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

Now inside, my legs start to tremble a bit. They’re threatening to collapse in on themselves. It’s beyond soreness and pain now. Salman flicks on one of his flashlights. He keeps it aimed at the ground so that it doesn’t attract any unwanted attention.

I’m the one to break the silence. “Do you know where we are?”

“I didn’t see any landmarks while we were walking,” Salman replies. “But I know we’re far from Ballermoun. God-willing, we’re far from the fighting as well. It will be easier to tell when the sun comes up.”

“What if all the landmarks are destroyed?”

Salman ignores the question. Using his light, he scans the area until he finds a staircase at the back of the restaurant. He then traces a path from it to us and then back to it. “Let’s go upstairs and see if there’s anywhere we can rest.”

I follow Salman and Fatima through the mess and towards the stairs. We avoid as much of the broken glass as we can, stepping between the tables and over the fallen chairs. Salman kicks any of the debris in his path, clearing the way for me and Fatima.

We climb up the creaky staircases, hearing them sound off beneath our feet. With the gradual and heavy steps they’re taking, I think Salman and Fatima are just as tired as I am. Every movement is a battle. Everything from my joints to my muscles to my very bones wants to shut down, but I won’t let it. One more step… one more step… one more step…

Arriving at the top, we find ourselves in a narrow corridor. It’s completely bare, except for a couple of frames hanging from the walls. It’s too dark to make out what they’re holding. I hear a sound. It’s a faint scurrying not too far away. I see the fat rat just as it darts into another room. No doubt, Salman scared it with the light. We slowly enter the hallway.

But then there’s a sound—a loud one—and it doesn’t belong to any of us.

A floorboard creaks. They both freeze with me. Salman almost immediately snaps out of his trance and steps in front of me and Fatima, blocking us from whatever may be in the abyss. Salman yanks out his pistol before aiming the flashlight and weapon in the direction of the sound.

There’s somebody standing in the shadows. Peering from behind Salman, I see the stranger. Not even ten feet away, he shields his face from the bright light.

“L—let me see your hands,” Salman orders. His grip around the weapon is tight.

Slowly, the figure raises both his hands, revealing his weary and dirty face. It’s a boy. He looks to be Salman’s age, which means he’s probably two years older than Salman. The hand that he used to shield his face is covered in a bit of blood. His clothes are as dirty as his face and hair. Breathing quickly, his body is trembling a bit and his eyes are as red as ours. There’s a long moment of silence as his gaze goes from the gun and on to each of us before he breaks the silence. “My brother’s in the other room. He needs help. Do you have any medical supplies?”

Salman doesn’t make a sound or move. He keeps the gun trained on the newcomer, holding it perfectly still.

“His leg is hurt,” the boy continues.

Salman continues to stand his ground.

“…please.”

Those eyes and that voice. They can’t be lying.

“How was he hurt?” Salman’s tone is authoritative, more than it’s ever been before.

“We were caught in the crossfire. A bullet hit his leg. I don’t know how to stop the bleeding.”

“Are you being followed?”

“I don’t think so.”

The corridor grows tense with every passing second. Salman keeps staring down the boy, unsure if he is friend or foe. The stillness is frightening. After a long moment, Salman lowers the gun, but he keeps it in hand. “We have some supplies. Show us to your brother.”

“He’s right in this room.” The boy motions to the room he just walked out of.

Salman’s gaze remains focused on the boy, but he speaks to me and Fatima. “Fatima, come with me. You stay here, Zaid. Watch for anybody that might be following them.”

I nod.

Salman and Fatima follow the boy into the room. I notice Salman still hasn’t put away the gun as he goes in before Fatima. They disappear into the doorway, but I stay there in the hallway for a long moment, not moving a muscle. My mind is so tired that I barely even registered what happened. One moment we were alone, and in seemingly the next moment, they’re assisting some boy and his brother.

Shaking my head, I stagger into the room opposite of the one they went into. I hear a moan come from their room. It’s not a voice I recognize. Fatima tears off some of the wrapping from her bag. There’s a spray. Sounds like an anesthetic. The foreign voice immediately sucks in some air, quelling a yelp. I hear the boy from the hallway whisper something, but my ears are too tired to pick up what he says.

Looking out of the broken window, I find myself staring into the thick fog we came out of. I can’t see clearly past the dense wall of smoke and smog, but I hear the distant blasts and see the flames that dimly cut through the mist. And I can certainly distinguish the shadows of the wreckage, rubble, and ashes. Even up here, the stench of destruction and the odor of the dead reaches me.

It’s hard to stand, let alone move, with as numb as my legs are. I’m quivering. The adrenaline is gone. My legs finally give in. I desperately grab ahold of the wall and barely keep myself upright. My drowsy eyes stay aimed at the desolation outside.

The street is forsaken. The city is forsaken.

If there was ever a time I missed the warm embrace of my mother, it is now. I crave it more than anything else. What I would give to be held by her loving arms right now. Closing my eyes, I see her face. It’s warmly smiling at me. I feel her touch—the touch that always filled me with a sense of protection. But tonight, it causes a shudder to shoot up my spine. Tonight, she’s not here. Nor will she be tomorrow. A tear slowly runs down my cheek.

The fear-striking silence surrounds me once more. It’s my only companion. The hollow sound of silence is worse than gunfire and explosions. Worse than screams. Worse than terror. Because mixed into this silence is abandonment and suffering.

And more than anything else, this silence is the silence of the unknown.

This is a dream—a memory. I know that. But it feels so real, and I wish it would never end.

One… two… three… four. With the fourth skip, the rock plops into the pond with a loud splash. Standing at the edge of the water, I still hold the position I threw the rock in. Seeing it finally go under as its ripples spread in every direction, I turn around and shoot Salman and Fatima a smirk.

“That’s four!”

Fatima shakes her head, now having lost her title.

Salman chuckles as he takes a step closer to the lake with a rock in hand. “Congratulations on being able to throw better than a girl, Zaid. I’m truly impressed.”

I roll my eyes. “Let’s see how you do, Salman.”

He gets into position. The sun is high, but we’re protected under the shade of an ancient tree. Even so, I’m sweating a bit as I watch his eyes grow focused. I know that look all too well. Salman gets into position so casually, as if he’s hardly even thinking about it. How is he always so cool under pressure while I can’t hold a decent conversation without getting nervous?

Salman cocks his arm back. Without wasting another moment, he sends his rock sailing. It gracefully soars through the air with more elegance than any rock should before striking the water with a splash. One… two… three… four… five! As the rock sinks into the pond, he turns around with a victorious smile.