Turmoil

foreword

The bombs keep her awake. Though they erupt in the suburbs of Gaza, the noises feel as if they come from right outside the dormitory. She winces and closes her eyes and thinks about Caramel, her cat, and whether he'll be sleeping on her bed, indifferent to her absence.

For a few seconds, silence hits. But then the bombs go off again. She removes the blanket from her feet and sits upright on the bed as her hands search for the glass of water on the side table. She gulps it down in one go.

Putting on her slippers, she makes her mind to wash her face with cool water. But she decides against it so as to not wake up her roommate. Instead, she walks in circles around the room. It's an action that usually has a calming effect on her but it doesn't work this time. She still feels nauseous. So she stops.

It's still nighttime in Pakistan so mama will be sleeping. She won't pick up if  I call her and she'll just be worried tomorrow.

Her hand lingers on her mother's phone number and she contemplates whether to call her. Either way, she'll have to admit to her mother that she was wrong and that she was not entirely ready.

But her mind thinks otherwise. She's been waiting for an offer like this since she started undergraduate at Princeton, and just one year in, CNN decided to hire her as an interning journalist. The experience, the pay- nothing could be better than the offer they gave her. To spend two weeks in Gaza, studying the doctors of Gulrukh hospital and their interactions with the patients.

"It's as simple as that, mama," is what she said.

But she's not sure whether she believes it now. She's not sure whether she trusts herself to do justice to journalism, or justice to the people she'll meet.

God, she wishes to tell that to someone but she has never been good at giving answers, at explaining things. No, she'd rather listen and be the one to ask the questions, she'd rather immerse herself in the tales that people tell.

She doesn't care about telling her story.

But right now she wishes she could confide to someone.

And so she unpacks her journal from her suitcase so it can bear witness to the emotions her heart tries to convey to her mind.

She's going to write notes that convey what she feels. She knows that she'll  eventually have to write down what other people feel, what their hearts bleed but right now, she decides to listen to her heart.

Writing is what she does best.

In these special writings, she knows she'll breathe by words.

Finding solace in the shallow nightlight, she begins.