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

My feet hit the second floor’s corridor. The kitchen should be here somewhere. There’s a closed door to my right. I instinctively grab the beat-down doorknob. It hardly moves and the door won’t budge.

I dart to the room across from it. This one is unlocked. Swinging it open, I am met with a ransacked storage room.

Where could it be? I race to the next room. The door’s already open just a crack. Lowering my shoulder, I ram into it. The door flies on its hinges before colliding against the wall. It’s the kitchen!

The fridge if only a few steps away. I rip open its doors. A rush of cool air hits my face. Is the electricity still on here? No time to think. There’s a bottle of water at the edge of a rack. Without thinking, I grab it with my wounded hand and slam the fridge door shut as I race back down.

I’m in the corridor. Then on the stairs. Finally, I hit the ground floor and race towards the storage closet.

Fatima is bandaging the leg. She already rolled up his jeans to fully reveal the wound and has finished a couple layers of the wrapping. The wrapping over the wound is stained with a dark red color. Hearing me enter, she turns and looks at me.

“Help him drink it,” she orders.

With a nod, I pop off the cap and let it fall to the floor as I run to Salman. My blood is starting to run down the bottle’s side, but I can’t help it. His eyes are still barely open. I don’t know where he’s finding the strength. My free, unwounded hand goes onto the back of his head. I help him lift it up a bit and I bring the bottle to his lips.

He’s weakly staring at me with a gaze of gratitude. It looks like he’ll pass out at any moment.

“Drink it, Salman. Please.”

Some of the water flows into his mouth, but a bit spills onto his chin. He feebly gulps down as much as he can.

“Don’t pass out. Whatever you do, don’t pass out.” I feel my eyes beginning to water as I look at his weak state. God, don’t take him from us. Not him too. Not him too… I give him more water. Again, he takes most of it, while the rest runs down his face. “Don’t leave us.”

“Keep giving it to him, Zaid.”

I do.

The first few gulps do nothing. He drinks as much as possible, the remainder streaking down his cheeks and chin. I encourage him on as I try to not give him more than he can take at one time. But then I see it in his eyes. They leave the edge of unconsciousness. Life starts to return to them. They grow a little stronger with each gulp, as if I’m pouring more life into them with each sip I give him.

I don’t stop. I keep helping my friend, keep trying to lure him to stay awake. I witness the color slowly return to his pale face. It’s as if I’m giving him an elixir. I don’t know if it’s the prayers or water that is saving him, but I don’t stop either.

The bottle is half empty. He doesn’t stop drinking. More color returns to him. There’s only a quarter left. I keep my eyes locked with his. Finally, I tilt the bottle’s bottom towards the ceiling, feeding him the last drop. He takes it.

Feeling a hand come onto my shoulder, I turn to face Fatima’s gaze. She sees the empty bottle. “I think that’s good Zaid.”

Stepping aside, I allow her to clean off the spilled water from her brother’s face. She whispers something in his ear. It’s a prayer I think: Ayatul Kursi .

I take a few deep breaths. Does this mean he’s safe? She’s saying something else to him. I think Fatima’s telling him that she needs him to stay awake for a little while. I don’t understand why she’s making him do that, but she knows what she’s doing.

Fatima finally looks back at me. Relief fills her eyes. I feel it in mine too. Her gaze goes from my face and onto my injured hand. “Let me see your hand, Zaid.”

“It’s fine.”

“Zaid.”

I’ve never seen her look this stern. Not daring to argue, I stretch out my open palm and reveal my wounded hand.

With a clean cloth, she lightly wipes all the blood away from my palm and fingers. It stings a little, but I don’t move. Seeing the cut clearly for the first time, her eyes soften. She looks back at me as she pulls out the same bottle of liquid as before along with a clean cotton ball. “I didn’t know it was this long.”

“I don’t think it’s too deep. The bleeding has slowed down.”

“How are you feeling? Lightheaded?”

“Only a little,” I reply.

“Can you still use your hand? Move it around like normal?”

“So far, Alhumdulillah .”

She keeps her gaze on my hand, and I keep mine on her. Pouring the liquid onto the cotton ball just like she did for Salman, she prepares to rub it onto the wound. Her free hand comes under mine, holding it in place. It’s cold and soft.

I know what’s coming. I look away, unable to bear the sight of it. A burning sensation suddenly overtakes my wound. I try and jerk my hand back, but she doesn’t let me. “Ahh!”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s… fine.” The sensation dies away as quickly as it came.

She keeps the cotton ball pressed down on the cut for a little bit. My gaze travels back and forth between it and her green eyes, but she stays focused on the wound as blood soaks into the cotton ball.

“You’re right, Zaid. The wound isn’t too deep. Thank God.”

I nod without saying anything.

“Are you sure you’re not too light-headed?”

“Yes.” I pause for a moment. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

She slightly smiles as she discards the cotton ball and grabs the wrapping. “I’m fine, Zaid. Alhumdulillah .” Fatima remains focused on the task at hand, not looking up at me. “Thank you for what you did. You saved me. You were… brave.”

Hearing her call me that feels like a dream. Unable to take my eyes off of her face, I watch her start to position the wrapping around my hand. I don’t like her seeing me this way: in need of help. “You don’t need to do this, Fatima. I’m sure it’ll be fine. You can save the supplies for when we really need them.”

Ignoring my words, she starts to bandage the cut. Her gaze rises to meet mine. “Don’t act tough and try to hide your wounds. I’m always watching you, Zaid.”

Fatima begins to delicately wrap the wound. She really does have the gentle hands of a nurse. As soon as she puts on the first layer, I sense the blood oozing into the cloth, but it doesn’t bother me as I keep looking at her face.

“You promised you would one day become a doctor and make this world a better place, Zaid.” She again smiles at me, her eyes gleaming. “I believe you’ll do it—I know that you are destined for great things. That’s why I’m sticking by your side and watching over you.” Fatima pauses, her next words softer. “I will always be at your side.”

Fatima’s voice is sweeter than I’ve ever heard before. They’re a breath of fresh air, and each syllable flows directly into my heart.

“Even before all this, you were always watching out for me. But now, you’ve been my protector. Even for complete strangers, like that woman you gave food to. I’ve seen how brave you’ve been. You’re always putting me and Salman before yourself. I want you to know that you’re never alone. I care about you too. I… I want you to know that.”

The third layer of wrapping is done. She did it all without even looking down at her work, keeping her green eyes locked with mine. She reaches for the scissors to cut it off from the rest.

“I often used to think about the world. With everything being as it is, is there really any hope for change. After seeing you—being with you—I know the answer to that. It lies within people like you.”

She briefly pauses.