And just like Jari, I will never go back on my word.
Salman gently pushes my shoulder, throwing me out of a light doze. “It’s time to go.”
I stagger to my feet alongside Salman and Fatima. My eyelids lose their heaviness, but my mind is a mix of weariness and dread.
“Zaid, go back up to the kitchen. See if you can make a food bag. Take as much as you can carry. I’ll see if there’s anything in the closets that we should take. Fatima, see if you can gather up any first aid supplies.”
I don’t understand why he always does this, making decisions for the three of us without ever asking our opinions. But, as always, I don’t voice my objection.
Stepping out of the storage closet, the first thing I see is the evening sunlight spilling in through the broken and cracked windows. It’ll be nightfall within half an hour. I finally get a good look at the shop. I didn’t even notice last night, but this is a bookstore. Pausing for a moment, I examine my surroundings. One side of the shop has neatly organized religious texts and books sitting on wooden shelves, while the other side is dedicated to novels. It’s small and quaint, possessing a cozy aura. Jari owned a bookstore? I would never have guessed.
Quickly going upstairs and onto the second floor, I stay away from the windows like before. More of them have been shot up now, and the glass on the ground crunches under my feet. I hear the distant chaos. It’s all the same: endless racketing gunfire and booming explosions. It sounds further than last night. God-willing, the fighting will be far from here when we depart.
Stepping into the kitchen, I see the picture by the phone again. There’s enough light this time for me to see the details. The photograph is encased in an old frame. The man in the photo is… is Jari. He’s so much younger, but it’s undeniably him. Holding a newborn baby girl, he proudly looks at the camera. His eyes are the same as I saw last night when he watched us eat, and his smile beams with joy.
I take a deep breath before tearing my gaze off of the picture. I need to gather supplies. There’s not much in the fridge, but I hurriedly go through the cabinets one by one. The kitchen’s window is broken, so I do my best to not make much noise. I don’t want anybody who might be outside to know that somebody is in here. I feel the heat coming in through the opening. Even when I have the chance, I don’t dare look outside.
There’s a large sack with sturdy straps that I can hang off of my shoulder. I take whatever food I can that’s easy to carry: a few pieces of large pita bread, some mangos, and a box of dates. Packing it all in the sack, I then fill a few canteens with water. It’s not much, but I pray to Allah that it will be enough.
When I arrive back down, Salman and Fatima are just finishing their searches as well.
“I found some wrapping and disinfectant,” Fatima says. She has a similar, but smaller, sack slung over her shoulder.
Salman nods in approval. “There were some flashlights and batteries in some of his drawers. Anything in the kitchen, Zaid?”
“I bagged anything that will be easy to carry and eat.”
“Alhumdulillah.” Uttering the thanks to God, he takes the canteens from me.
I finally notice what he is wearing around his waist. My first reaction is disbelief. I’ve never seen Salman wear something like that. However, after a few quick blinks, I realize that I’m not hallucinating. “You’re taking Jari’s pistol?”
Fatima sees it too, her eyes widening. Salman simply nods.
“If a soldier sees you with it, they might mistake you for a rebel.”
“It’s not only the army and rebels that I’m worried about,” he replies. “When bad things like this happen, sometimes the worst sides of people reveal themselves. And God forbid if that happens, I’d rather have this with me than not.”
We step out of the shop together with Salman half a step ahead of us. The first thing that hits me is the odor. It’s the foul stench of smoke and flames mixed with something else. It’s so thick that I can hardly breathe. The next thing is the heat. The summers of Aleppo have never felt this hot, this… dry.
Coming onto the street, I cough a few quick times and instinctively try and shield my nose and mouth from the stench. But it’s more than smoke. The smoke reeks and is blended with an odor that I’ve never smelt before. It nearly makes me throw up.
What has happened to this city?
My gaze is drawn to the shop across the street. Or, what’s left of it. The three-story building is now just a pile of bricks, stones, and ash. It lies there in a mountain of blackened rubble. It’s as if the shop was never even built. The building on its left now has half of its wall blown to bits. I can see its decrepitated insides. It’s slightly leaning to the side, threatening to topple over at any moment. It’s not the only damaged building. Most buildings lining up the street are only damaged by the gunfire, but a few are as bad as this one. Some are still on fire. I hear the faint crackling of flames and feel the heat coming from all sides.
Fatima gasps and turns away, but Salman and I observe what’s left of the street. The road is littered with the remains of vehicles. Many are shot up and riddled with bullets. I doubt even their owners would be able to recognize them now. The ones not ripped to shreds from gunfire were lit up in explosions. Many of them are still smoking. Their metal is covered in ash, their windows blown to bits. Their insides are burned out, and their engines are now just debris.
Trees are uprooted and poles are knocked over. Several have collapsed onto the road, wrecking vehicles. It’s like the scene from those pictures we’d see in the textbooks. The pictures of World War II. The pictures of Rwanda during their civil war. The pictures of Baghdad after it was invaded.
There’s no sign of life anywhere. It’s as if the apocalypse has come.
I finally see Jari. I see the man who saved us from becoming a part of this scene. He’s only a few paces away, next to a streetlamp. With his back to me, his limp body is lying on his side as if he’s sleeping on the dirt road. His outstretched arm covers his face, and there’s a dark red stain on the sleeve over his forehead.
We don’t say anything. Not a word. We don’t even look at each other. Instead, we keep our gazes on him as the dim rays of the evening sun reflect off of our savior.
For a moment, a part of me thinks that he’ll wake up at any second. But I know better now. I inhale a deep breath. Without thinking, I take a few steps towards him. Salman and Fatima follow. I crouch down right next to his body. There are some flies buzzing around his head. I want to swat them away, but I can’t move a muscle.
Jari’s arm still covers his face, almost tempting me to reach out and move it out of the way. But I don’t want to remember his dead eyes. I want to only remember the courageous ones I saw step out of that door to face certain death.
Behind me, I hear Fatima make a low prayer for him. She whispers the words always said when we learn of a death. “To God we belong, and to Him we all return.”
Salman crouches down next to me and lays his hand on the corpse. His head hangs low for a moment as he whispers something too. Being right next to Jari, I now know what that foul odor is. It’s death. After what feels like a long time, I kiss my right index and middle finger before touching Jari’s grizzled cheek with them. He’s cold, much colder than he looks.