War

In our tiny dark wardrobe on the roof in our house, I sat. I couldn’t cry. I went numb. I guess the immense sorrow and pain I felt was too much for my body to bear. My life changed drastically that day. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled again. I brought my mother’s delicate hands to my face hoping to sense her warmth, but all I got was darkness and coldness. That day, they robbed me of my childhood and the only person that I clung to for hope.

I was born to a country that only knew of war; its streets reeked of terror and sorrow. Its people ached with a burden that could be seen on their sad faces and fragile bodies. A burden that spoke of stories about their loved ones who got shot for no reason or about a country that no longer knew glory and peace; all it knew was the emptiness its people carried. Those of us that survived awaited the day of our death because, to some of us, there was no longer hope; death seemed like the only solution to end our misery. But interestingly enough, through the ruins of war, some people still believed. People like my mother, whose eyes gleamed with the hope of a vision of a better world, they chose to see the good in life and their best trait yet is their deep belief in Allah. They held the Quran deeply to their hearts drawing from its verses for strength that fuels their hope. For some reason, they managed to pull a smile on their faces. I never understood my mum’s determination to keep going through life. She went out everyday stumbling through our street of rough rocks and immense cracks to reach the school that was partly blown away to fulfill her duty and teach. My mother was a teacher who emphasized the importance of education and knowledge. She strung me along with her to go to school, she told me that my education would be my ticket out of here, that I should aspire to reach the top and build our country after the war is over. She believed that hope lies with us children, that we are the ones that will teach the world about the stories of our people and what we have endured. That through knowledge and persistence, someday we can speak against injustice.

This war ruined me, I always knew I would never have a normal childhood. I lost my father to this war before I was even born; my mum loved him profoundly and spoke about him with eyes full of tears. I thought about him a lot, wondered whether he would be proud of his twelve-year-old, coward son. I took the role of the man in our house. From as early as age six I started working, hoping to earn a coin or two, just something to get food or clothes to warm us against winter’s cold. I’ve always felt like an adult, the stories and horrific scenes I’ve witnessed stole my childhood. The children of my neighborhood and I sometimes went around the alley playing hide and seek, trying to sneak liberating child-like moments into our lives. Unfortunately, it was no longer safe for us to walk the alleys as a boy we once knew lost his life when we were playing around. Unlike my mother, all I saw in my future was the day I’d die. I thought it would be through getting our house blown away, ending it for my mother and me; most kids I knew and their families met this fate. My life had always been about surviving at least one more day, but only so I could be there to support my mother, who believed that I had so much to offer the world. I don’t know what it is that she saw in me, but she hoped that I’d travel and go to college someday. Sure I had strong academic abilities but I never saw anything in myself. My mother was the only reason that made me continue to survive in this awful life of mine.

I remember the day I lost my mum clearly every detail of what happened on that dreadful night replays in my mind a thousand times. It started off as a typical day I woke up that morning and got ready to go to school. I was looking at myself through the coating of dust on our cracked mirror. I was poking around the hole in my shoe when my mum came in ready to set off. We shared a bowl of porridge before we left, it was the same bland tasting porridge that I ate for almost all my life. We walked our way to school, and my mum planted a kiss on my forehead before we parted ways; it still lingers until this day exactly where she left it. I took my seat in the corner of the class, where it overlooked a big window with shattered glass. The scenery from the window was of ruined buildings of a neighborhood that once existed across the street. Vines grew out of the soil and wrapped around the fragments of concrete and wood that covered the ground, but they couldn’t hide the terror that once happened in that poor neighborhood. Our school got scarred by the shreds of rocks that hit its walls as the bombs showered down on people’s homes, that day they dismissed us early as we began hearing the frightening sounds that followed the attack. I don’t think any of us could forget that day we lost many of our beloved friends.

I chose to lock myself in my world of thoughts. Every day in class, I would stare off the distance and think about all those people that once existed. Every one of them had a story and a dream, but as time passed by, their hope slowly vanished until the day they all met their fate. I envied the birds as they flew by our window; they were free to roam and discover the world. I’ve always wondered what the rest of the world looked like; I heard stories about big cities with dazzling lights and tall towers. It would be nice to live in a world where you didn’t have to continually worry about the lives of your loved ones to just, for a moment, break free of the shackles of distressing scenes that are continuously playing in your mind. The teacher would strike me with a question that pulled me away from my train of thoughts, I’d stutter on the spot confused to answer her, but she’d laugh and say “You’re exactly like your mother always lost in your own world.” Back then, I didn’t realize the significance of what she meant until one day when I truly lost myself to the conflicted world full of rage that resided within me.

