My uncle Ismail lived all his life in Tyre. He got married, had seven children (3 boys, 4 girls), worked hard, and died quite young. His two eldest boys also died at a young age – one of an illness, and the other in an accident. Four of the five who survived (3 daughters and one son) were born with a hereditary disease making them deaf and mute at birth. They all learned some form of a sign language (I think they invented their own), and each got trained into some technical skills — a dressmaker, a hairdresser, and maybe a mechanic — making up for the missing words with smiles, exaggerated grimaces, and gentle brightness in their eyes. Growing up, I was fascinated by my four “silent” cousins (they were all older than me). I especially adored Elissar. She was absolutely gorgeous. She taught me “her” sign language and we used to hang out during the holidays and our visits to Tyre. I begged of her to become my sister and to live with us in Beirut. She would laugh and give me hugs and kisses. She was my confidante and I told her all my secrets as a young teenager. I used to tell her that my secrets were especially safe with her because she couldn’t “talk” and anyway, my parents didn’t know sign language. She would laugh so hard till she made some very deep brief sound. I used to think that if I kept making her laugh, harder and harder, she would end up making more and more sounds until she can finally talk. She never did. I used to scream so loud into her ears, horribly loud so they would pop up open, and then she can finally hear me. She never did. She would imitate me as I screamed, with the same facial expressions, squinting her eyes with her mouth wide open, pushing her neck to the front to help the screams come out. They never did. As we got older, I didn’t see Elissar and her siblings much, and then barely at all once I moved abroad. On 8 November, in the darkness of a savage war, Elissar and her sisters Ghazwa (the eldest, who could speak and hear and was her four siblings’ caretaker), Rabab, Fida, and their brother Ali, all five were killed together by an Israeli strike on Tyre. They were sheltering at home, fearing deep in their hearts bombs they couldn’t hear. I imagine Elissar — as the roof crumbled down — squinting her eyes with her mouth wide open, wider and wider, silently screaming her fear, trying one last time, to get the sounds out. Did she manage to shout? Did she scream her death? Did Elissar hold hands with her siblings, as the bombs fell down, trying together, to voice, loudly, their final goodbye? Did they scream their death? Did they hear their death? Did Elissar finally hear her own cries?
Samira Atallah, 05.12.2024