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

He laughs with a smile. “My sister told me you were daydreaming in class again today.”

“Fatima told you?”

Salman nods. “Keep your head in the game, not in the clouds. Do that long enough and maybe you won’t get picked last next time.”

Like every other school day, it ends with me making my way down the sidewalk alongside Fatima and Salman. The walkway is not very busy, but the roads are packed with more cars than usual. Up ahead, we can see the bus stop in the distance.

To our left is a beautiful, green garden protected by a metal fence. The most prominent tree there is the Turkey Oak. You can always make them out because the full-grown ones have an orange streak around the base of the trunk and possess glossy leaves. It was the first tree I ever climbed. Nabeel was cheering me on the entire time. He said it’s the best tree to learn how to climb because it’s sturdy and has plenty of branches. The hardest is the Mediterranean Cypress. It’s so weak that it often bends if you try climbing it. The only person I’ve ever seen climb it is Nabeel. Not even Salman or any of Nabeel’s friends could best it.

Continuing down the sidewalk, Salman is carrying his and his sister’s book bags, leaving Fatima’s hands free. He carries them both with more ease than I have just carrying mine. How does he always do it?

Aleppo’s summers are always hot. But July is the worst. At the Friday prayer in the masjid , the Imam sometimes talks about how hot it will be in Hell. I have a hard time imagining how anything can be hotter than this. Not that I’d ever tell him that.

Looking back towards the garden, I think I see something sitting in the branches of one of the taller trees. It looks like a… golden eagle. I haven’t seen one of those in a long time. Within a few moments of seeing it, the bird suddenly takes off towards the blinding sun, forcing me to look away.

“What did you keep daydreaming about, Zaid? In class today, I mean.” Fatima asks, bringing me back to reality.

“About being a world-famous doctor.” Salman nudges me. “Right?”

“Yeah. That and other things,” I reply.

“I kept trying to get your attention, but you never heard me until it was too late,” Fatima comments. “You know, Ms. Farooq would quit picking on you if you would just pay attention while she’s talking.”

“But if you do that then the entire class would lose their entertainment,” Salman jokes.

Fatima swats his shoulder. “Be nice, Salman!”

Salman laughs it off as he puts his strong arm around me. “Zaid knows I’m kidding. With Nabeel gone so much, I have to fill in as his older brother and this is all part of it.”

I smile as I playfully push him off.

“Do you know when Nabeel will be back?” Salman asks me.

“He keeps saying ‘soon’ every time I talk to him. But soon never seems to get here.”

“I miss him.” Fatima pauses. “Did you notice how empty the school was today? I counted nine students missing from the class.”

Salman rolls his eyes. “You would be the one to count that.”

The dry heat is unbearable. I should have taken Ummi’s advice and worn my thobe today. It seems that nearly every man and boy was wise enough to do that, except for me and Salman. Instead, I insisted on wearing jeans and a western shirt to school. Now I’m paying the price.

You can hear the bus from a mile away. Just like every other public bus here, it’s loud, old, and worn down. It was once painted green and white. However, now the green has faded and the rest looks more brown than white. None of the windows are broken, but a few are cracked and a couple of them look like they’ve been replaced. The vehicle reeks of oil. It’s probably older than even my parents. But the driver, Nasir, claims it’s never broken down or stalled on him. I guess that’s worth something.

Along with us, there are always a handful of adults waiting for the bus at this stop. As it arrives at a halt, the bus’s door swings open, allowing a few people to unload. They hastily make their way off before we come aboard.

The bus driver is my father’s age. Like always, he’s dressed in a long and loose, ivory white thobe that holds a few stains. His messy hair and beard are relatively trimmed. He knows us by name and usually greets us. But today, Nasir doesn’t even acknowledge us as we climb onboard, failing to even look our way.

The grim expression on his face doesn’t suit him. He’s listening to the radio. It’s low enough to where I can’t hear what the host is saying, but it sounds like the news.

The bus is full as usual. Nasir always reserves the front row for us. Taking our seats, we sit in our normal order: Fatima by the window, Salman in the middle, and me closest to the aisle. Looking back as I place my bag on my lap, I recognize most of the passengers by their faces. Normally, the bus is a little loud. Not today. The people with smartphones are looking down at them while the other passengers mirror Nasir’s bleak expression. A few have their hands raised as they make a silent prayer. I wonder—

“Zaid, ask your Abbi if you can come by after salat and dinner. I want to show you the new football my father gave me yesterday. I didn’t want to bring it to school until you got to play with it first.”

Hearing Salman’s voice, I turn to face him. “Sure thing.”

The actual bus stop is about a half mile from our street. But Nasir always goes a little off route and drops us off only a block away from our homes. He’s always been kind to us. Most people in the city are.

Shops line up the street as far as the eye can see. They’re all at least three stories high. There is an assortment of stores, selling everything from jewelry to furniture to food. Mirroring this part of the city, the buildings are all old. But I guess it’s all relative since Aleppo was founded over 7,000 years ago. I remember Nabeel once saying that the city has over two million people living here.

Outside of Salman and Fatima, there are not any other kids our age living in this neighborhood. Nonetheless, the sidewalks are congested with people. It’s always loud this time of the day, and the streets hold the same oily smell of the bus. Many of the shopkeepers know me because of my parents, but I don’t know most of their names.

Just down the road, the large masjid stands tall . My Abbi takes me there for at least one prayer every day, and we go there every Friday for the weekly sermon. The building’s cobalt dome and tall minaret loom above all the surrounding buildings, always making it easy to find no matter where you are.

Our home is three stories tall. The bottom floor is my father’s rug store. He sells everything from simple prayer rugs to more decorative tapestries. We’ve lived here for as long as I can remember. Even Nabeel was born here and he’s twelve years older than me.

Arriving through the shop’s front doors, I’m immediately hit by a wave of cold air that drowns out all of the heat. I see my Abbi entertaining a customer interested in a tapestry. The tapestry is black with decorative gold embroidery, displaying an image of the Holy Kaaba in Mecca. Our shop is larger than most rug stores I’ve seen. It’s also the oldest one on the street.

The rugs are an assortment of various colors. From darker navy and black shades to brighter crimson and cobalt colors and everything in between, coming here is like walking into a multi-colored work of art. I think Abbi arranged all the hanging tapestries so it would have that effect. He’s always possessed an artist’s eye.