What can I do? Will she even be able to walk after this? Don’t think about that now, Zaid.
Her foot might be shattered under the concrete. But it doesn’t matter. I have to try something. There’s a gap between the slab of concrete and the ground, and I find a place to grab the debris from underneath.
They’re almost here. The gunfire is closing in.
The concrete debris is thick and appears heavy, but I don’t let it sway me. I can’t leave her here to die. With a deep breath, I try raising it up. The weight doesn’t move. Squatting down, I lift up with all my might. Using my back and legs, I pull with every ounce of strength I can muster.
The fighting is drawing closer. The gunfire sounds louder than ever.
I can’t lift the debris, but I don’t give in. I feel my veins showing as I try to move it. All I need is a few inches, just enough for her to move her foot out from under it. My arms are shaking. My body trembles. My ears go deaf as another explosion erupts on the other side of the street. Its heat crashes against my back, but I don’t waver. The concrete is still not moving.
The shooting is nearly on us.
I look up at the scorching heavens. With a roar, I give it everything I have. I muster all that I can rally. I don’t stop. My fingers are in pain and feel like they’re going to break off, and I cannot feel my arms. But the concrete doesn’t move an inch.
A bullet strikes the debris directly to my left. They’re upon us. It’s too late.
Chapter 2
Aleppo
Days earlier:
“Zaid… Zaid…”
Hearing Fatima’s whisper, I am abruptly yanked back to reality. Once again at my school desk in the back of the class, I notice that the entire classroom is silent. The teacher stands a few feet away. Her condemning gaze is on me. So is the entire class’s. Oh God, not again.
“Well, Zaid?” the teacher obviously repeats. Her eyes are daggers. “Are you still with us?”
She asked me a question, didn’t she? “Well, Ms. Farooq… uh—the, uh…”
“Please save yourself the embarrassment.” Turning around, she starts making her way back to the front of the room. “It would be good if you kept your mind in the class and not in the clouds, Zaid. Perhaps your test scores would start to reflect that as well.”
There are a few chuckles from around the room. My cheeks redden as I sink into my chair a bit more. Looking a bit to my right, I catch Fatima’s gaze. She shakes her head in amusement before looking away. That’s the second time today I’ve been caught daydreaming.
Ms. Farooq arrives back at the blackboard. “As we were discussing, after spending time in the military during the 80s and 90s, President Assad came to power twelve years ago in 2000, succeeding his father.”
Didn’t she say all this yesterday? I look up at the clock. You’ve got to be joking. It’s only been two hours since classes began, meaning that it’s still another two before our break.
“And like Ahmed brought up earlier,” Ms. Farooq continues, “since the civil war began last year, it brought about some major things in our city. For the past couple of months, there have been several large protests in Aleppo. The first one was this past May. Some are pro-Assad while many are against. And then there were the bombings—”
A hand goes up.
“Yes, Ahmed?” Ms. Farooq says.
“Why are so many people against our president? My father says that he is a great man and that he’s helped our country’s economy and infrastructure. Civil servants like you, Ms. Farooq, and my father have benefited because of him.”
Oh, Ahmed. Ever the know-it-all. Everyone was just waiting for his “valued” commentary. I exchange a quick smirk with Fatima.
As always, Ms. Farooq is the only one who appreciates his thoughts. “Very good, Ahmed. Although the people in our city primarily support him, there are many outside of Aleppo that view him as a tyrant.”
“Why?” Ahmed asks.
I look down at the handout that sits on my desk. All the words on there are just blurred together. With a sigh, my gaze drifts to the window. It looks so nice outside today. Why can’t time move faster?
“Because he came into power unelected. As was his father.” Ms. Farooq pauses for a moment. “And before you ask about the 2000 and 2007 elections, Ahmed, many regard those as rigged. So no matter how much good he may do in power, the fact that President Assad gained his power without an election makes many dislike him.”
Another girl’s hand goes up. “Is that why the fighting is happening? And the bombings?”
“It’s very complicated, Maryam, since there are a lot of reasons. But you could say that the direct cause was President Assad’s handling of the wave of protests that swept over our region in 2011, the Arab Spring. I’m sure many of you remember all the commotion about those last year. But…”
She goes on. I don’t even know how she got on this subject. The last thing I remember was her talking about the Treaty of Sèvres. We have a test coming up on it, but I don’t even know how to pronounce it, let alone know what it is. But Ms. Farooq always forgets what she’s teaching and somehow starts talking about the news.
As the class’s self-appointed “know-it-all” keeps conversing with Ms. Farooq, I steal a quick glance at Fatima. She doesn’t notice. She’s wearing a green hijab today. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before. It looks nice on her, making her face almost beam. She’s already a little fairer than the average Syrian girl, but the green headscarf makes her seem a bit more today. I wonder if she ever notices how I look—
“Zaid!”
Ms. Farooq’s voice cuts through the air. Looking at her, I feel everyone’s gazes back on me. Not again.
“Ali.”
Hearing his name, Ali leaves the line of boys and joins Mansoor’s team. Only five boys left now. Please don’t let me be the last one picked.
With a football curled up under his arm, Salman looks over the remaining options. The sun beats down on all of us as we stand on the grassy field, but he’s hardly sweating. At fifteen, Salman is two years older than me, but he honestly looks like he’s seventeen. He possesses the kind of build that would make him good at nearly any sport, and he has the brains to go with it.
“I’ll take Jamal.”
Jamal hustles out of the line and joins the other six boys on Salman’s team. He didn’t pick me? Seriously, with everyone watching? Come on, Salman. We’re neighbors.
It’s Mansoor’s turn again. No way is he picking me. Not after I cost his team the game last time in such an embarrassing way. He doesn’t even waste a moment with his choice. “Amir.”
Salman’s turn again. It’s my last chance for salvation. He looks over me and the other two remaining boys. Behind us, many of the class’s girls are settling under some shade to watch the match. Fatima is there too. Please, Salman, don’t let me be picked last in front of her.
His eyes stop on me for a long moment. This is it!
“Ahmed.”
Are you serious?
Mansoor doesn’t hesitate with his last pick. “Dawud.”
Dawud runs off, leaving just me.
“Looks like you’re with us, Zaid,” Salman says as his hand beckons me towards his group.
Before I even take a step to join them, the rest of the boys turn around and start running towards the center of the football field. I weave through the pack, nearly out of breath by the time I catch up with Salman at the front of the group.
“Thanks a lot for picking me last,” I mutter to him.