eyes, rub my socks against his, and finally fall asleep.