Three Essays
Carrying Two Lives
November 4 2024
Being pregnant during a war feels like carrying two lives at once – the one growing inside me and the one that used to be mine. My life, my routines, my comforts – all feel distant now, like an echo, while this new life has a heartbeat that grows louder every day. I want to hold onto both, but they pull me in different directions: one forward, toward an unknown blankness, and one backward, toward what we鈥檝e lost.
They say pregnancy’s meant to feel grounding. But every day, I wake up untethered, with no place to plant roots, in a bed that isn鈥檛 mine, in a home that isn鈥檛 mine. I drag my feet out, feel the coldness of the ground and force myself to go through the motions that feel monumental. Brush my teeth, wash my face, apply my creams, apply some makeup to look halfway decent. To look alive. The mirror mocks me, always delivering unwanted news. Your eyes are puffy. Your bags are darker. I try to avoid it.
I run my hand over my belly, feel his kicks – small, defiant reminders that he鈥檚 there, growing, real. I ask Google, Can negative emotions and too much crying affect your baby when pregnant? The answers make me feel worse. I wonder about where his roots will be, what kind of world I am bringing him into, what home will mean to him. Can I Google that too?
With my first pregnancy, I counted the weeks, read every update, knew exactly when he was the size of a lemon, a mango, a melon. I imagined him, his face, his tiny fingers, the sound of his first cry. Now, my imagination doesn鈥檛 stretch that far. I feel his kicks, but I don鈥檛 know how to dream for him yet. The future I pictured for him feels as distant as the home I left behind.
Instead of planning his nursery or choosing baby clothes, I find myself asking questions that have no answers. Will he know his country, his people, or will these be things I have to explain someday? Show him pictures of? This was our home, this was our street, this is what it felt to belong鈥
And yet, he grows, despite it all, reminding me that life pushes forward no matter what. He doesn鈥檛 know fear, doesn鈥檛 know sorrow. He just knows the warmth of my body and the sound of my heartbeat, as steady as I can keep it. I hold onto that. He鈥檚 stronger than the fear I feel, he鈥檚 a spark of hope in a time when hope is hard to come by.
They鈥檝e taken so much from us. I don鈥檛 want them to take this too. So, here I am, bringing life into a life I don鈥檛 even know yet, fighting to protect his first days from the bitterness of my last ones there.
I want to give both my children everything I had, everything I鈥檝e lost, and a little bit more. I want them to have a life that feels real and whole and safe.
But for now, all I can do is carry them through these days, each step and each heartbeat a promise that I鈥檒l keep trying to find that home again – for all of us.
What Was and What Will Be
November 6 2024
Today is Imad鈥檚 3rd birthday. I always thought we鈥檇 celebrate at home, like we always did. In the place he took his first steps, said his first words, spat out the first bites of mashed carrot. Now we鈥檙e somewhere else, and each day feels like pulling him a little further away from the life he knew.
I found him shoving his favorite stuffed animal, Doggy, and a few toy dinosaurs into a shoebox, getting more and more frustrated because it wouldn鈥檛 shut. I asked him what he was doing and if he needed any help. He looked up briefly and said, 鈥淚鈥檓 packing them to take them to Beirut, mama.鈥
He said it so easily, like we鈥檇 leave tomorrow and slip right back into our old life as if nothing had changed. He thinks this is temporary, that soon we鈥檒l be back in the place he understands. But I know it isn鈥檛. I know that even if we do go back, it won鈥檛 be the same.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing the words out gently, 鈥淲e鈥檙e not going back right now, baby. When we do, you can pack them.鈥 But he barely seemed to hear me. He kept pressing down on the box, his small hands determined, his need to return stronger than my words.
Then there鈥檚 his brother, the child still growing inside me, safe in the world I can still control. He doesn鈥檛 know there was ever a home to lose. For him, the world will start fresh. This place we鈥檝e come to will be his beginning. He won鈥檛 know the difference, won鈥檛 feel the ache of absence the way Imad does. One holds tight to what鈥檚 already changed, while the other waits to enter a world he鈥檚 never seen. And then there鈥檚 me, trying to navigate the space between both.
