A Land of Permanent Goodbyes Read online

  Also by Atia Abawi

  THE SECRET SKY

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Atia Abawi.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Abawi, Atia, author.

  Title: A land of permanent goodbyes / Atia Abawi.

  Description: New York, NY : Philomel Books, [2018]

  Summary: After their home in Syria is bombed, Tareq, his father, and his younger sister seek refuge, first with extended family in Raqqa, a stronghold for the militant group Daesh, and then abroad.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017021847 | ISBN 9780399546839 (hardback) |

  ISBN 9780399546846 (e-book)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Refugees—Fiction. | Bombings—Fiction. | Muslims—Fiction. |

  IS (Organization)—Fiction. | Family life—Syria—Fiction. | Syria—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.A136 Lan 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017021847

  Edited by Jill Santopolo.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

  either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,

  and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses,

  companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For Arianmay you always choose empathy over fear, love over hate, and knowledge over apathy

  CONTENTS

  Also by Atia Abawi

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part I Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part 2 Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part 3 Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” To this day, especially in times of “disaster,” I remember my mother’s words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers—so many caring people in this world.

  —Fred Rogers

  You were born to die. In that I have no say.

  But when that happens is not up to me. It’s up to humanity and—all too often—the lack of it.

  The human heart is the most complicated creation I’ve ever encountered. The formation of the cosmos was easier to understand.

  Yours is a group that is easy to read, yet difficult to comprehend.

  You chiseled a wheel and transformed it from stone to wood to rubber. You have turned mountains into threads that control machines, computers and phones. You’ve even learned to fly without having your own wings.

  All of this happened within a blink of the universe’s eye.

  Your greatest achievements came from your brain. Your heart is a whole different system. An intensely more complicated one. It’s a place that can hold an incredible amount of love or an incredible amount of hate—sometimes both at the same time. And although there has been ample growth in the capability of your minds, not a lot has changed in the nature of your species.

  A mother’s affection thousands of years ago holds the same warmth it does today, covering her child with a blanket sewn of her soul even long after she is gone. A gentle kiss still sends shivers through the bodies of young lovers, and the memory of that embrace lives on as their bones wither and hair fades to gray. Decades later, you still feel the cold emptiness of losing someone you held dear.

  But it is the growing divide between the mind and heart that I find so dangerous for your kind. Your new innovations don’t help you to feel love as often as they contribute to spreading hate.

  Your chest is a vault for your jealousy, prejudices and regrets—emotions that you once released through sharp tongues and bare hands. Until your tongues and hands were replaced with swords and poisons—and now bullets and bombs. The streams of blood turned to rivers and then to oceans.

  I am the one often blamed for your actions.

  Philosophers describe me as “the predetermined course of events.” I am sometimes confused with Fate or Predestination.

  I consider myself simply the end of a sequence of events that you and your kind actively shape.

  I don’t like to be held liable for the evils in the world. But often I am, through no error of my own. My work is to finalize the deeds of those who have paved their way toward me. I meet you at the end of the paths you walk on. Sometimes when I truly don’t expect to.

  I am not the reason why hearts can be so dark. I can’t even take credit for the ones who do good. I am just the end result of your choices.

  We will always meet, time and again. Sometimes you realize I am there. Other times you ignore me. It’s okay; I’m used to it. But even when you stop believing in me or you start despising me, I will never abandon you. I see most of you as old friends. I enjoy when we encounter each other on happy occasions. I weep when the moments are harsh.

  One thing I ask—please stop condemning me or giving me credit for how, when and where we meet. That is not up to me; it has never been up to me. I just show up when it is time—and that moment will always arrive.

  So yes, you were born to die. But in between, you are meant to live. If we run into each other prematurely, it’s not because of my negligence. And often not because of yours.

  Your world controls me; I do not control you.

  I am Destiny.

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  I like Tareq. I always have. The night the fair-haired boy came into the world, I swear I saw the moon smile.

  From his very first gulp of air, he was a good boy. The kind every parent dreams of having. He didn’t shriek like most newborns; he just let out soft whimpers as if not to disturb, but to let everyone know he was okay.

  He was born during the crisp days when fall bled into winter, a generous gift to hi
s mother, saving her from nursing a newborn in the sticky summer months. There was a celebration filled with music, food and family for the birth of not just a child but a son. His parents ordered an expensive cake with a little blue bear frosted onto it from the best bakery in the city, the one the wealthier folks went to. A modest selection for the store’s usual clientele, but a luxury item for a young couple who were busy spending their finances on necessities rather than grandeur.

  Tareq loved his parents and never dreamed of disobeying them. As he grew, he believed his parents were second only to God, fulfilling every request his mother made of him—from picking up tomatoes and eggs at the store to changing the diapers of his little brothers and sisters.

  And his parents, Nour and Fayed, knew how lucky they were, often telling friends over cups of tea steeped in sugar, “The first child tricks you into having more!”

