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

But he never does.

My eyes are slow to open, eyelids still feeling heavy. As I gradually come to my senses, my mind is even slower to awaken. It clings to the memory like a leech, refusing to let go until forcefully stripped off of it.

The peace of standing right outside Nabeel’s room is immediately replaced with reality. I feel just as bad, both inside and out, as I did before I fell asleep. Maybe a bit more so now. The pain is mixed with even more soreness, but at least my feet are not completely numb anymore.

I don’t make any effort to get up; instead, I try to let myself get every second of rest possible. I remember when the dream occurred. It was during Nabeel’s last visit and a few days before I saw Zakariah and him in the kitchen.

Why do a few months ago feel like another lifetime?

That old life is gone. Staying on my back, I replay all that’s happened, everything from the night the attack began until now, as I keep my eyes glued to the ceiling. It’s a blur of chaos and violence. This is now my reality.

The dim, flickering lamp barely lights up the room. It’s just as dark outside as when I fell asleep. For once, it seems almost quiet. There’s no distant gunfire, constant explosions, or hungry flames. All that can be heard is an eerie stillness. The silence is scarier than the destruction. We all know it’s just a façade. Out there, it’s anything but safe. Is this what people mean when they say ‘calm before the storm?’

It must be nearing time to go now. As badly as I want to fall back asleep, I know we have to keep on moving. I notice something on the bedside table as I rise up. I blink twice to make sure I’m not hallucinating. It’s some bread, a handful of dates, and a sliced up mango on a plate. There’s a glass of water next to it.

After staring at it for a moment, my stomach painfully grumbles.

I’ve never felt this famished before. I don’t think. I simply react and snatch the plate. My heart is pounding with excitement. My mouth is watering. Devouring the food, I down it in large gulps. I violently stuff my face full like a demented wolf, trembling as I do.

The dates are thick and soft as I bite into them. Many of them contain seeds, but I swallow most of them. They’re so much more filling than they look. So is the bread, dry as it is. I don’t bother tearing pieces of the bread off with my hand, instead using my teeth. I attack the food so aggressively that sweat starts running down my face. I don’t slow down. The quicker I gobble it all, the more my stomach thanks me.

Gulping down the last of the bread, I seize the sliced mango. The mango is sweet—sweeter than any I’ve ever tasted. Just one bite into the velvety yellow fruit and I forget everything else as it melts in my mouth. It’s still cool, even in his heat. The sugar gives my body a much needed jolt.

A breath of fresh air, air that is pure from all this smoke and fire, flows through me. It takes me back home—back to my mother’s kitchen. A part of me is fooled into thinking that I really am home. Unlike before, I dine on the mango slowly, letting each bite sit in my mouth for a long moment. I want to enjoy every second of it. The sweetness drowns out the fear and worries in my soul. Eating it with my hands, I don’t worry about the sweet nectar running all over my fingers. I clean off the large seed by sucking it down. After going over it three times to make sure there is nothing left, I drink the juice off of my fingers.

I take a deep breath as the feast ends. My eyes stay on the empty plate. There’s not even a crumb left. For a moment, the thought of what my mother would say if she saw me eating like this enters my mind. I’ve never eaten this way before, devouring it like a savage. Is that what’s becoming of us?

Noticing the napkin that was left next to the plate, I wipe my fingers and mouth. I don’t know who left that, but I’m sure I could guess. Fatima always knew how much I loved mangos. It’s a love we both share.

My gaze stops at the picture frame on the bedside table. Staring at the building in the backdrop, I feel my heart sink for a moment. Nabeel and I never did go to the National Museum like he promised. Now, we may never get the chance.

I stop myself from lying back down. Salman said we’d take a one hour break. It must be well past time. I’m sure Salman will come through the doorway to wake me at any moment now. I’d better beat him to it.

I rise to my feet with a groan. The pain is all still there, but after that feast, I know I’ll survive the rest of the night’s journey. It was just what I needed.

Stretching my back, I enter the dark corridor. The mango’s effects are finally kicking in as they fully wake me up. Without thinking, I let out a light burp. Alhumdulillah . That felt good. I look to the left and right. Seems like nobody else is upstairs.

I begin making my way to the staircase. No matter how much rest I get, it seems that I just wake more tired and sore than before. The Imam would always say that strength doesn’t come from rest but from Allah . Even with all the rest in the world, you would have no strength without His will. I always thought that was just a saying he used to make us stay up later and longer at the masjid, but I’m finally beginning to understand what he meant.

I don’t know why I keep thinking about Nabeel so much. First, it was while trekking here. Then it was the dream. Maybe it’s because he always knew what to do, and if he was here, everything wouldn’t seem so bleak and uncertain.

He was stationed far from Aleppo, close to the border by the Western Bank. I wonder if he is on his way here now. It’s been two nights since the attack. The radio said the army is engaging the rebels. Is he here too? And if he is, is he safe? Those soldiers shot at the rebels even with those people in the middle of the road. They didn’t care if they hit or missed them, and they’ve been bombing the city with no way of knowing if they’re hurting civilians. Nabeel wouldn’t do that. He would have rescued the civilians before attacking. I know it.

Arriving at the stairs, I start making my way down with one hand tightly grasping the handrail. Walking down the hall was no problem, but going downhill is a different story. My legs are boulders. I have to fight to keep myself from toppling down. Every step is a battle, but I don’t make a sound. Just one foot after the other. A few steps down, I hear something. It sounds like a voice… muffled behind a closed door. I stop moving, trying to focus my ears and make out what they’re saying.

“I’m sure they’re sleeping… saw them. How… longer do we have to do this?”

I take another quiet step, attempting to hear them better. Something stops me from making myself known, as if a chain is holding me back. The voice is distorted, but I recognize it; it belongs to Amaan. His words are followed by another. I can’t fully recognize the second voice behind the door, but I know it’s not Salman’s. It must be Faisal. “Not long now. We just need to go a bit further.”

“Are we taking them with us?”

“The girl would be useful. She knew what she was doing when she treated your wound.”

What are they talking about? Do they mean Fatima? I inch closer to the bottom of the staircase. Their tones sound so much different than before.

“And the boys?”

“Salman is strong. The other one… he’s baggage. And he’s weak. He’ll slow us down. He’s not like Salman. He hasn’t been as open to us. I think he may have been on to us from the start.”

I stand there, paralyzed. They can’t be talking about—

“What if they don’t want to come along?”

There’s a pause before Faisal’s voice breaks it. “Then we’ll deal with them.”