Later that day, we were in the backseat of a cab, Imad wedged between us, as Ali watched a video of an Israeli strike on Lebanon. I wanted to ask questions – where? how bad is it? how many injured? how many dead? – but stayed quiet instead, not wanting to discuss it with Imad around. But he had other ideas.
鈥淚s it broken, mama?鈥 I guess he got a glimpse of the wreckage on screen. 鈥淵es, yes it is,鈥 I replied, hoping that would be enough.
鈥淏ut why?鈥 he asked, in that persistent tone I鈥檝e come to know so well.
I paused, my mind going blank. How do you explain this to a three-year-old? I鈥檇 gotten pretty good at navigating his 鈥渂ut why鈥 questions – why the sky was blue, why he couldn鈥檛 eat candy for breakfast, why he had toes. But this? This was different. How could I explain why a genocidal, maniacal, evil, colonial entity was raining destruction on our home, killing people we knew, tearing apart places he loved? I couldn鈥檛.
鈥淲e鈥檒l fix it. It鈥檒l get better,鈥 is all I could muster. That鈥檚 what I repeated to myself, anyway.
While We Wait
November 25 2024
I鈥檓 sitting in the waiting room of the gynecologist I鈥檝e been seeing here in Amman. The last time I was here, I ended up waiting for two hours, so this time I came prepared. The room is wide and long, with the wall in front of me made completely of glass, overlooking the beige city from the 23rd floor. It鈥檚 not a bad waiting room as far as waiting rooms go. Except there鈥檚 a woman who decided to sit right next to me, even though there are literally 16 empty seats. I counted. I don鈥檛 get people who do this. But then again, maybe I鈥檓 the strange one. I鈥檝e gotten so used to taking up space that doesn鈥檛 really feel like mine, always waiting for something to start, but never quite sure what.
One of my favorite parts of Dr. Seuss鈥 Oh, The Places You鈥檒l Go comes to mind – one that I used to read to Imad all the time.
The Waiting Place鈥听
…for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or No
or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting.
Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for the wind to fly a kite or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants or a wig with curls, or Another Chance. Everyone is just waiting.
And in this waiting room, it hits me – waiting is all I鈥檝e been doing. It feels like my whole life right now is just one long pause. Waiting for the war to end. Waiting for the baby. Waiting for answers to questions that never stop coming. Waiting to figure out where we鈥檒l live, where we go from here. Waiting for reunions, for the feeling of being home, for the comfort of walking down familiar streets. Or waiting to find new ones that will mark the start of this strange new life. Waiting for my hair to grow out, for the knots in my stomach to untangle, for the anxiety to fade. Waiting for that sense of normalcy I鈥檝e been craving, knowing it鈥檚 not just a temporary wish, but something I鈥檒l have to learn to create, like weaving a new world out of the fragments of the old one. Waiting for Imad to settle into school, to find the stability he needs. Waiting to tuck him and Doggy into a bed that鈥檚 just theirs.
Just waiting. All of us, in some form, waiting. For some shift, some sign that life will feel less suspended and more real. Waiting for the storm to pass, for the pieces to settle, for the world to catch its breath.
It鈥檚 strange how much of our lives are spent in this in-between space. The moments where nothing seems to happen, yet everything is changing. As I sit here, waiting for the doctor and for a glimpse of my son, a sign that everything is as it should be, that he鈥檚 growing, that he’s there – I realize maybe waiting isn鈥檛 just about what we鈥檙e waiting for. Maybe it鈥檚 about what we鈥檙e becoming while we wait. The growth that happens in the pauses, the patience we learn in stillness. To sit with the unknown, with questions that don鈥檛 have answers, and to trust that time, in its own way, will unravel what needs to be understood.
So for now, I wait. For answers. For changes. For time to catch up with me. And maybe that鈥檚 enough for today.
Mariam Shour is a writer, mother of two, and unapologetic reality TV binge-watcher. Raised in Nigeria and based in Lebanon, she writes about motherhood, media, identity, displacement, and the small moments that shape us. Alongside her work in advertising and storytelling, her writing has been published across various platforms, blending personal reflection with cultural observation. Through her platform, Unfolding.Today, Mariam’s stories try to make sense of the world and help others feel a little less alone in theirs.