USUALLY MY NEIGHBORHOOD EXISTS IN A REPETITIVE limbo. The wind carries the children’s tentative laughter and cries through the despondent ruins.
Hope colors the conversations of the protestors passing by my door, their footsteps echoing over the gravel. A father consoles his daughter, passing his share of food to her. Jasmine flowers unfold their petals toward the sun.
They bloom on soil soaked with martyrs’ blood. For a while, we live.
Then, when the planes roar through the clouds, the pebbles on the sidewalk tremble. And we stop living and start surviving.
Today is no different. But today I say goodbye to myself. My old self.
Kenan and his siblings are already by the front door, their faces grave.
We’re meeting Am in thirty minutes. As I stand in my bedroom’s doorway, a rush of nostalgia runs through me. Miserable and empty as it looks, this was my home. For a while.
It won’t stay empty for long. A family who has lost their own home might take refuge in it or, if the military finally invades Old Homs, they’ll ransack the place. I try not to think of that.
I trail through to the living room and hover in the entrance, casting one last long look at Layla’s painting. Suspended in the shade, the waves look alive, licking the frame’s edges, and a story awakens in my mind.
“Let’s go,” I say, turning on my heel before my courage fails me.
We shuffle out, backpacks filled with all we own in the world, and I close the door behind me.
“Goodbye,” I whisper and press a kiss to the blue wood.
Kenan’s hand slides into mine. “We’ll come back.”
I nod.
Lama is between Yusuf and Kenan, and together we walk, the birds singing a sweet farewell melody.
Khalid Mosque is ten minutes away. We take the second fork in the road that leads away from the hospital, and while we walk, I try to memorize each flowering tree and abandoned building we pass. Every now and then I glimpse the revolution’s flag spray-painted over the metallic columns of a garage or wall. The quiet of these last fragile moments is only broken by the crowds standing outside the grocery and the Free Syrian Army soldiers walking about. Their presence calms me, and I send a quick prayer for their hands not to waver, for their love for this land and her people to haul them to victory.
Khalid Mosque is in the middle of a wide clearing of half-collapsed apartment buildings. We step carefully over cracked asphalt and loose, dead electrical wires. Up close, the mosque’s walls are scratched and the dusty windows splintered, as are the steps leading up to the front door. It’s slightly open, revealing debris coating the dark green rug upon which a few men are in various positions of prayer.
“What’s the time?” Kenan asks. Yusuf and Lama sit with their legs hanging over the steps. Yusuf whispers something to her and she leans closer to hear before nodding.
“Fifteen more minutes,” I reply, my nerves tingling, and I focus on Kenan’s face, counting the bruises decorating his skin. There are about seven in total, and his contused eye has taken on a plum shade. His shoulders are slumped but his gaze is flitting everywhere, committing the sky’s blue to his memory.
“Kenan.” I take his hand, drawing him closer.
He looks forlorn, heartbreak written all over his face. I haven’t the slightest idea what to say to ease his sorrow. It’s the same grief tearing through me, so I wrap an arm around him and tuck my head under his chin.
“Syria lives in our hearts,” I whisper. “She always will.”
He hugs me, pressing a kiss to the top of my hijab.
We stay like this, swaying and staring at our city. The fifteen minutes trickle by. People walk in and out of the mosque and with each extra minute my anxiety rises. What if Am doesn’t show up? What if something’s happened to him?
If he doesn’t come, all four of us might as well dig our own graves right here.
But my paranoia subsides when I hear the faint sound of a car
approaching along the road. It’s an old gray Toyota, its sides streaked with mud and the windshield in need of a wash. Even from this distance, I can see it’s Am sitting behind the wheel. He skids in front of us, stopping short.
“Get in.” A cigarette hangs from his lips. “We’re on a tight schedule, and we’re five minutes late.”
“You mean you’re five minutes late,” I retort, folding my arms.
He glares. “Do you want to chat, or do you want to leave? Get in the back and—” He stops, counting us, and frowns. “Where’s Layla?”
My eyes burn and I fight the hollowness in my stomach, looking away.
