I take a deep breath, regaining my composure. My legs shake a bit as they search for their strength. A part of me wonders if it may not have just been better if those men had seen me.
Maybe that way, I would have escaped this.
“Are you okay, Fatima?” We’re again trudging through the darkness and desolation when my soft words break the silence. Salman and the two brothers are a bit too far to hear my words, but Fatima walks alongside me.
She turns to meet my gaze. Weakly smiling, her eyes are just as weary as mine. “I’m fine.”
“Do you need some water?”
“Not right now, but thank you.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Life.” She takes a deep breath. “Only two and a half days ago, we were in school. We were walking to the bus stop. And now… I don’t even recognize where we are anymore. It’s like we’re not even in Aleppo.”
I stay silent.
“I keep thinking about them alclass="underline" my parents, your parents, Bilal, Aisha, and Nabeel. Do you keep seeing their faces?”
“I can’t stop myself.” I hold back any tears or remorse. “I keep seeing all their faces, hearing all their voices, feeling all their warmth. And the more I do, the more I feel trapped here.”
She glances away for a moment, as if worried about saying what she’s thinking. “…Zaid?”
“Yes?”
“Will… will we ever see them again?”
I don’t reply as my gaze drifts back onto the road.
“Do you think we will, Zaid?”
After a long moment, I look back at her. “God-willing, we will.”
God-willing. In the past, I always said those words with hope. Tonight, I say them so I don’t have to say what I truly feel. And from the look in her eyes, she knows it.
Chapter 13
True Intentions
They stop in front of a run-down shop. It’s not nearly as damaged as most of the other buildings we’ve come across. Still in the back of the pack with Fatima, I watch Salman and Faisal go in first to make sure it’s clear. Their flashlights scan the insides for what feels like minutes.
My feet are beyond numb. I’ve been carrying them like logs for the past few miles. A part of me doesn’t want to even wait for them to call us in. It doesn’t really matter anyway.
Finally, I hear Salman’s voice beckoning us forward.
Amaan heads straight in without hesitating, but I let Fatima go before me. I lug my heavy and stiff legs up the shop’s steps. They hit the ground hard with each stride. They’re going to be in real pain tomorrow. More than ever before.
I’m exhausted as I enter the building. I want to collapse. However, it doesn’t feel like we’ve been traveling for the entire night. I would guess it’s not even midnight yet.
My eyes adjust to the darkness inside. This must have been a pottery store. Clay ceramics line up the shelves and display cases. Even in the dark, I can distinguish their craftsmanship. Wide, tall, slender, and thick, each one is handmade to perfection. A few vases are shattered on the ground, their remnants still scattered across the floor, but this place looks mostly untouched.
I can see the back door from where I stand. It’s been ripped wide-open and leads into an alley. God-willing, whoever was inside made it out that way and to safety. I don’t know who lived here before, but now standing in their abandoned shop, I can’t help but feel a connection with them.
“We’ll rest here for an hour.” Salman’s voice is the same as it’s been since everything began: authoritative. He tries one of the lamps in vain. “Then we’ll keep moving until dawn.”
“Where are we headed?” My cracked lips are so parched that I can hardly speak.
“Still back towards Ballermoun.”
I look at Faisal and Amaan “Even you two?”
“We’re going with you. We don’t have anywhere else to go. Not after our parents…” Faisal pauses as his gaze drifts onto my sack. “Can we have some food, Zaid?”
There’s a long silence. None of them want to carry it, none of them offered to hold it, but they all want to eat from it. I don’t know why that makes my blood boil. Without a word, I sling the sack off of my shoulder and catch it in my hand. I hurl it between the three of them. It nearly smashes Faisal’s foot before he jumps back. Instead, it hits the ground with a loud thud.
“Get it yourself.” I turn and leave them.
Their stares burn into the back of my skull, but I ignore them.
The staircase is close to the back door. Just like any other shop and home in this city, it’s a narrow stairwell. As I make my way through it, I see several pictures lining the wall. They’re hanging perfectly level and are neatly organized. It’s just like Ummi hangs all of our photos. If I didn’t know any better, I would say that I am back home.
I stop at one of the photos. I can’t really make it out in the darkness, but I think that the frame is golden. I run my hand over the casing. It’s smooth with rigid corners, feeling just like the one that frames Nabeel’s photo from his military ceremony.
Staying there for a long moment, I close my eyes and keep my hand on it. I take a deep breath. Then another. For a moment, I’m back in my staircase—back home on those creaky steps and in front of all those photos. I can’t feel any of the soreness or pain. If only… if only I could suddenly arrive back there with a wish.
I open my eyes before any tears have the chance to stream down my cheeks. Turning away, I keep going towards the second floor.
Entering the corridor, I stagger towards the first door I see. It’s open just a crack. I give it an effortless push, and it swings open to reveal the room on the other side. I try the lamp sitting on a table. I don’t have any hope as I do, but it suddenly turns on and breaks the darkness. I stand there for a moment, stunned.
The dim light reflects off everything. This bedroom must have belonged to a child. There’s a football in one corner resting next to the dresser. It’s dirty with marks all over it. The bed is concealed in a blanket decorated with bright trucks. It seems ruffled, as if somebody occupied it only moments ago.
The closet has no door, revealing a multitude of hanging clothes. There are some traditional thobes in a variety of colors. Alongside them are western shorts, jeans, and shirts.
Coming to the bed, I notice the picture sitting on the bedside table. There’s a man dressed in a black and gold thobe. He’s a little bit heavy set. Riding on his shoulders is a boy. The child is six… maybe seven, hardly half my own age. The man holds the boy steady as the boy rests his elbows and chin on the man’s head. They’re both beaming with joy.
I recognize the backdrop. It’s the National Museum. Abbi and I went there all the time, and Nabeel promised to take me there last time he visited home.
Weariness washes away the memories. As I fall onto the bed, a breath of fresh air floods my body. Sinking right into the mattress, I imagine that it’s mine. It feels just like it: soft but springy. It sucks me right in. My legs hang off, but I don’t have the energy left to heave them onto the mattress.
Taking a deep breath, I lose myself to the moment. This bed feels just like my own. The same one Ummi, Abbi, Aisha, and sometimes Nabeel would read me stories at. The same one I woke up on before being thrown into this…
I can still hear their voices, still feel their warmth. When they were here, when my family was here, I never knew what fear was. I was always safe—they always kept me safe. But now they’re gone… maybe forever.