Just a quick note today- we heard from two different sources yesterday that some Red Crescent aid trucks were allowed into Damaaj with food and medicines, and they were able to remove some of the wounded. I have not been able to talk with Mujaahid, so I don’t know the details or, indeed, if this is even true. I hope and pray that it is, as this would bring much needed, if temporary, relief to the people of the village, alhamdulillah.
Mujaahid’s father and grandmother were both able to speak to him this week- his grandmother wrote and told me how good it was to hear his voice. I know exactly how she feels. It’s odd, the comfort that even a short conversation can bring, along with the feeling that no matter how far away one is in terms of actual miles, in reality a whisper can bridge the gap. When my sister Patty, and then, later, my father, were in the process of leaving this earth, I was unable to call them, to speak to them, to hear their voices and offer them what ever solace mine could have given in return. The isolation I felt because of this is difficult to describe, and I know that when we return to the States I will have to truly confront my loss of these two special people from my life. Since communication was impossible, I was never able to say goodbye, I’ll miss you, and I’ll always love you.
I will be trying to get in touch with Mujaahid tomorrow, insh’Allaah, and I will find out if the aid trucks did, indeed, reach them. To be honest, though, this is a side issue. What I really want to do is reach across the desert, the tiny villages and large cities, the mountain passes and the deep, terraced valleys- to reach across the space between us, and simply, clearly, hear his voice.
Until then, as always, we wait, and we pray.