“God,please, save us!” I whisper.
A shell falls nearer; its blast sends glass shards that just about grazes our clothes and skin as we run past. They sting enough to make us hiss, but we’ve dealt with worse pain. The bomb has blown up a neighborhood I used to go to for knafeh. I stumble again, coughing from the debris, and Kenan lifts me up, his hands strong and steady. I pull him again and we run. I try not to think of the people who were breathing just fifteen minutes ago. How fifteen minutes can make all the difference in the world. I block out the sounds of a crying baby I know are a figment of my imagination.
We’re finally far enough away to slow down and catch our breath. I reluctantly let go of Kenan’s hand and he falls into step with me. Our breaths are harsh, ribs creaking as our anemic blood tries to supply oxygen. I’m both shivering and sweating and try to focus on steadying my breath.
Kenan doesn’t say anything, and I don’t find solace in speaking either. We hear the bombs in the distance, and each stabs a new hole in my heart. I don’t want to see the expression on his face. I don’t want to know if it’s sadness or anger or desperation. Whatever it is, it’s going to scare or break me, and I don’t want either. His back is hunched, and every time a scream reaches us, he constricts even more.
We walk through my old neighborhood, where my apartment building stood eons ago. Local shops stacked beside each other are faded, the signs almost impossible to read. There’s no one here trying to salvage their family’s business. Not a soul wanders the streets, and it brings chills to my body. This place is haunted by the ghosts of those who lived here, screaming for a justice that’s not been delivered. The shops have been ransacked, equipment thrown around, windows broken. The pharmacy I interned at has been bled dry.
My old building is around the next right corner, and my heart thuds the closer we get.
I haven’t been here since July.
My footsteps are engraved all over this place. My ten-year-old self flashes past me giggling, climbing out of the school bus with her friends, running home, backpack swaying with every step. Fifteen-year-old me stumbles past, eyes glued to the book she’s reading, late for her study sessions. Seventeen-year-old Salama walks hand in hand with Layla, Shahed, and Rawan. Happy with today’s shopping spree, each carrying the delicious shawarma from the restaurant a few feet away. All these lives rush in front of me. I can see the light bouncing off my hopeful, healthy face. I can see my confident strides and clear eyes. The whole street comes to life, flowers blooming at the sides of the pavement, traders singing their wares, and iris petals dancing in the wind, carrying the smell of yasmine elsham.
“Salama!”A voice cuts through my daydream like cold water.
I blink as the darkness replaces my hallucination and I inhale sharply.
“Salama,” Kenan says again, and I turn to him. “Everything all right?”
He’s worried; soot covers his clothes. There are nicks lining his arms and cuts on his face. He looks nervous, glancing around to see what I was looking at.
“Yes,” I say, and my voices catches. Clearing my throat, I try again. “I’m okay. It’s just overwhelming being here. Back home.”
He hesitates before smiling sympathetically. “I can’t imagine how difficult it is.”
Of coursehe can imagine, but his selflessness overshines anything else.
“Let’s go.” I walk past him.
I feel Khawf walking beside me and he murmurs, “This place is imbued with your trauma. Do you see why you need to leave, Salama?”
I give a quick nod, carefully hiding my tears as I try not to think that only a few steps from here is where Mama’s body lay mangled.
ISEE MY BUILDING’S RUINS IN FRONT OF ME ANDwonder at the irony. Taking refuge in the place that killed Mama. I try not to stumble on the debris and boulders strewn carelessly on the ground. I can’t help but step on broken furniture and the memories of the people who lived here with me. There’s no safe place to tread.
“Right here.” I point at the top of a small hill of concrete and brick. Kenan climbs in and I follow him, feeling the sharp edges of stones digging into my sneakers. I push through the pain to reach him, trying not to cut myself on the glass lying everywhere. Down and concealed from view is our hiding spot. A huge closet obscures it. It’s like the eye of the storm, a center surviving the catastrophe. As if the whole building, with its memories of the generations who once lived in it, decided to make a home for us tonight.
We jump, landing heavily.
The moon shines down, a blessing, so we know where to sit without something poking us in the sides. Kenan sweeps the ground a bit with his shoe and sits down, leaning against a broken wall, his breath ragged. I could kick myself. I was so absorbed with my own problems I didn’t stop to think how he might be doing. Sweat pools on his forehead, and he rests his head against the stone, eyes closed.
“Hey,” I say tentatively. “Everything okay?”
He wipes a hand across his face and manages a smile that doesn’t look as bright as usual.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Don’t worry about it. Just catching my breath.”
I move over to him. “Can I have your phone?”
He nods, handing it over, and I open its light and shine it on his face.
“What?” he asks.
“Making sure you’re all right.”
He nods and stares straight into the light. His pupils constrict, assuring me there’s no cellular death taking place in his brain.