Am’s expression turns grave.
“So that’s one less payment,” he says, and even though his tone isn’t the slightest bit malicious, the urge to punch him rises in me.
Kenan’s hand weighs on my shoulder and he nods at me. I open the door tentatively and Yusuf slides in first, then Lama and Kenan. I get in and Lama shifts to sit on Kenan’s lap. We leave the front seat empty, wanting to be close to one another.
Am reverses the car, his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. He drives onto the road, and as I glance out the window, my body begins to tremble with anticipation and sadness. We pass through narrow streets, edging nearer to the Free Syrian Army’s borders.
“You get those bruises when the military breached the hospital?” Am asks Kenan, eyeing him in the mirror.
“Yes,” Kenan answers. His voice is still stricken with guilt.
“Are they going to be a problem for us?” I ask, wrapping my hand around his, anchoring him to me.
Am steers with one hand, the other tapping out ash from his cigarette. “It would have been better if he didn’t have them, but the guards won’t cause us any problems as long as I give them the money. First border coming up in a few minutes.”
My muscles clench, my heart hammering fast, and I glance at Kenan and see the same fear in his eyes. Even if Am has never been stopped before, it doesn’t mean that won’t happen today. Minds and hearts can change. The soldiers he’s struck a deal with might have gotten bored of their arrangement.
We finally make it out of Old Homs, passing a tank along the way that’s decorated with the revolution flag.
Just a bit ahead, the military border comes into view. I recognize it by the swarming soldiers and the line of cars packed right behind one another.
The closer we get, the louder the voices become, and I hear shouting. I turn my head slowly to see, scared the very motion will alert them to us. Am swerves to the far end, and from my window I see three soldiers kicking a man sprawled on the ground. Each blow makes me jump, and Kenan’s hand tightens around mine.
“Don’t look,” he whispers, and I tear my eyes away, drilling holes into my knees. I can still hear the man howling in pain and my throat closes up.
God, please. If we don’t make it through, then don’t let them take us, I pray hard. Please let them kill us.
Am stops in front of a soldier wearing a pair of dark-tinted army glasses.
His black hair is slicked back and he looks bored. Am rolls down the window and says, “Morning. How’s it going?”
“All right,” the soldier replies before tilting his head to the side to inspect us in the back.
I feel the touch of his stare and glue my eyes back to my knees. I’m too scared to glance at Kenan and his siblings to see if they’re doing the same.
“Roll down the back window,” the soldier says, and Am laughs
nervously.
“Is that necessary? We—”
“Roll it,” the soldier snaps. The window protests as Am slides it down.
My heart’s in my throat. The soldier rests both his arms on the window’s edge. I’m aware of his rifle tapping against the car’s roof, and the cut on my neck begins to burn.
“Where are you headed?” he asks, and we all freeze.
I clear my throat, and before I can say anything, he says, “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
His voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the lethality in it. I turn
toward him heavily.
“Tartus,” I say, and my voice breaks.
His mouth quirks upward, amused. “Tartus? What will you be doing there?”
He’s toying with me like a cat playing with a mouse. He studies the bead of sweat making a path down my cheek.
“Visiting family,” I lie, hoping he can’t hear it in my voice.
He grins, all teeth and no warmth. “Family.”
He says it teasingly as if he and I are in on a secret. His eyes bore into mine and he waits for me to squirm. But I resist. At long last, he nods at Kenan and asks, “What happened to you?”
I close my eyes briefly. Please let them kill us.
Kenan tilts his head, trying to muster any ounce of pride. I squeeze his hand, begging him silently to let this slide. “I was jumped,” he replies in a forced polite tone.
“They got you good, didn’t they?” the soldier asks.
Kenan’s jaw flexes. “Yes.”
“You sure it wasn’t because you were protesting and got what you deserved?” the soldier says offhandedly, and horror almost stops my heart.
Yusuf and Lama become statues. Even Am jolts upright before twisting in his seat.
“I wouldn’t have criminals in my car,” he says as if the very idea offends him.
Kenan’s face betrays nothing, but I can feel how tense he is. “Yes.”
