And in those final hours of our time in Homs, my bruised heart quietly heals. Cell by cell.
USUALLY MY NEIGHBORHOOD EXISTS IN A REPETITIVElimbo. The wind carries the children’s tentative laughter and cries through the despondent ruins. Hope colors the conversations of the protestors passing by my door, their footsteps echoing over the gravel. A father consoles his daughter, passing his share of food to her. Jasmine flowers unfold their petals toward the sun. They bloom on soil soaked with martyrs’ blood. For a while, we live.
Then, when the planes roar through the clouds, the pebbles on the sidewalk tremble. And we stop living and start surviving.
Today is no different. But today I say goodbye to myself. My old self.
Kenan and his siblings are already by the front door, their faces grave. We’re meeting Am in thirty minutes. As I stand in my bedroom’s doorway, a rush of nostalgia runs through me. Miserable and empty as it looks, this was my home. For a while.
It won’t stay empty for long. A family who has lost their own home might take refuge in it or, if the military finally invades Old Homs, they’ll ransack the place. I try not to think of that.
I trail through to the living room and hover in the entrance, casting one last long look at Layla’s painting. Suspended in the shade, the waves look alive, licking the frame’s edges, and a story awakens in my mind.
“Let’s go,” I say, turning on my heel before my courage fails me.
We shuffle out, backpacks filled with all we own in the world, and I close the door behind me.
“Goodbye,” I whisper and press a kiss to the blue wood.
Kenan’s hand slides into mine. “We’ll come back.”
I nod.
Lama is between Yusuf and Kenan, and together we walk, the birds singing a sweet farewell melody.
Khalid Mosque is ten minutes away. We take the second fork in the road that leads away from the hospital, and while we walk, I try to memorize each flowering tree and abandoned building we pass. Every now and then I glimpse the revolution’s flag spray-painted over the metallic columns of a garage or wall. The quiet of these last fragile moments is only broken by the crowds standing outside the grocery and the Free Syrian Army soldiers walking about. Their presence calms me, and I send a quick prayer for their hands not to waver, for their love for this land and her people to haul them to victory.
Khalid Mosque is in the middle of a wide clearing of half-collapsed apartment buildings. We step carefully over cracked asphalt and loose, dead electrical wires. Up close, the mosque’s walls are scratched and the dusty windows splintered, as are the steps leading up to the front door. It’s slightly open, revealing debris coating the dark green rug upon which a few men are in various positions of prayer.
“What’s the time?” Kenan asks. Yusuf and Lama sit with their legs hanging over the steps. Yusuf whispers something to her and she leans closer to hear before nodding.
“Fifteen more minutes,” I reply, my nerves tingling, and I focus on Kenan’s face, counting the bruises decorating his skin. There are about seven in total, and his contused eye has taken on a plum shade. His shoulders are slumped but his gaze is flitting everywhere, committing the sky’s blue to his memory.
“Kenan.” I take his hand, drawing him closer.
He looks forlorn, heartbreak written all over his face. I haven’t the slightest idea what to say to ease his sorrow. It’s the same grief tearing through me, so I wrap an arm around him and tuck my head under his chin.
“Syria lives in our hearts,” I whisper. “She always will.”
He hugs me, pressing a kiss to the top of my hijab.
We stay like this, swaying and staring at our city. The fifteen minutes trickle by. People walk in and out of the mosque and with each extra minute my anxiety rises. What if Am doesn’t show up? What if something’s happened to him?
If he doesn’t come, all four of us might as well dig our own graves right here.
But my paranoia subsides when I hear the faint sound of a car approaching along the road. It’s an old gray Toyota, its sides streaked with mud and the windshield in need of a wash. Even from this distance, I can see it’s Am sitting behind the wheel. He skids in front of us, stopping short.
“Get in.” A cigarette hangs from his lips. “We’re on a tight schedule, and we’re five minutes late.”
“You meanyou’refive minutes late,” I retort, folding my arms.
He glares. “Do you want to chat, or do you want to leave? Get in the back and—” He stops, counting us, and frowns. “Where’s Layla?”
My eyes burn and I fight the hollowness in my stomach, looking away. Am’s expression turns grave.
“So that’s one less payment,” he says, and even though his tone isn’t the slightest bit malicious, the urge to punch him rises in me.
Kenan’s hand weighs on my shoulder and he nods at me. I open the door tentatively and Yusuf slides in first, then Lama and Kenan. I get in and Lama shifts to sit on Kenan’s lap. We leave the front seat empty, wanting to be close to one another.
