Dear Angelic Lost Soul,
I write to you from a world that continues to turn, even though yours came to a halt on the day of that tragic explosion. I know you will never receive this letter, but I feel compelled to write to you nonetheless. Your name was a mystery to me until I discovered it carved in stone, and your face only became familiar through the haunting images of destruction that filled the news. Your absence resonates like a sorrowful melody in the heart of this city—Beirut—with its weathered walls and resilient jasmine, which now carries your memory like a deep, unhealed wound. Your presence, though fleeting, has left an indelible mark on my soul.
I often wonder if you heard the explosion—a sound so immense it devoured moments, swallowed streets, and interrupted your laughter in mid-joy. Did you think of the sea, of how the evening light dances over the port, illuminating the chaos of crates and tangled wires? Or did you grasp someone’s hand, murmur a prayer, or simply freeze in that fleeting moment before everything shattered?
They say that grief is love with no destination. So, where do I direct this feeling? To the shards of glass still embedded in the walls? I trace your path through the stories of those who survived: the nurse who sang to her patients, the baker who fed stray cats, the student sketching stars in her notebook. You are not just a number; you are an incomplete universe. I admit, I feel a fierce anger toward the carelessness that took you away. Yet tonight, I lit a candle and set it where the Mediterranean breeze could carry its light. A light act of defiance against forgetting. I like to believe you see it—not as a specter, but as stardust, now part of the rhythm that awakens spring grass and the tides. Do you linger in the scent of rain on pavement? In the adhan’s sound drifting through the mosque’s glorious loudspeaker?
When I softly recite certain lines from Kumayl ibn Ziyad’s heartfelt supplication, “O Allah, pardon me for the sins that disrupt Your blessings! O Allah, forgive me for the transgressions that hinder my prayers! O Allah, my trials are overwhelming, and my condition is dire,” is that your voice joining in? I often find myself reflecting on how you might react in various circumstances. It brings me a sense of solace to imagine your voice resonating with my thoughts. I can’t help but wonder if you are watching over me now, providing support in ways that remain hidden from my view. I have come to see memory as a bridge rather than a grave.
I often walk through it, bringing along your dreams, your unique traits, and the love you had for others. I take these with me to protests and petitions, and each morning I choose to spread kindness in the fight against darkness. Is this enough? To transform sorrow into a guiding star? To speak your name until it becomes not a wound but a rallying cry? The catastrophic blast in your Phoenician city remains an enigma, shrouded in uncertainty. There are signs that external influences may be at play, particularly from neighboring regions that seem to prefer Lebanon in a state of unrest rather than tranquility.
I yearn to share this sorrow with you, yet I will tend to the jasmine in the very spot where my heart feels heavy. I will nurture it with love, encouraging it to reach toward the sky. My hope is that, in time, the memories will find their way back to me, intertwined with the essence of what you once brought to life.
Yours sincerely,
E. M. J.
Essam M. Al-Jassim is a Saudi writer and translator based in Jubail, Saudi Arabia. His writings and translations have been featured in various international online and print Arabic and English-language literary journals. Essam compiled and translated the recently published anthology of flash fiction, Furtive Glimpses: Flash Fiction from The Arab World.