Bombhaye porteghali

Sofar, in Lebanon, four months after the thirty-three-day war. In the morning, the bombs, in the afternoon, the oranges. Invariably, ever since the Israeli Air Force riddled the orchard with fragmentation bombs. The bombs are the size of a pomegranate, spindle-shaped and green so as to blend in with the vegetation, unexploded and ready to kill. They lie scattered on the ground or remain stuck in the branches of trees like oranges. As the UN deminers were so long in coming, Zeinab and Habib had to do the job themselves. It was either that, or losing the orange harvest. “We made this garden ourselves. It’s our whole life.” They would not leave this garden, which is a symbol of their union, for anything in the world. (Yann Lardeau)