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

“B… but the news. They’ll be showing—”

“People all over the world will see the reports.” Salman’s voice grows more solemn, more hopeless, with every word. “It’ll be on the five o’clock news as they’re eating dinner. They’ll see the destruction and maybe some corpses. And do you know what they’ll do?”

Fatima is silent.

“They’ll say ‘that is horrible’. Then… they’ll change the channel and go right on with their meal.”

I can’t read Fatima’s expression as she digests her brother’s words. Maybe she’s known the truth all along, but it took this for her to finally accept it. For a moment, it looks like she’ll cry. She looks down. She probably just lost her appetite. I think all of us have. Finally, her gaze sets back on Salman and then me. “When’s the last time we prayed? Formally, I mean?”

We’re both silent for a moment.

“It was at Jari’s house when he led it.” As I say those words, I feel shame wash over me. Since my earliest days, I’ve hardly ever missed any of the five daily prayers. But since we left Jari’s home, I haven’t performed a single one. I didn’t even realize it until Fatima asked.

“I think we should start doing them just like we used to. That should be a priority.”

I slightly nod. “It’s Asr time right now.”

Hearing me say the name of the afternoon prayer, Salman takes a deep breath before he slowly rises to his feet. “Let’s all make ablution. I’ll lead us. We can finish eating later.”

It’s not hard to find a few prayer rugs. They’re seemingly everywhere in Aleppo, even in all this carnage. I stumble across some in the sitting room’s closet on the second floor. We set three of them up: Salman in the front, me a step behind him and to his right, and Fatima a few feet behind me. The rug I’m on is red with gold embroidery. There’s an image of the Holy Kaaba on it, reminding us of what we’re praying towards.

Salman asks me to do the call to prayer. I know it by heart, having heard it multiple times every day since birth. However, I’ve never recited it formally. I always dreamed of one day being asked to do so by our masjid’s Imam . He would sometimes let one of the boys do it, but he always seemed to pick everyone else but me.

I never thought I would finally do it under these circumstances.

With my hands cupping the back of either ear, I recite the words that used to echo through every street of Aleppo. I speak it loud enough to consume the room but soft enough so that my voice doesn’t spill outside. Even now when I get to recite it at long last, I can’t fully raise my voice, as we were taught, while reciting it.

As I make the call to prayer, each verse echoes in my head. It feels like I’ve heard these words but never listened to them before. I feel my heart tremor as the words leave my tongue. God is greater than all things. He is above all. He is one. There is nobody worth turning to except Him.

I’ve never truly understood what that meant—until now.

Come to prayer. Come to betterment. As I say those words, I realize what they mean. It’s not about the worship. Instead, it’s about becoming a better person. It’s about learning discipline not only in worship but in all things. And the discipline will make us better.

In the last two verses, I again proclaim that God is greater than all things. And I once again declare that in both good times and in bad—in misery and in triumph—there is nobody worth turning to or thanking other than Him.

My voice is cracking up as I come to an end. Salman soon begins the prayer. We’re facing southeast, the direction of Mecca. Standing at attention, my hands are clasped over my stomach as I look at the ground in front of me. I lowly recite the words to myself. I’ve heard and uttered them thousands of times. But now, just like with the call to prayer, I’m finally beginning to comprehend them.

It begins with a supplication asking God to guide us on the right path and help us stay on the course of righteousness. As I hear my own words, I begin to tremble. I can’t stop it. I feel ashamed—ashamed that ever since this ordeal began, I have not truly turned back to ask Him for guidance. Maybe that’s why I’ve been so confused and scared.

Another chapter from the Qur’an comes to mind. It’s one all of us learned together at the masjid and is the one that Salman and Fatima are likely reciting as well: Surah Rahman . All three of us know it by heart. The title itself is a reference to God’s compassion. I recite it perfectly, not missing a single note or beat. Just the rhythm of the verses is intense, striking a chord deep within my soul. One line is repeated over and over again in nearly every other verse:

Then which of the blessings of your Lord will you deny?

I now know what it truly means. That line is repeated after God mentions something of His majesty or His blessings. He is asking us that after everything we’ve seen, everything we know, everything we’ve experienced, what will we claim to have achieved through our sheer power alone? What is it that we have without His help?

Finally, I begin to comprehend the truth. I begin to realize that it is not me who has survived this ordeal. It is not me who beat down Amaan when he was strangling me. It is not me who hid from the men searching for us in the smog or outside of Jari’s shop. It is not me who survived every explosion and bomb dropped on Aleppo. I did none of that by myself.

My heart bursts into tears. My head bows a little lower.

I can’t stop shaking. As we go from standing to bowing, from bowing to prostration, and from prostration to sitting, I am unable to control the trembling. Halfway through, I close my eyes. I haven’t truly gone back to God once during all this time, even after all of my parents’ teachings. However, He has still not forsaken me. He has not left me on my own, even after having every right to do so. I could have gone up in smoke with any of the blasts. Amaan could have succeeded in his attack. Or I could have been out on the street, injured with no shelter.

But the three of us are alive. We’re together. We are able to keep pushing forward through this abyss, and we have a better shelter than most people in the city. Yet, I never thanked Him.

And for that, I am ashamed.

I hear Salman end the prayer. Next, we each make a personal supplication just between us and Him. We can ask for anything. They say that directly after prayer is the best time to ask for any favors and blessings.

I don’t know what Salman and Fatima ask for, but I ask for nothing. I can’t contain the tears anymore. As they roll down my cheeks, I do nothing but thank Him. Looking into my outstretched palms, I barely see anything through my tear-filled eyes. I can hardly even whisper without breaking into sobs. However, as I thank Him, it doesn’t matter. None of it does, except for one thing:

For the first time in a long time, I feel some small measure of true peace.

It won’t be long until it’s time for us to leave.

The A/C seems to be switching on and off out of its own free will. The droughts grow longer as the day draws on. Maybe Salman was right about this shop soon becoming as desolate as the rest of the city. If that’s the case, then it’s a good thing we won’t be staying here.

It’s been an hour since the prayer ended. I haven’t spoken a word since then. The little bit of solace I felt in my soul is still there. I don’t know what it means, but I take the peace as some kind of a sign that things won’t stay this bleak forever.

The sun is only about an hour and a half from the horizon. The thought of leaving the serenity of this place and going back into the abyss makes my stomach churn a little. I know we don’t have a choice, but I also don’t know if I’ll be able to stand another night filled with the sound of silence. It’s not the exhaustion that scares me. I’m too used to that by now. It’s something else.