After school, I would walk through the narrow allies that connected our neighborhood to the village beside us. In that village, I worked in a cramped shoe workshop hidden behind wilted bushes of wither flowers. It was the same dimly lit room that smelled of leather and shoe polish, that I worked in for almost all my life. I spent countless hours mending soles, cutting up leather and stitching shoes. In the end, I only got paid so little, but it was the only place that accepted me and actually rewarded me with money for my efforts. I would observe and learn the tricks of making shoes from the adults, I thought that someday I could own this workshop maybe then I would earn a decent amount of money. I think this was the furthest standard that I had set for myself, I naively thought my life would remain the same. But oh how incredibly wrong was I.

That day as I was walking back home in the stillness of the night and chillness of the wind, I began hearing the distant sound of sirens as I approached our neighbourhood. The high pitched sound that I dreaded hearing so much; It marked the start of a devastation that followed. Without any hesitation I ran as fast as I could and with every step that I took my heart grew heavier with fear, and the only thought on my mind was that of my mother. The sounds of my breaths grew heavy, they overshadowed the ringing of sirens in my ears. As I took my final step into the territory full of terror and confusion that was once my gloomy neighbourhood, I froze. Tanks were approaching from afar and drones that carried the ticking deadly explosives were approaching their designated houses to fulfil the sole reason they were built to do. They came ready today, maybe they wanted to prove a point or just watch us miserably fend for ourselves to only fail and meet our doom. Regardless what their aim was, these people do not even have a single speck of mercy. I watched with agonising pain as strangers were invading the only place that I knew to be my home. I watched as soldiers marched out of their tanks with rifles in hand as they shot bullets at the people that I knew to be my family. Killing us swiftly with one blow wasn’t enough, they had to make sure the fear sunk and resonated deep within us. Eventually the screams of pain that followed as people fell one by one was too overwhelming and it snapped me out of my haze. I only had one goal in mind and I had to move quickly. I had to save my mother.

I ran dodging bullets and carefully trying to avoid fallen bodies. I could smell it, the pungent metallic smell of blood engulfed me, and it was all I could breathe. I couldn’t be shaken now; I had to turn a blind eye to my surroundings and reach my mother before the bombs fell because then all hope ceases to exist, and you’re left with ashes of despair. Eventually, through the fogginess of smoke and rubble of collapsed houses, I managed to reach our narrow street. The next few scenes that I saw of soldiers roaming our streets and pointing guns at our neighbors were scenes that I long to erase from my mind. It’s unfortunate that the only memories that resonate in my mind of my childhood are those of terrorizing scenes. Even with the screams of the familiar faces that I grew to call my family, I had to shut the world outside of me and focus on speeding up to reach our tiny house. By the time I reached home, my palms were shaking, and droplets of sweat covered me, and I no longer knew if I was sweating from fear or the running that I did. I froze as I saw before me the door that was lying in fragments on the floor. “I’m too late” was the thought that controlled my mind. I panicked and my tears threatened to fall. Not now, I have to stay strong, I have to save my mother. Because If I lost her to this unjust world, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to cope or ever smile again.

The darkness in our house brought unsettling silence. I couldn’t hear any voices; it was too quiet and my mind started jumping to conclusions imagining the worst scenarios. I had to stay sane and keep walking. I tiptoed quietly around our living room, I had to make sure no one knew I was around. I went up the old wooden stairs quietly. The second floor was also quiet and dark, but it smelled of gunshots and I sensed cracked glass beneath my feet. They were here inside our house. Used bullets lay on the floor, but that wasn’t my concern. I quickly scanned around the rooms for any bloodstains. I thought I was lucky having not found any blood, I thought maybe my mother had escaped somewhere far and safe. Maybe they came to our house thinking someone was inside, shot their guns and realized no one is here so they left. This was the hope that I clung to desperately at this moment. But I knew I cannot fool myself. I still had one more stop to look. I had to check our roof. Oh, how much I regret the choices I made afterward.

I opened the door to our roof, and I let the cool breeze that carried the sorrow of what happened that night wash me over. I closed my eyes for a brief moment. I was tired of the fear that kept rising in me. I guess I wished at this moment to open my eyes and find myself engulfed in my mother’s warm hugs. Instead, when I opened my eyes I saw my worst nightmare come to life. There was my mother sitting on the ground in the middle of the roof that was lined by old dusty furniture. My mother wore an expression that I’ve never seen before. It was of desperation and agony. Her dress and hands were stained with blood, and a few feet away lay a stained blood knife. It was my dad’s combat knife that she used to hide away from me to keep me safe. It was the only memory she had of dad, and she kept it for self-protection. Until this moment, she was still worried about my safety for when she saw me standing at the door, her expression completely changed. She tried hard to keep a straight face, but I knew her too well. She was scared and started trembling as she motioned with her hands. I knew she was motioning for me to hide as the soldier stood on the side, scrabbling with his rifle, giving me his back. He was wounded in his right knee and the blood seeped on his pants. It was my mother’s knife blow that caused the wound. My survival instincts kicked in and I decided to obey my mother, but I knew early on that I had failed her. I didn’t have the courage to take that knife and attack the soldier by surprise. I ran like I did for my whole life. I hid inside the wardrobe that is on the opposite side of the roof to the soldier. I stood in that tiny dark hole and I regretted my choices, but I was too scared to move. So I stood there stupidly, just waiting.

