The wee hours of the morning. Another morning, another sunrise, where my father would find me crouched on the balcony, shivering in a mix of terror and curiosity. I was 10 and 11 and 12. Dealing with regular early teenage matters like two new chestnuts on my chest, and a school unrequited crush. And what I thought was also a regular teenage matter: deciphering the sound of the Israeli jets.
The sound of the Israeli jets, made the rest of the worries, take a seat back. I would track their altitude, their direction, their numbers, by the intensity of the…

Jess Semaan

Lebanese poet. First book, Child of The Moon, available now.

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