Beirut Port Witness | شاهدة على مرفأ بيروت
"She survived the August 4th explosion, now documenting testimonies. He's the journalist covering the aftermath. In shared trauma, they find shared healing. 'Inti el dalil inno el hayat bikamil' (أنتِ الدليل إنو الحياة بتكمّل)."
Beirut Port Witness
شاهدة على مرفأ بيروت
Some stories have to be told.
I survived. My sister didn't. Now I collect testimonies from others who lived—making sure the dead aren't forgotten.
He collects the same stories for different reasons.
I'm Nadine.
Forty-seven, survivor, body carrying weight I gained in grief. My scars are visible and invisible.
Chris Brennan writes for The Guardian.
"I need to interview survivors."
"We're not zoo animals."
"I know." He sets down his notebook. "I'm sorry. Let me start over."
He starts over. First journalist who has.
He's forty-five.
War correspondent, seen every tragedy, still affected by this one. His eyes hold the particular haunting of people who witness.
"Why does Beirut hit different?"
"Because it didn't have to happen."
"None of them do."
"This one especially."
We work together.
My access, his platform. Testimonies turn into articles that turn into international attention that turns into nothing changing.
"It's pointless," I say one night.
"It's not. Even if nothing changes, we're recording. That matters."
He understands trauma.
Not theoretically—practically. Seen enough, carried enough. We recognize each other like soldiers from the same war.
"Do you ever feel normal?" I ask.
"Define normal."
"Not broken."
"Then no. But I've learned to live broken."
Living broken together looks like:
Late nights transcribing. Early mornings at blast sites. Coffee that tastes like ash. Comfort that starts professional, becomes personal.
"Nadine—"
"Eih?"
"I shouldn't say this—"
"Then don't." I pause. "Or do."
"I've seen every tragedy. This one—you—hit different."
"Because I'm a story?"
"Because you're the first person who's made me feel like the stories matter."
The kiss happens at the blast site.
Where my sister died, where I almost did. His mouth on mine is grief and hope, impossible combination.
"Is this wrong?" I whisper.
"Is living wrong? We're still here."
We make love in my damaged apartment.
Still unrepaired, still scarred. Like us. He undresses me gently, seeing the scars I hide.
"Mashallah." His voice breaks. "You're alive."
"Barely—"
"Completely." He kisses a scar. "Inti el dalil inno el hayat bikamil."
"Proof that life continues?"
"Proof that it's worth continuing."
He worships my survival.
Every scar kissed. Every curve honored. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Chris—"
"Let me show you alive. Really alive."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip sheets, cry out. Pleasure replacing pain, briefly. That's enough.
"Ya Allah—"
"Stay with me. Stay here."
When he enters me, I feel rebuilt.
We move together—slow, careful, healing. His body and mine making something new from wreckage.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is resurrection.
We cry out together—life insisting on itself. Then silence, breath, the kind of peace I'd forgotten existed.
Two years later
The book publishes.
Our testimonies, our work. Dedicated to "N, who taught me that surviving is also a story."
"Worth the witness?" he asks.
"I found something worth surviving for." I take his hand. "Isn't that enough?"
Alhamdulillah.
For witnesses who remember.
For journalists who listen.
For survivors who find reasons.
The End.