The next few moments painted my life. The events that took place on that ugly roof scared and marked me for the rest of my life. I looked through the crack in the wardrobe. I saw for the last time my mother’s beautiful face. I remember it clearly. It was a mixture of sweat and tears, the tears lined her face as they fell in drops on the ground. Honestly, I’m not sure if they were tears of sadness or relief that I managed to escape. Maybe a mixture of both. However, her expression was different this time; she looked calm and content. She knew what was coming next, and she was ready to meet her fate. A calmness that I never understood how she was able to draw. She believed with her heart in a better world and knew she fulfilled her role on earth. Just like that so swiftly as the bullet pierced her heart, I saw the light gently escape her eyes. She fell. She fell on the ground. My last hope fell and with it vanished the life from my heart.

I think I stopped breathing. The reality of my mother’s death struck me in waves. At first, I froze and I couldn’t feel. I went numb and I couldn’t comprehend what happened. The fear that reached its peak moments ago disappeared and I felt like a hole. Empty.

The soldier left just like that, unaware that I was present. That a child had just witnessed his mother’s death. He completed his mission and left only with a wounded leg. That night, he didn’t watch his family die one by one.

I ran. I ran from my hiding position to my mother. I held her deeply towards me. I couldn’t cry. I just sat and begged Allah to bring her back. I yelled. I yelled until my throat felt sore. The pain was too deep. My heart shattered to pieces, and I felt the pain piercing through my heart. The next wave of pain came as a physical sensation in my body. I felt myself shrinking and I was shaking uncontrollably. I hugged my mom, trying to sense her warmth. But all I got was coldness, and the darkness began to wash over me.

The next step was the anger. I didn’t cry that night. I held my tears and I’ve never let them out. I guess the anger and confusion washed my tears away. I began yelling and hitting the ground intensively. My knuckles started bleeding, but I wanted to get my anger out. The anger that was caused by an intense amount of pain. I don’t remember for how long I sat punching and yelling. The next few moments are a little hazy. I think some of the neighbors heard me and came to take me away. I fought them really hard; they were ripping me apart from my mother.

I stopped talking. I trapped myself in my mind with my dark thoughts. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. The thoughts just kept on playing in my mind. I went insane with all these thoughts. I didn’t seek help and trapped myself in my own cell made up of anger and sorrow. For the longest time in my life, I was distant and cold. I had lost all hope and I began to pray that I would join my mum.

The next few stages of my life were a haze. After the events of that night, the neighbors that took me out of the roof sent me to a camp with tents. They spoke about migrating to a city in our country that was safer. I didn’t care what happened with my life after that night. They looked out for me and I just followed them.

After years, recovery came slow. I traveled outside the country. Fulfilled my mom’s wish and went to college. Eventually settled down and had a family. But through all this, I never felt true happiness. What I sought for so long was the peace that my mother felt that night. I longed for calmness. Initially, I grew up in my teen years thinking that revenge was the best solution to my pain. I tried, but I’ll always be a coward. I failed. I remembered something the day that I failed shooting the same soldier who took my mother’s life. My mother always told me that I was kind and gentle, that the world needed more people like me. People who forgive. I let go that day, but now I don’t see it as cowardice more as courage to move forward. But I could never forgive that horrible soldier.

One night I sat in the dark corners of my room in the calmness of the night. I did something for so long I pushed off. For so long, my anger and the world in my mind blinded me from the light. I picked myself up and prayed. I prayed to Allah. That night I let go and threw everything out in the open. All those years of thoughts and agony. I let it all out, and finally I began to feel something I forgot. I felt tears streaming down my face. The tears that I for so long pushed down and built anger and darkness over. The sorrow that for years I longed to feel. The sadness that washes over you and cleanses your pain. The pain never left me. It got comfortable and resided within me. But out of the pain grew content and calmness. I threw the baggage of hurt out and asked Allah for recovery. I remembered my mother that night, but this time it brought beauty. I finally understood where my mother drew strength and how she always had a smile on her face. For the very first time ever since I remember. I smiled.

Even though this story was fictional, it was inspired by a true story of a Syrian boy who watched both of his parents get shot. He was so traumatised that he couldn’t recover and stopped talking. These children also work at young ages at shoe shops or something similar to earn money. Stories like these, and even worse, happen everyday in war-torn countries. The civilians, especially children who grew up with terror, are most affected. We should always remember them and keep them in our prayers, especially since most of them are our Muslim brothers and sisters. The least we can do is help them through donation.

Syria has been in war for 9 years. Some children have known nothing but war. https://www.savethechildren.org/us/what-we-do/where-we-work/greater-middle-east-eurasia/syria

If you’re interested to learn more: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5k9dXxHOyBk

By Anonymous