“Is it worth going further?” I ask without thinking. As soon as those words leave my mouth, I regret saying them.
“What do you mean, Zaid?”
“After all this time, we finally find a place that’s safe. We have electricity and running water. Is it worth pushing forward? What if we just stayed here until it all ends?”
“Sure, it’s safe now,” Salman begins. “But only God knows if it’ll still be safe tomorrow. At any moment, looters, rebels, or soldiers can come barging in through that door.” He takes a deep breath as he looks at Fatima and then me. “I don’t want to say this. Only God knows best. But I don’t think it’ll be ending anytime soon, Zaid. There are more bombs dropping on the city each day, and even if it all did suddenly end, I don’t know what situation the city would be in.”
Fatima speaks up, looking at her brother. “Won’t help be arriving soon?”
“We’ve seen what the army—”
“Not the army,” she interjects. “But other countries. The United Nations. Our country’s allies. Won’t they see what’s happening? Won’t they send help?”
Salman is silent at first, glancing down at his lap. I know what he’s thinking. By now, I’ve come to realize the truth as well. It’s the unspoken fact that has lingered on my mind for a while. Finally, he looks back at his sister. His words are soft, barely above a whisper. “Nobody is coming, Fatima.”
Her eyes widen.
“Syria… it’s nothing more to the world than a political strategy. Russia backs Assad. America backs the rebels. It’s a power struggle for them. Just a minor endnote in their larger goals. None of them truly cared when Assad’s father took over forty years ago. Nobody lifted a finger then, and nobody is going to care now. Sure, they may talk about it. They may watch videos. They may give speeches. But nobody is going to do anything, Fatima. It’s just us now.”
“B… but the news. They’ll be showing—”
“People all over the world will see the reports.” Salman’s voice grows more solemn, more hopeless, with every word. “It’ll be on the five o’clock news as they’re eating dinner. They’ll see the destruction and maybe some corpses. And do you know what they’ll do?”
Fatima is silent.
“They’ll say ‘that is horrible’. Then… they’ll change the channel and go right on with their meal.”
I can’t read Fatima’s expression as she digests her brother’s words. Maybe she’s known the truth all along, but it took this for her to finally accept it. For a moment, it looks like she’ll cry. She looks down. She probably just lost her appetite. I think all of us have. Finally, her gaze sets back on Salman and then me. “When’s the last time we prayed? Formally, I mean?”
We’re both silent for a moment.
“It was at Jari’s house when he led it.” As I say those words, I feel shame wash over me. Since my earliest days, I’ve hardly ever missed any of the five daily prayers. But since we left Jari’s home, I haven’t performed a single one. I didn’t even realize it until Fatima asked.
“I think we should start doing them just like we used to. That should be a priority.”
I slightly nod. “It’s Asr time right now.”
Hearing me say the name of the afternoon prayer, Salman takes a deep breath before he slowly rises to his feet. “Let’s all make ablution. I’ll lead us. We can finish eating later.”
Chapter 18
Small Measure of Hope
It’s not hard to find a few prayer rugs. They’re seemingly everywhere in Aleppo, even in all this carnage. I stumble across some in the sitting room’s closet on the second floor. We set three of them up: Salman in the front, me a step behind him and to his right, and Fatima a few feet behind me. The rug I’m on is red with gold embroidery. There’s an image of the Holy Kaaba on it, reminding us of what we’re praying towards.
Salman asks me to do the call to prayer. I know it by heart, having heard it multiple times every day since birth. However, I’ve never recited it formally. I always dreamed of one day being asked to do so by our masjid’s Imam. He would sometimes let one of the boys do it, but he always seemed to pick everyone else but me.
I never thought I would finally do it under these circumstances.
With my hands cupping the back of either ear, I recite the words that used to echo through every street of Aleppo. I speak it loud enough to consume the room but soft enough so that my voice doesn’t spill outside. Even now when I get to recite it at long last, I can’t fully raise my voice, as we were taught, while reciting it.
As I make the call to prayer, each verse echoes in my head. It feels like I’ve heard these words but never listened to them before. I feel my heart tremor as the words leave my tongue. God is greater than all things. He is above all. He is one. There is nobody worth turning to except Him.
I’ve never truly understood what that meant—until now.
Come to prayer. Come to betterment. As I say those words, I realize what they mean. It’s not about the worship. Instead, it’s about becoming a better person. It’s about learning discipline not only in worship but in all things. And the discipline will make us better.
In the last two verses, I again proclaim that God is greater than all things. And I once again declare that in both good times and in bad—in misery and in triumph—there is nobody worth turning to or thanking other than Him.
My voice is cracking up as I come to an end. Salman soon begins the prayer. We’re facing southeast, the direction of Mecca. Standing at attention, my hands are clasped over my stomach as I look at the ground in front of me. I lowly recite the words to myself. I’ve heard and uttered them thousands of times. But now, just like with the call to prayer, I’m finally beginning to comprehend them.
It begins with a supplication asking God to guide us on the right path and help us stay on the course of righteousness. As I hear my own words, I begin to tremble. I can’t stop it. I feel ashamed—ashamed that ever since this ordeal began, I have not truly turned back to ask Him for guidance. Maybe that’s why I’ve been so confused and scared.
Another chapter from the Qur’an comes to mind. It’s one all of us learned together at the masjid and is the one that Salman and Fatima are likely reciting as welclass="underline" Surah Rahman. All three of us know it by heart. The title itself is a reference to God’s compassion. I recite it perfectly, not missing a single note or beat. Just the rhythm of the verses is intense, striking a chord deep within my soul. One line is repeated over and over again in nearly every other verse:
Then which of the blessings of your Lord will you deny?
I now know what it truly means. That line is repeated after God mentions something of His majesty or His blessings. He is asking us that after everything we’ve seen, everything we know, everything we’ve experienced, what will we claim to have achieved through our sheer power alone? What is it that we have without His help?
Finally, I begin to comprehend the truth. I begin to realize that it is not me who has survived this ordeal. It is not me who beat down Amaan when he was strangling me. It is not me who hid from the men searching for us in the smog or outside of Jari’s shop. It is not me who survived every explosion and bomb dropped on Aleppo. I did none of that by myself.
My heart bursts into tears. My head bows a little lower.