“How about I search through your things to make sure none of you are a threat to this country?” the soldier asks.
We’re carrying nothing that would incriminate us, but it won’t matter to him. If he wanted, he could pass the lemons off as bombs. Claim the USB stick containing my family photos is filled with classified information.
But I know what the soldier is doing. Torture isn’t only physical.
My hands tremble as I hold up my bag, and I resign myself to this fate.
I’ll never see the Mediterranean Sea.
He snatches it and unzips it, then shakes it out violently, everything inside crashing and rolling away. Thankfully my passport, school certificate, and gold are hidden in the small pocket. He makes no comment on the strangeness of what I’ve packed for visiting family. He knows where we’re actually headed.
“All clear,” he says lazily, dropping the bag on the ground. “Get your shit.”
I throw Kenan a glance before opening the door and bending down to collect my discarded belongings.
Humiliation burns through me. My jeans are smeared with dirt and sharp pebbles prick my hands. One lemon has tumbled under the car. After
grabbing it, I straighten up, pushing down the hatred in my eyes. The soldier rests one arm over the open door, his eyes roaming me from head to toe. Revulsion threatens to choke me.
I tentatively sit back down and he slams the door so forcefully we all jump.
“Give me the money,” he says to Am, and Am needn’t be told twice.
The soldier counts the bills, satisfied, and tucks them in his breast pocket. He reaches through my opened window and lightly tugs at the end of my hijab. It slips a bit, my bangs falling out.
“You’d be prettier without it.” He smiles, cocking his head to the side, expecting an answer. And from the way Kenan moves, I know he’s at his boiling point—about to do something reckless—and I have to intervene.
“Thank you,” I manage, wanting nothing more than to claw the guard’s eyes out.
“Have fun with your… family,” the soldier says and slaps the back of the car.
Am steps on the gas and the tires screech, dust billowing behind as we race off.
Once we’re far enough away, we let out a collective breath and I shudder, tucking my bangs in.
“Are you okay?” Kenan immediately asks me, and I nod, eyes closed, before resting my head on his shoulder and linking my arm through his.
“I’m fine,” I whisper. “Nothing matters as long as we get out.”
“That was a close one.” Am fumbles in his pocket, takes out another crumpled cigarette.
“How many borders are left?” I ask, breathing in Kenan’s lemon scent.
“Fifteen to twenty.”
Kenan takes in a sharp breath and I groan.
“Don’t worry. That one is usually the toughest because it’s the first after leaving Homs. The rest are closer to one another and they’re a… bit more lenient.”
I almost snort at the unconvincing tone he’s used and roll the window up, not wanting to risk a cold.
“How come you’ve never tried to get out?” I ask Am bluntly.
“None of your business.”
I glare at him in the small mirror, and he glares back.
“I make good money here, okay? The refugee business is booming.”
I give him a disgusted look.
“Whatever,” he mutters, knowing exactly what’s going through my mind. “You can call me whatever you want, but it’s the truth.”
The more borders we pass, the more anxious we get. At one, we’re made to wait for two hours. At another, Am gets patted down and I’m harassed.
Later, Kenan gets mocked and insulted. And at the last one, a soldier heavily implies that he’s going to take Lama away. Only her.
“She’s pretty for a girl so young.” The soldier leers and Kenan’s face turns as white as a sheet.
Lama wedges herself against Kenan, her thin arms shivering.
Am manages to distract the soldier with a few questions about the Syrian economy. Eventually he lets us go and Am peers at Lama from the rearview mirror.
“You all right?” he asks her. Lama curls into Kenan’s lap to hug him.
Tremors run along him as he holds her like his life depends on it. There’s pity in Am’s eyes. Lama is about the same age as Samar.
After that last checkpoint, it takes us an hour of driving nonstop to finally reach Tartus. With the front window cracked a bit, we smell the sea
before we see it.
The Mediterranean Sea.
