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

Taking a deep breath, I do my best to block out the pain. I shake my head, trying to brush off the ache and clear my mind. It’s not as hot as I thought it’d be down here. Some relief at last. I run my hands over either arm, checking to make sure that nothing is bleeding badly. My fingers come out covered in some dust, but there is no blood.

Crawling onto all fours before rising to my feet, I readjust the supply sack. It’s a little worse for the wear, but it seems fine too. With another deep breath, I turn away from where I fell and face forward. The climb out looks steeper from down here than from up above. Nonetheless, I don’t let it discourage me because on the other side of that are my friends—on the other side of that is hope.

The incline begins not even three steps away. Moving to it with a running start, I immediately begin to claw my way out of the pit. Grabbing anything that I can hold on to, I pull myself out of here inch by inch. I stay low, using my feet as leverage.

One step at a time, Zaid. Look out for anything sharp. Look where you’re reaching and stepping before you do.

As I claw like a man possessed, I send down countless pieces of loose concrete and rubble. I feel and hear it break off and tumble down below just as rashly as I did, but I stay focused. The farther up I go, the steeper the climb becomes until it’s as if I’m scaling a wall instead of a slope. I’m halfway there. The sun is suddenly in my eyes, blinding me. But I don’t stop. And I don’t slow down.

For a moment, I lose my footing as my foot slips off of an edge, but I quickly regain it. Holding on to a jutting steel pipe as some water leaks out of it and runs onto my arm, I come to a halt. I don’t see anything else I can grab to move forward. But I’m close enough now—close enough to be able to grab the edge of the pit with one good leap.

Holding my position, I take a deep breath. Then another. There’s only one shot at this. Otherwise, I’ll be tumbling back to the bottom. I cock my body back, eyes focused on where I need to land.

With a thrust from my feet and yank from my arms, I let out a roar as I leap forward with every ounce of energy I have. I hang in the air for a moment. My hands reach out over the edge, instinctively grabbing on to a piece of the road’s concrete. My body roughly slams against the slope, face banging against something hard, but I hold on to the concrete as if it is life itself. After my head spins for a moment, I regain my senses. Eyes shut, I begin to wildly scramble, trying to throw myself over the edge and onto the road. I don’t stop moving and kicking as I madly attempt to pull myself up. First my elbows come across. I feel them hit the steady ground. Then my chest makes it over the edge. Finally, my legs and feet follow.

I lay there under the hot sun, taking a moment to recompose myself. As the excitement wears off, the place where my face hit the wall begins throbbing. I sense all the dirt and dust covering me and in my hair. Staggering up to my knees, I dust it all off the best I can before wiping my hands on my pants. I take a deep breath… then another. My eyes turn to look straight ahead.

Keep moving, Zaid.

Turning from one street to the next, I keep crossing the same scene of desolation. My city—a place seemed forgotten by the outside world—looks no different than any war zone. I remember pictures of Berlin during World War II. I don’t think anybody would be able to tell this Aleppo and that Berlin apart.

Going from neighborhood to neighborhood, street to street, they all become a blur. It’s just wreckage after wreckage and debris after debris. The amount of destruction on each street seems to be increasing the longer this battle goes on. Either that or we’ve just been marching deeper and deeper into the heart of this war. By the end, when both armies have had their fill of fighting, there may be nothing left standing.

A few people cross my path every now and then, but they don’t pay me much heed. They’re civilians of Aleppo, people like me. Sometimes, it’s a group; other times, it’s an individual. However, they simply go their way and I go mine.

Judging from the sun, it’s late morning by now. Trekking between two burnt cars, one of which is still seething, I hear something from above. A pair of beady eyes are looking down at me. Then another. And a third. Vultures are perched up everywhere, some even soaring in the sky. The large, black birds are appearing out of the woodwork. I’m unable to tell if they’re watching me or the scene in general. However, a couple of them seem to be keeping up with me, even making circles around me. Are they thinking that I’ll be keeling over soon?

Paying attention to them, I fail to notice a pile of rubble blocking the road until I nearly run into it. It’s a toppled building. The debris is a mixture of concrete, bricks, and glass. I look to the left and then the right. There’s no way around it unless I’m willing to go back the way I came, but that’ll cost valuable time and daylight. I let out a groan.

The wreckage is about eight meters high. The last time I climbed something like this, Salman helped pull me up. It’s up to me now. Observing the ascent, I notice plenty of jagged edges and sharp shards of glass sticking out. It’s like a minefield. My heart sinks for a moment. I can’t see any way up without the risk of injuring myself. Even if I don’t fall, I’ll likely cut myself on any of those landmines. Without Fatima, I don’t have any medical supplies or expertise at my side.

Before the thought of turning away and retreading my steps takes root, another enters my mind. It’s what Abbi said to me on the steps of the university: When you take a leap of faith, the question is not whether you’ll fall, Zaid. It’s how high will you soar.

No turning back, Zaid. You took an oath to look after your friends, to keep them safe no matter what. You never go back on your word.

I start looking at all the dirt-covered debris lying on the ground. There’s a can, an empty pack of cigarettes, a broken jar, and—there’s a shirt! Quickly picking it up and dusting it off, I rummage through my sack and pull out a small cutting knife. It should be sharp enough. I hastily cut off a bit of each sleeve, careful to try and tear through the garment in a way that makes them come out as two long and wide strips.

The cloth is pretty sturdy and thick, thicker than the shirt I’m wearing at least. I wrap each strip around either palm, making them go around four times. I double check to make sure that they’re both thick enough. Wearing these will make it harder to hold on to things, but my hands will be safe from anything sharp.

After looking over my makeshift protection one more time, I finally approach the mountain and stop at its base. I reach deep down and muster all the courage I find. Just take it one step at a time. Pretend you’re climbing a tree out in the park.

Finding a place to start, I firmly place my right foot on a small piece of rubble that’s jutting out. I press some weight onto it, making sure it’ll stay steady. It moves a little, but not enough to be alarming. I push off of it as I reach up high to grab a small ledge that’s barely big enough to hold on to. It’s a little sharp, but the cloth covering my palm keeps my hand protected. My right foot is on its toes now, and my left foot hangs off the ground as I stretch to keep my grip on the ledge

I nearly reach out to grab another place with my free hand but stop myself. Foot, hand, foot, hand. That’s the order. My left foot finds a place to settle, only a little higher than my right one. The ground it lands on is a bit shaky, but it holds up. My right hand grabs a ledge as my breaths become a bit quicker.