Ammar Habib - The Heart of Aleppo - A Story of the Syrian Civil War

But the night is not a peaceful one. The only constant reassurance that the city is not abandoned is the echo of far-off chaos and nearby flames. Thunderous explosions sound off like clockwork in the distance as they rock the city. We can’t even go a block without hearing one or feeling the ground lightly tremor beneath our feet. The first few cause me to flinch, but I slowly grow immune to the tremors. However, even with all the smoke, we almost constantly see the dim light of carnage coming from the direction of the Saif Al-Dawla District.

July nights were always warm in Aleppo, but the smoke and smoldering ruins make it all the more unbearable. The heat goes right through me. I was wise enough to bring a small towel from Jari’s kitchen and am forced to use it every twenty minutes or so to wipe off my face.

Every now and then, there is a burning vehicle, trash can, or building that provides some illumination. I usually hear the crackling flames moments before the bright fire cuts through the smoke. But even in the darkness, even when there are no flames to provide any light, I make out the silhouettes of all the destruction around us. Some buildings are completely obliterated like the one across from Jari’s shop. They’re nothing now but a mountain of brick, mortar, and ash. Others have a damaged portion or have been shot up. Debris and rubble spill onto the road. Some buildings tumbled onto one another, creating even more destruction. It’s everywhere you look. You can’t escape it.

The streets are dead silent, but the silence is not without a sound. It’s the sound of desolation. The sound of destruction. The sound of terror.

Not even a day and a half ago, we walked from school to the bus stop. The roads were crowded with cars, trucks, and buses blaring their horns. The sidewalks were packed with pedestrians and merchants. Now, it’s a ghost town. It’s as if there was never any life here.

The city is… hollow.

A wall of smoke and smog surrounds me on all sides, preventing me from truly seeing anything clearly. Is it a blessing or a curse? I don’t see any of the destruction until I’m right on top of it. If Salman was even five more steps ahead of me, he would be lost behind the wall. We’re out on an open street; yet, it feels as if I am trapped in a prison. The dark walls of this prison follow me, not allowing me to escape their grasp.

We’re not alone. Walking through the darkness and smog, we cross paths with another group within the first fifteen minutes of the sun setting. I hear their footsteps first. It’s faint, almost inaudible. I think that it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. But then they step right out of the thick smoke, walking towards us. My heart instinctively spikes up in fear before I realize what they are: a father and his daughter. The girl is maybe a year younger than me. She’s holding her father’s hand as he keeps her close.

The father’s clothes are covered in dirt and dust. He does not pay us any heed. His downcast eyes are red and his beard appears a bit wet. He acts oblivious to everything around him, except for his daughter. He holds her as if he would die before ever letting go. My gaze locks with the girl’s as they pass right by us. Her eyes are just as tired as her father’s, and her gaze is still wide-eyed as she looks at the abyss around her. I witness countless emotions in them: confusion, fear, sorrow. They’re the same eyes as mine.

At that moment, I feel something. A connection. We’re strangers, yet comrades. I’ve never met her, but I know what she has been through. I know she witnessed her city suddenly torn apart.

I look away from her as she and her father continue on their path and we continue on ours. With every passing second, the echo of their footsteps grows fainter and fainter until they have again disappeared in the black smog. Without uttering a word, I pray that God keeps a hedge of protection over them.

Each street we come on to is the same as the previous one: buildings have been turned to ashes, vehicles are blown to bits, wreckage is everywhere, and the innocent have suffered. I do what Salman ordered: look straight ahead and ignore any corpses. Don’t even glance at them. They’re on every street, nearly littering some roads. I see them in my peripheral vision. Sometimes, a fire is reflecting off of them. Other times, it’s just their silhouettes. I try to make avoiding them into a game. But my mind is too aware of the reality to do that. I think Salman purposely goes around as many as he can so that we don’t walk over them.

The foul stench of carnage is strong on nearly every street. The vile odor follows us no matter where we go. If I had any food in my stomach, I would have thrown it up long ago. Every half hour, we see somebody cut through the fog and appear into view. Sometimes it’s a traveling group. Other times, it’s a person sleeping in an alley or sitting with their head in their hands. Hardly any of them give us a glance.

Every step is harder than the last. My feet become weighted stones. I almost can’t feel the uneven and cracked concrete underneath me. It’s as if I’m moving in a trance. I don’t know where I am or where I’m going. I’m simply walking through the abyss and listening to the only sound: my soft footsteps.

The longer we travel and the heavier my sack becomes, the more a fear grips me. The fear that we don’t know if we’re fleeing danger or walking into a den of hungry wolves. The fear that by the time we do reach home, what happened to Jari may have already happened to everyone.

We keep moving. We stay on the side of the road. Every once in a while, we climb over or go under some debris. Salman and Fatima don’t slow down a bit. I don’t know how long it’s been. However, after a while, I start having a hard time keeping up with them. It must be at least two hours before my feet begin feeling numb. And another half hour before I completely lose sensation in them. They’re so tired now that it hurts just to take another step. But Salman and Fatima don’t stop or complain and neither do I.

Every time I look up above, hoping to catch some sight of the heavens, all I see is smoke. It’s blocking out any light from the stars. There will be no relief tonight.

I notice a silhouette up ahead. It… it appears to be the minaret of a masjid . Hope is suddenly injected into my heart. With every step, the minaret breaks out of the smoke, and I can better perceive the masjid itself. I see its domed roof. It’s standing tall above all the destruction. If it’s still standing, it’ll be safe inside, right? Nobody will come into a masjid and harm us.

But then I see the entrance. The wall has collapsed in on itself. It’s been blown into a pile of rubble, completely blocking the front doors. One of the minarets has broken off and fallen straight down, smashing into the marble tiled courtyard. The minaret lies broken and scattered, no more recognizable than any of the other ruined buildings.

As the flames of another wreckage reflect off of the minaret and masjid , I stare at it in disbelief for a long moment. I almost ask Salman and Fatima if we should try to go around the masjid and look for the women’s entrance, but they hardly even give it a glance before continuing down the broken road. And so, without a word, I follow.

We keep trudging through the darkness, not knowing what lays even twenty feet ahead of us. For a little while, I think I hear some gunfire a few streets down. It spikes up for a moment, breaking the silence. We all stop. But then it dies off… and we keep moving.

There is a slight nighttime breeze long into our journey. The wind blows through the hollow streets, but it’s barely strong enough to be felt. However, as soon as it hits me, I look up and thank Allah . Just this drop is enough to quench my thirst for a while.