Just on the other side, safety—not freedom. I’m leaving freedom behind, and I can feel the earth’s grief when I get out of the car. The tired weeds try to encircle my ankles, begging me to stay. They murmur stories about my ancestors. The ones who stood right where I stand. The ones whose discoveries and civilization encompassed the whole world. The ones whose blood runs through my veins. My footprints sink deep into the soil where theirs have long since been washed away. They plead with me: It’s your country. This earth belongs to me and my children.
I take a few steps toward the sea, breathing in its salty cold air, feeling it cleanse me.
The Mediterranean is angry today. A storm brews under his restless waves. I see him rumble and twist within himself. I hear the remnants of those before me walking along the sand, throwing stones into his depth, trying to make sense of what has been happening for more than fifty years.
“The boat is right over there,” Am calls out, and I look. If I’d had any
expectations, I might have fallen over right then and there.
Calling it a boat would be generous. Once upon a time it must have been white. Now it’s dirty and battered, with rusty brown scratches hiding its true color. It floats innocently a bit beyond the shore. I’m not an expert, but I already see at least ten red flags. The huge number of people already on it being one. A baby starts crying, and another joins in. One wrong move, I imagine, and it’ll tip over.
“Made it just in time too!” Am opens the trunk of his car and takes out four life jackets identical to the ones the people on the boat are wearing.
Orange, so we can be seen. He tosses them to the kids.
“What the hell is this, Am?” I ask when I find my voice. Kenan stands very still, his eyes never leaving the boat.
“What?” He straps Lama securely into her life jacket.
“What do you mean what?” I spit out. “This is a goddamn fishing boat,
isn’t it?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m pretty sure fishing boats can’t carry a small village! There’re way more people than there should be.”
“You expected a cruise ship?” He whips around and throws my life jacket at me. I catch it deftly. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get one to your standards, Your Highness.”
“You know exactly what I mean. That boat is a ticking time bomb!”
“You’ll make it,” he says firmly. “You’re not the first boat we’ve sent off. That one has made the trip countless times.”
I look at Kenan helplessly. What do we do?
Behind him, the mountains of Tartus stand strong. And behind them?
Hell. And, I realize, death.
“If we stay, we die,” Kenan says in a low tone. “And if we leave, we might die.”
We can’t stay. There’s no guarantee we’d even make it back to Homs.
I’d rather drown.
“The boat will leave without you,” Am says.
I take one look at my life jacket before strapping it on, and then help Kenan adjust his. He presses his forehead against mine, his hand on the
back of my neck.
“Have faith, my love,” he whispers.
I clasp his wrist, nodding. Kenan’s eyes fill up with tears as he casts them to Tartus’s mountains.
“We’re ready.” I turn to Am, sniffing loudly.
“The money and gold,” he says. I take them out and drop them in his hand.
He counts the money in a low voice, examines the necklace and ring, then tucks the money into his wallet and the gold in his pockets.
“All right, go.” He shoos us toward the boat.
“We just get on it?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He climbs into his car and starts the engine. “The captain of the ship saw me, and you’re not going back with me, so he knows you paid.
Go!”
I try not to show how nervous I feel. This seems too… easy?
When we don’t move, Am sighs loudly and murmurs a prayer to God to give him patience. “Salama, trust me. I promise you on my daughter’s life this boat will take you to Europe. Go!”
If there’s anything I’ll trust coming from Am, it’s that he loves his daughter.
“Of course there wouldn’t have been a daughter to swear on if you’d let her die. God forbid they let you work again,” he mumbles, but I hear him. I close my eyes, taking in a deep breath.
I whirl around, marching right up to him. He pauses.
“I know I nearly destroyed your life with what I did,” I say. “But you demanded I bleed myself dry. You’re not a saint. And neither am I. But at least I feel remorse.”
I walk away, not wanting to hear his reply. After a second, the engine starts and he drives away.
“Let’s go,” I say to Kenan, Yusuf, and Lama. Kenan brushes a hand over his eyes, turning away from the mountains. Away from Layla’s grave. From Mama and Baba. From Hamza.
I take Lama’s hand and Kenan takes Yusuf’s. We wade through the waves that crash against our knees trying to push us back—warning us. But we don’t listen. We refuse to listen.
