Youssef Muhammad Hamid Abu Mousa

The painful story of the child Youssef, with his curly hair, fair skin, and beautiful face. "Mama, I'm hungry, I want to eat..." "Don't be afraid, my love. I'll make you a tomato stir-fry." I went out to the home of Umm Mahmoud, my temporary neighbor, looking for two tomatoes to quiet Youssef's hunger. I had instructed him to lock the door well until I returned. His father was at the hospital fulfilling his duty, and no one else could go. I hurried and prayed to God to keep him safe for me. I knocked on Umm Mahmoud's door several times, but no one answered. I went to the home of the al-Miqdad family, on the other side of the street, full of hope that I would find two tomatoes for Youssef. I hate being away from him, but there was nothing left to eat in our house. The seven days of war are harder than anything. "How are you, mother, and your children? I hope the bombing hasn't reached you?" "I'm fine, as you can see. May God protect us, Hajja." I replied to Umm Miqdad and asked her for the tomatoes. In war, people don't have the luxury of long conversations; any second could be the last. I took the tomatoes and said goodbye to the Hajja. "Pray for us, Hajja. The circumstances are difficult, as you see. We don't want to go to the UNRWA shelters, the situation there is very difficult, from what they say." "May God protect you and all the people. It is a crisis, and it will pass with God's help." Then, the sound of a huge explosion... All I remember is a black cloud that blocked out everything. I was struck with temporary deafness from the force of the blast, but only one thing was on my mind: is Youssef okay? I ran toward the street, struggling to breathe because of the dust and smoke. There was a large crowd at the site of the bombing, and everyone was screaming and helping the medics take the victims. It was like the horrors of the Day of Judgment. "People, have you seen Youssef? Has anyone here seen a small boy?" "Mother, I don't know. The wounded were taken to al-Shifa hospital, follow them there." I remembered Abu Youssef; he works there as a doctor and hadn't been home since the start of the war. I got into an ambulance to the hospital. The last thing I remember before the ambulance door closed was that the door I had locked Youssef behind was no longer there. Out of a primal motherly instinct, I had locked the door, afraid of the dangers of the earth. But how can a mother lock out the danger that comes from the sky? Even fear is different in war. On the second floor of the al-Shifa Medical Complex, I ran into his father, in his green scrubs, exhausted from the days of war and the non-stop work. He had dedicated his life to the people, answering the call of duty. "Youssef... Youssef..." I said no more than his name. He understood why I was there. People don't come to the hospital for an outing. The search for Youssef began. "Youssef, 7 years old, fair-skinned and beautiful," I kept repeating to everyone I met—doctor, journalist, or wounded person, it didn't matter. All I wanted was to know where Youssef was. After searching several floors and several rooms, I grew tired. My legs tried to hold me up, but my fear was heavier, and I collapsed onto the nearest seat. While his father went to search, Youssef's life flashed before my eyes. I was blessed with him after years of marriage. He was a grace in my life, beautiful as the moon. His presence compensated for every hardship. I named him Youssef. I raised him, and I breathed through him. Every day of my life was a new happiness as I watched Youssef grow in my hands. Youssef began to play and talk, and it was time for him to start school this year. That was hard for me. How could I part with him for eight hours every day? I waited for him at the door every day, greeting him with a hug and the tomato stir-fry he loved. "Leave me alone," I heard Abu Youssef say in a pained voice. I jumped toward him, screaming, "Maybe it's not him!" I was trying, but he was his son, and he knew him. A father is not mistaken about his son's future, so how could he be mistaken in recognizing his features? A mother's intuition told me it was all over. I wanted one last moment of farewell, but they stopped me. They wanted me to keep the beautiful image of him in my memory—Youssef, the fair-skinned boy with the curly hair—before the missiles disfigured him. I don't know who I am writing to, but my sorrow as a mother is untranslatable. How can I express it? How can I explain the years of my patience waiting for Youssef to arrive? Youssef was the gift that compensated for my hardship. Who will compensate me now for the loss of Youssef? I raised him with love. I deprived myself to give to him, and I endured pain and suffering so he could live like a normal child, like your children. I locked the door on him to protect him, and he is gone, and the door with him. How can a mother protect her son in a war? I waited for Youssef at the door to come back from school every day. How can I wait now, when Youssef is no longer here? Youssef left while he was hungry!!!!