His dot makes a jump further southern, and then I see the dreaded word next to his name. I text him the address but I don’t get anything back. “He can charge his phone, and I’ll get him a taxi,” she offers sincerely. She offers her place in the city for him to seek refuge. I can’t tell if he’s walking or on a bus, but I avoid texting him, worried my few words would drain his battery that’s now reaching 2 per cent.Īn Irish friend is checking in and I tell her what’s happening. The blue dot moves south, far from the riots but still not close enough to my point on the map. He’ll make it, and you’ll laugh about it as you do with everything else that went dark in your life. Remember? When the government disconnected all connections around his neighbourhood and you couldn’t reach him and felt the blood draining in your veins. He made it back before, remember? When he was stuck in Yarmouk Camp in Damascus, besieged by army tanks and snipers and protesters and random air missiles. I am not a neurologist, but I can feel the nerves of my brain melting one after the other. Stephen’s Green Park while his battery drops fast like a spaceship countdown. His location’s blue dot moves back and forth on St. His phone battery is also shared, indicating 9 per cent. I switch between the news on social media and my husband’s shared live location on Google Maps. My neck is a rock as I hold tensely to my phone. I know this is not going to happen in Dublin, but my PTSD doesn’t. Helicopters back then meant one thing: explosive barrels. The scenes of the war in Syria keep coming back to my mind.
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