Twelve little cousins lined up at my grandmother’s balcony mesmerized by a large orange moon hanging low in a clear night sky and illuminating bullet scarred buildings of Beirut.
Then a bomb went off.
All our parents ran to the balcony to get us inside, before the other blast, since they always came in pairs: First blast hits a target, then the next hits anyone trying to help.
“It could be anywhere! There is shrapnel you’ll get hurt!” they yelled as grabbed some of us and tried to push the scrambling others inside.
But we were too young, too happy, and too hypnotized by the moon. We did not move, our parents gave up and stood there with us, the second blast went off, and we all stayed, watching the moon.
That was my first orange moon. I see it in every beautiful moon I see today. The noise from the bombs and the sirens falls into the background, just like on that gorgeous unforgettable moon night.