Before the earthquake of the invasion of Kuwait struck at dawn, the threads of the night of August 2, 1990 were gathering randomly and spontaneously, inconspicuously, without any hint of a major event. In Baghdad, Strindberg's play "Miss Julie" was being performed that night in the Rabat Hall. In a room of an old house in Al-Bayaa, termites were sprouting between the bookshelves, and the scent of white oil was a futile treatment. That Christian night coincided with the tenth day of Muharram in the Islamic calendar. Our friend's soul, preoccupied with its harvest season, could not see what these signs meant. There was a job tailored to his desires, a marriage long awaited after decades of back-and-forth, and an opportunity to normalize exception after a long, tragic war. All of this was put to the test at dawn. Instead of jobs, newborns were called into service, and the scene was reversed. Small, intimate successes discovered the crowded horizon surrounding them. There is a new devastating war, a siege with precise measures that do not miss a single living pulse, and two families in Al-Bayaa and Al-Amirat Street in a time of crisis