Day 153: A Tribute

Day 153: August 26, 2020
Global Cases: 24,324,543; Deaths: 828,914
Egypt Cases: 97, 825; Deaths: 5, 317

Arwa Hezzah
Political Science Graduating Senior

3:30pm: Just like every other afternoon, I open my eyes and immediately lift my arm up to check my watch for the time. Just like every other afternoon, I grunt, realizing I’d woken up much later than I had intended to.

I’d slept an adequate amount, considering I had fallen asleep several hours after the sun rose. But still, I had always made plans to start my day earlier, and was always disappointed when they didn’t pan out.

I unlock my phone and wince for a moment at the light coming off of it. My eyes are barely open and yet, the first thing I want to do is check social media to see if I got the attention I crave from the people I hardly know.

I go on with my routine checks: Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Whatsapp. Nothing new. I go back to Instagram, scrolling through what seems to me to be the same picture of the beach, but with a dozen different subjects each time. I chuckle at the number of people who have ventured off to Sahel these days. Who would’ve known that it would take a mere few months and a desperate need for a nice tan and a good swim to make people forget about COVID-19, the vicious monster of 2020?

4:20pm: I get a call from a friend whose upstairs neighbor has recently contracted the disease. He’s just found out about the matter and has gone into full panic-mode. I’m marveling at the way people are handling this pandemic. When it all started, people’s reactions to it were more or less uniform. Stay at home, wear a mask everywhere, sanitize yourself and everything you touch, be scared, panic, and pray to God that this strange illness doesn’t get to you or anyone you love.

These days, it’s a little different. Yes, COVID-19 is still alive and kicking, but people don’t care anymore. I can only assume they’ve given up trying to keep themselves safe. “If I get it, I get it,” seems to be the new approach. I chuckle again.

5pm: I get a text and my heart sinks. It’s about a girl, someone I knew once. I never knew her well, but I had had several conversations with her.

There was an accident in Sahel this morning, the text read.

I start to hyperventilate. I pull up a picture of this girl and send it over.

Her? Are you sure this is her? I text back.

For The Caravan‘s previous diary entries in Arabic and English go to our COVID-19 Special Coverage page.

I get confirmation and my heart breaks. I remember this girl. We had taken a class together one winter. We would sit outside the classroom during our breaks, in a little nook under the stairs. We’d smoke a cigarette or two and talk about the most random things, as people do when they’re just getting to know each other. We’d talk about art, and movies, and graduating, and boys, and classes, and friends. We talked about… all the little things, it seemed.

I remember being mesmerized by her, how nice she was, how she was always smiling. In my brief memories of her, she shone. She was older than I was and I remember thinking she probably knew a lot more about life than I did.

I remember thinking she probably thought I was just a child, in retrospect. She talked about her art, how she liked making movies. And I thought that the artist in her could bond with the artist in me.

After our course ended, we didn’t speak again. I would see her around campus, we would say our brief hellos, but then each of us would go on her own way. We followed each other’s social media accounts. I guess that’s a way people make sure they stay connected these days.

I admired her from afar, always intimidated by her brilliance. She made art and I found myself becoming a fan of hers. I had always imagined she would make something great of herself, have everyone see her through her art …

6pm: People are starting to post their stories about her online. I want to say something, but I don’t know what to say. Or who to say it to. I’ve always been bad at these things. I never know what to say when someone dies. If it’s someone I knew personally, I prefer to grieve through silence. If it’s someone I didn’t know very well, I feel out of place saying anything.

I go through the multitude of posts about her, people who loved her, who were good friends of hers, who knew her, really knew her. And suddenly, taking a class with her feels insignificant. I want to say something, but I don’t know what to say. People are praying for her. Maybe I should pray for her. But, I haven’t been religious in a while and asking people to pray for her would feel … insincere. So, what else would I say? Devastated that someone I once knew is gone? No. That wasn’t good enough. Nothing was good enough. And so, I say nothing.

9pm: I decided that the only thing I can do is write. Maybe that way the artist in me can honor the artist in her. And so I write, and I put into words the things I saw in her. I put into words how she was beautiful, kind, talented, how I wholeheartedly believe that she was destined for greatness. But this is just the view of a practical stranger. There was more to her that I never knew, much more.

I’m writing this piece and I feel a twinge in my chest. I open Instagram again. I open her profile, all these pictures with all these people. I wonder how her family is doing, how her friends are doing, how much more painful it must be for them.

Death is a strange thing, a painful thing. But still, it is a necessary evil. I am now reminded of the finiteness of everything, how things and people can be here one moment and gone the next. I am reminded of how miniscule major things can seem, in the grand scheme of things. I’m starting to understand the discrepancy in people’s reactions to current events, why the pandemic no longer seems like a big deal to some. It, too, is finite. Everything is.

As I bring this piece to a close, I find myself wishing I had spoken to her more. Then again, maybe that’s how everyone feels after someone dies. I find myself wondering what would have happened if I had sent her a message, on some random day, just saying hello.

I find myself wishing I could have told her all the things I thought.

Rest in Peace, Farida.

The Caravan extends its deepest and most heartfelt condolences to the family and friends of Farida Helmy, Film alumna Spring ’19, who passed away August 26, 2020.