By Emma Jaber | Staff Writer

In times of war, destruction often takes center stage: collapsed buildings, lost lives, alarming statistics. But what often goes unspoken is the quiet devastation of waiting. The kind of waiting that comes with loving someone from afar while your worlds are collapsing. It’s a particular kind of heartbreak: to be helpless, miles away, holding a phone like it’s a lifeline, and dreading the moment it stops ringing.

For many people in conflict zones, and for those who love them from across oceans and borders, this is reality. It may not make the headlines, but it’s lived in kitchens, on bus rides, and through exhausting nights spent hoping for a call.

In times of war, you’ll wait by the phone, the same way you always do. But it won’t ring. You’ll say that the line is down, constructing a cozy and comfortable bubble for yourself. Yesterday, your

phone call with your partner was cut short by heavy gunfire and the music of sirens. You spoke for an hour, though it felt like minutes. Finally, after hours of waiting, the phone rings.

“Are you safe?” you’ll ask, knowing their answer will bring you no comfort. “Yeah, I’m fine,” they’ll lie, even though you both know the truth. They’ll continue to shield you from their harsh reality, and you’ll continue to bask in the blanket of denial they have wrapped around your body.

A pause will stretch for too long, and for a second, you’ll think they’re no longer on the other end of the call, until their voice returns, in a softer tone. “What did you do today?”, they’ll ask. You’ll stare at your kitchen counter, at your half-eaten breakfast that filled you up far too quickly and the remnants of the multiple cups of coffee you drank during the night, waiting for their call.

You’ll try to come up with an answer: to weave together different aspects and activities of a normal person’s day. Your eyes will be red rimmed and watery, and you’ll wipe them repeatedly before answering. All you’ll say is, “Nothing much. Just another day.” They’ll let out multiple breaths, as if this news has put them at ease. Maybe they need to think your nights are peaceful and uneventful, rather than spent crying and longing to be beside them. Maybe the weight of their world is easier to hold if yours stays light.

A loud noise will replace both of your voices. You’ll hear it through your open window, but it’s far away and the sound is already fading. You’ll call their name repeatedly and hold the phone tighter.

“What was that?” you’ll ask.

“Nothing, just some car backfiring, probably,” they’ll lie. You’ll try to reason with them: “You need to leave and find somewhere safer; come live with me.” They’ll let out a sigh and tell you they will not let war force them out of their home. Because if they leave, it becomes real.

Silence will creep its way into your argument for several seconds. “I should go.” They’ll say. Their voice will be distant and calculated, like they’re already halfway gone.

“I know,” you’ll respond.

You’ll stare at the phone in your hand like it is responsible, as if holding it long enough will force it to ring, to bring their voice back, to convince them to leave their home. In the process of trying to hold on to their home, they’re losing you.

This scenario is fictional, but it’s real to countless people living through wars in Gaza, Lebanon, Syria, and other regions torn by violence. For those who leave and those who stay, war forces them to make impossible choices. Do you abandon your home to survive? Or do you stay, and risk being severed from the people who love you?

According to humanitarian reports, millions of displaced people live apart from loved ones, often relying on unstable communication to maintain emotional ties. A dropped signal isn’t just frustrating; it’s terrifying. Each call becomes a ritual of hope. Each silence, quiet grief.

Consider the story of 13-year-old Maher Abu Sakran from Gaza. Separated from his parents and siblings due to Israel’s military campaign, Maher now lives in a beach camp with his grandparents and yearns to reunite with his family, expressing his longing: “It’s enough war, enough barriers. I want to go back.”

Hyun Joon Lee, born in 1927 in North Korea, had been separated from his family in North Korea for over 70 years and wrote the following message: “Though I can’t speak English very well, I am a U.S. citizen. I have lived in the U.S. for over 40 years. Please help us. Even animals get to be with their families, but I have been separated from my family for over 70 years. My tears have dried, but I still want to see my family. How can I live with leaving my wife and child in North Korea?”

For those on the outside, living in safer cities, watching from afar, the pain is twofold: guilt for their safety, and helplessness for their distance. War doesn’t just destroy what can be seen. It erodes the soft, invisible threads that tie people together: trust, routine, and the comfort of hearing a familiar voice at the end of the day.

In the end, this is what war leaves you with: choosing between leaving home or losing the comfort of someone you love on the other line. War doesn’t just take away lives. It strips you of comforting voices and severs lines. It turns “I love you” into a dial tone.

And still, you’ll wait. Because maybe, just maybe, the line will ring again…

Sources: Retrieved from [The diplomat], https://thediplomat.com/2020/06/70-years-of-separation-the-families-who-remain-divided-by-the-korean-war/ Retrieved from [Reuters], https://www.reuters.com/world/middle-east/separated-by-israels-campaign-gaza-family-prays-reunite-2024-10-17/