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

Abbi’s gaze comes back to me. He puts a fatherly hand on the back of my neck.

“Never sell your dreams for anything, especially money. They print more money every day. But dreams…” His strong hand leaves my neck and comes onto my shoulder. “You only have one of those. Don’t let them steal that from you… ever. When you know something is right, when your heart tells you to stand for something, never listen to the voice of fear. Let your dream—let your life—be the light that this world desperately needs.”

“What if I never make it, Abbi ?”

He shakes his head and smiles. “When you take a leap of faith, the question is not whether you’ll fall, Zaid. Instead, the question is: how high will you soar?”

Waking up, I’m no longer at The University of Aleppo. Instead, I’m back in the storage room. As my eyes slowly open, I can’t tell if I’m sore or rested. My mind feels a little solace, but my body is weary. One thing I know for sure is that my heart is still restless.

Coming to my senses, I feel the bruises on my throat. Amaan’s grip left its mark. I thought it was painful before, but now it’s a whole new story. I instinctively cough a couple of quick times. Reaching over to rub my neck, I wince with pain.

My entire body is sore beyond measure. But what really gets my attention is my bandaged hand. It hurts. Looking down at the wrapping that goes around my palm and the back of my hand, I stare at it for a moment. The burning sensation is long gone, leaving behind the ache. I try stretching it out. It’s suddenly engulfed in pain. I try balling it into a fist. I cringe again.

I don’t think it hurt that much before I went to sleep. My backside is numb, having slept against the cold, rough wall. There’s a crick in my neck too. Before all this began, I could never sleep anywhere besides a mattress. Now, I can make anything into a bed.

Rubbing my eyes with my unhurt hand, I finally look at where my friends were. Salman is sitting up! I blink a couple of times to make sure I’m still not hallucinating. Sitting on the table, his back is to me. He’s testing out his injured leg, slowly lifting it up and down. Salman grimaces each time, but his leg is moving perfectly.

I stagger to my feet, using the wall for support. My legs are so sore that I’m trembling when I do finally stand. I don’t know if it’s just my mind playing tricks on me, but standing seems harder than ever before.

Salman turns his head to see me. He smiles. “ Assalam-O-Alaikum , Zaid.”

“You’re alright. Alhumdulillah .”

Hearing me instinctively thank God, Salman shifts himself so he can get a better look at me. “Thanks to you, Zaid. You were incredible.”

All the harshness that’s been in his voice these past couple of days has vanished. I’ve never heard him this grateful before. That thankful look in his eyes is… strange. “Fatima did all the work,” I reply. “I just did as she said. Where is she?”

As if on cue, I hear footsteps entering the room. I know it’s her before I even look. My eyes widen as I get a look at her. Fatima has freshened up, and she’s found new clothes. She seems to be glowing. Wearing a loose, full-sleeved yellow tunic over a pair of emerald green trousers, her pink headscarf has been replaced by a green one that’s a little darker than her trousers. It brings out her eyes. “I’m glad to see you’re awake, Zaid,” she warmly says.

After finding myself speechless for a moment, I finally respond. “Thank you.”

“I found some clothes upstairs in one of the bedrooms. There was some boys clothing too. I think they have things in your and Salman’s sizes.”

“Really?”

She nods.

Turning to look at Salman, I speak again. “When I went to the fridge, it was working. I think the electricity is still on here.”

“It is,” Fatima replies. “The water is running too. I was able to rinse off in the shower not even twenty minutes ago.”

…am I hearing that right? “The shower is working?”

“You should take one before something happens to it. It’s on the third floor.”

“I will—but what about the wrapping?” I hold up my injured hand.

“The wrapping will be fine if you’re just using water and don’t scrub it.”

Fatima does not have to tell me twice. I take a step before stopping and glancing over at Salman. “You should go first, Salman. You should probably clean the blood off of your leg.”

Smiling, he gestures for me to go. “You go on ahead, buddy. It may take me a while to climb the steps, and it’ll take even longer to get cleaned off.”

With a nod, I depart.

Like Fatima said, I find the shower on the third floor. While the first floor is ransacked, this one doesn’t seem to have been touched by looters. The looters must have been forced to leave before they could get to it.

The door is open when I get to the room, but the light is switched off. The bathroom has nearly the same setup as my home. The only difference is that this one appears older and more worn down. There’s a window on the wall to the right, but it’s blocked out by a curtain. However, there are some bullet holes that have ripped through it.

I close the door. It’s probably best to not switch the light on. I walk across the off-white, tiled floor and pull back the thin and damp shower curtain. The tub is relatively clean. It’s still wet from Fatima’s use, and there are a couple of towels set on the corner of the sink. The bath itself has a few cracks, as do the white walls, but it’s nothing serious.

Quickly slipping off my shoes before undressing, I step into the tub and draw the curtain forward. My eyes focus on the shower faucet. Is this really going to work? I turn the knob. In the next instant, a rush of water crashes against my body. I stand there for a moment, unable to believe that it’s really happening. The water is lukewarm, neither hot nor cold, but I don’t care.

The streams that miss me beat against the tub’s hard floor like fast-falling rain. Feeling the water rain down and wash all the dirt and dust off of my skin, I slump onto the ground. My head hangs low, allowing my hair to become drenched as I run my hand through it a few times. The shower sputters, increasing and decreasing without any notice. Splashing against me, streams of water drip off of my chest and flow down my back.

How long has it been since I’ve cleaned myself? I don’t even know. I’ve been covered in sweat, dirt, and blood for so long that I forgot what it felt like to be cleaned. My wrapping grows wet, but nothing comes of it.

The downpour seems to be changing temperatures. Sometimes it warms up before cooling down. For a moment, I think I’m out in the middle of the storm. I remember the last time a storm hit us. Aisha took me out to our home’s roof and we danced in the rain. It feels just like that. Without thinking, I put my palms together and form a bowl. I watch it collect water. Raising the bowl up to my face, I take a sip out of it. The last shower I took was at my home. Unlike the cracked tub, it was immaculate. The water was constant and warm. A part of me wonders if I’ll ever be there again. For all I know, it may not be standing anymore.

I shiver at the thought. It’s not from fear but from longing.

Sitting in the tub, hunched over with my arms wrapped around my legs, I shut my eyes. Tuning into the rhythmic sound of the falling water, I let my thoughts escape this place and go back to a time when I did not even know what true fear or desperation was. Back then, I had everything. I didn’t realize it, I never thought it, but now I know. I used to live like a king, but that life is long gone.