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

God-willing. In the past, I always said those words with hope. Tonight, I say them so I don’t have to say what I truly feel. And from the look in her eyes, she knows it.

They stop in front of a run-down shop. It’s not nearly as damaged as most of the other buildings we’ve come across. Still in the back of the pack with Fatima, I watch Salman and Faisal go in first to make sure it’s clear. Their flashlights scan the insides for what feels like minutes.

My feet are beyond numb. I’ve been carrying them like logs for the past few miles. A part of me doesn’t want to even wait for them to call us in. It doesn’t really matter anyway.

Finally, I hear Salman’s voice beckoning us forward.

Amaan heads straight in without hesitating, but I let Fatima go before me. I lug my heavy and stiff legs up the shop’s steps. They hit the ground hard with each stride. They’re going to be in real pain tomorrow. More than ever before.

I’m exhausted as I enter the building. I want to collapse. However, it doesn’t feel like we’ve been traveling for the entire night. I would guess it’s not even midnight yet.

My eyes adjust to the darkness inside. This must have been a pottery store. Clay ceramics line up the shelves and display cases. Even in the dark, I can distinguish their craftsmanship. Wide, tall, slender, and thick, each one is handmade to perfection. A few vases are shattered on the ground, their remnants still scattered across the floor, but this place looks mostly untouched.

I can see the back door from where I stand. It’s been ripped wide-open and leads into an alley. God-willing, whoever was inside made it out that way and to safety. I don’t know who lived here before, but now standing in their abandoned shop, I can’t help but feel a connection with them.

“We’ll rest here for an hour.” Salman’s voice is the same as it’s been since everything began: authoritative. He tries one of the lamps in vain. “Then we’ll keep moving until dawn.”

“Where are we headed?” My cracked lips are so parched that I can hardly speak.

“Still back towards Ballermoun.”

I look at Faisal and Amaan “Even you two?”

“We’re going with you. We don’t have anywhere else to go. Not after our parents…” Faisal pauses as his gaze drifts onto my sack. “Can we have some food, Zaid?”

There’s a long silence. None of them want to carry it, none of them offered to hold it, but they all want to eat from it. I don’t know why that makes my blood boil. Without a word, I sling the sack off of my shoulder and catch it in my hand. I hurl it between the three of them. It nearly smashes Faisal’s foot before he jumps back. Instead, it hits the ground with a loud thud.

“Get it yourself.” I turn and leave them.

Their stares burn into the back of my skull, but I ignore them.

The staircase is close to the back door. Just like any other shop and home in this city, it’s a narrow stairwell. As I make my way through it, I see several pictures lining the wall. They’re hanging perfectly level and are neatly organized. It’s just like Ummi hangs all of our photos. If I didn’t know any better, I would say that I am back home.

I stop at one of the photos. I can’t really make it out in the darkness, but I think that the frame is golden. I run my hand over the casing. It’s smooth with rigid corners, feeling just like the one that frames Nabeel’s photo from his military ceremony.

Staying there for a long moment, I close my eyes and keep my hand on it. I take a deep breath. Then another. For a moment, I’m back in my staircase—back home on those creaky steps and in front of all those photos. I can’t feel any of the soreness or pain. If only… if only I could suddenly arrive back there with a wish.

I open my eyes before any tears have the chance to stream down my cheeks. Turning away, I keep going towards the second floor.

Entering the corridor, I stagger towards the first door I see. It’s open just a crack. I give it an effortless push, and it swings open to reveal the room on the other side. I try the lamp sitting on a table. I don’t have any hope as I do, but it suddenly turns on and breaks the darkness. I stand there for a moment, stunned.

The dim light reflects off everything. This bedroom must have belonged to a child. There’s a football in one corner resting next to the dresser. It’s dirty with marks all over it. The bed is concealed in a blanket decorated with bright trucks. It seems ruffled, as if somebody occupied it only moments ago.

The closet has no door, revealing a multitude of hanging clothes. There are some traditional thobes in a variety of colors. Alongside them are western shorts, jeans, and shirts.

Coming to the bed, I notice the picture sitting on the bedside table. There’s a man dressed in a black and gold thobe . He’s a little bit heavy set. Riding on his shoulders is a boy. The child is six… maybe seven, hardly half my own age. The man holds the boy steady as the boy rests his elbows and chin on the man’s head. They’re both beaming with joy.

I recognize the backdrop. It’s the National Museum. Abbi and I went there all the time, and Nabeel promised to take me there last time he visited home.

Weariness washes away the memories. As I fall onto the bed, a breath of fresh air floods my body. Sinking right into the mattress, I imagine that it’s mine. It feels just like it: soft but springy. It sucks me right in. My legs hang off, but I don’t have the energy left to heave them onto the mattress.

Taking a deep breath, I lose myself to the moment. This bed feels just like my own. The same one Ummi, Abbi, Aisha, and sometimes Nabeel would read me stories at. The same one I woke up on before being thrown into this…

I can still hear their voices, still feel their warmth. When they were here, when my family was here, I never knew what fear was. I was always safe—they always kept me safe. But now they’re gone… maybe forever.

A tear slowly runs down my dirty cheek. I don’t wipe it. I can’t find the strength.

It doesn’t take any effort to close my eyes. There is nobody here to read me stories tonight, no mother to kiss me on the forehead. Instead, my only companion is a mix of weariness, fear, and tears. And so I lay here alone until I cry myself to sleep.

I loudly knock on the closed door. My thumps echo down the hallway as my feet impatiently tap on the ground. But the door doesn’t open. After a long moment, I beat against the door once more, louder this time as I hope—

“Why are you standing outside of Nabeel’s door?”

Whipping around, I see Ummi standing behind me. Her arms are lightly crossed as she smiles. How long has she been standing there? “Nabeel promised to take me to the National Museum,” I reply. “We’re going to see The Hall of Arslan Tash and Tell Ahmar.”

“He just arrived last night, Zaid. Let him rest.”

“But he promised.”

She shakes her head as she takes a step towards me. “Nabeel has a lot to do today, Zaid. You should let him be.”

“We talked yesterday on the phone before he came and—”

“Come, Zaid.”

Is she not even listening to me? “But I haven’t seen him since he got back.”

“You can see him later. Why don’t you go find Bilal?” My mother’s hand comes onto my back and ushers me away from Nabeel’s door. “He’s going to go deliver some rugs at Dr. Farah Khan’s office. You can go ask her those questions you were asking last night about being a doctor.”

I don’t resist as she gently escorts me towards the staircase. Halfway there, I shoot a hopeful glance back at the door. Maybe he’ll open the door. Right now. And we’ll go to the museum.