  This is a statement I have heard many parents say through the generations and continents, but in their case it was true. Because as Nour and Fayed’s family grew, so did the lively and rambunctious energy in their crowded household, which included Tareq’s paternal grandmother.

  Tareq was excited each time his mother gave birth to a new sibling. Salim came two years after him, a wild and uncontrollable spirit. His light hair and sharp nose matched Tareq’s, but the similarities stopped there. Farrah arrived several years later. Sweet and charming, she had her father wrapped around her finger from the moment he held her and stared into her dark doe eyes. Then came Susan, a pink-faced, curly-haired version of Salim, but with blue eyes and a sweeter edge. And then the twins, Ameer and Sameer—a mix of Tareq’s and Salim’s temperaments (with Farrah’s coloring).

  The family’s small apartment never seemed to have much, but it was bursting at the seams with love. The affection of a gentle couple, tenderness of kind parents, zest of spirited children and the unselfishness and devotion of a family who felt deeply for one another.

  I truly cared for these people. They did everything right. They were making all the decisions that would lead them to the happy ending you all dream of.

  But unfortunately, it was the decisions made by those in their country—and those outside Syria—that brought them to this night . . . where I had to meet them again, on a hot summer evening in 2015, not in happiness but in sorrow. This is their story.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Mama!” Tareq screamed, ignoring the burning in his throat. Even if his mother had shouted back, he wouldn’t have been able to hear her. The ringing in his ears yo-yoed up and down. All other sounds were muffled and lost.

  His blacked-out vision slowly transitioned to a blurry haze of grayish mist. He watched as black snowflakes floated down from the sky.

  Too scared to move, all he could do was scream again, hoping someone—anyone—would hear him. His vibrating body was camouflaged in the rubble; the dust from the bombed-out apartment building had formed a thick layer on his skin, except for the paths down his cheeks washed clean by his tears. His shouting turned to silent sobs as he tried, with trembling hands, to lift the slab of concrete from his stomach. He grabbed hold of the kitchen wall that had pinned him to the floor, but he couldn’t muster the strength to push it off.

  Terror ripped through his body, burning his insides. Any ripples of strength he had left were used for his wails. But even those had weakened. Tareq had never cried like this before. He’d only seen these types of tears in the movies or on television newscasts—and in his worst nightmares.

  “Mama. Baba . . .” His frail voice trembled before fading out completely.

  • • •

  Waking up in his bed, Tareq wondered now if it was all just another nightmare. He ripped off the thick blanket soaked in sweat and stumbled to the dresser, pulling out a mirror to examine his reflection. He couldn’t see any scratches or bruises and didn’t feel any soreness except for a little twisting pain in his stomach. Surely, he believed, it was from the trauma in his sleep. He studied the beads of sweat on his forehead and the dark patches underneath his blue eyes. He finally took in a steady breath, relieved that it was just another bad dream. He’d been having a lot of them lately.

  Still feeling a twinge in the pit of his stomach, he slid a shirt over his head, then slowly opened the bedroom door, pressing down the cool handle. He could hear the television blaring from the living room. He walked toward the sound and saw Farrah and Susan on the couch, staring at the screen, the latter holding on to her doll as she sucked her thumb. Tom and Jerry had them in a television trance.

  The five-month-old twins were lying on a white cotton blanket with pacifiers in their mouths, orange for Sameer and green for Ameer, their dark curls in sharp contrast with the throw. The boys kicked their chunky legs in the air as they tried to grab each other, letting out muffled squeals. Both had only their bottom teeth, which appeared in the last week, making their smiles even sweeter than before. My little can openers are okay, Tareq thought.

  He decided to follow the delicious aroma of garlic and onions coming from the kitchen. When he saw the back of her head, hair in a bun and a mole on the side of the neck, he ran to his mother.

  “Mama!” he grabbed her from behind and pulled her body in for a tight embrace.

  “Rohi! Be careful!” She laughed, holding a stainless-steel paring knife in one hand and a zucchini in the other.

  But Tareq didn’t let go. He just kissed her shoulders before pressing his face against her bony spine once more, breathing in her scent of perfumed flowers and spiced cooking.

  “Nothing for me?” his grandmother asked. Tareq turned and saw his teyta drinking her usual black tea. He ran over to his graying grandmother, bent down and laid his head in her lap. He felt her withered hand stroking his hair.

  “What has got into you, ayuni? I love the attention, but I want to make sure you’re feeling well.” His mother was still smiling as she continued to scrape out the inside of the zucchini. “You don’t have a fever, do you?”

  “No, Mama, I’m just . . . just so happy to see you!” he muttered as the rubble from his dream flashed in his mind. He could again taste the fear of being separated from her. He walked over and pecked her cheek, thankful she was here and that he could still breathe her in. Nour kissed him back, seemingly grateful for the exuberant onslaught of affection from her teenage son.

  “Youth.” His grandmother picked up her steaming glass from the rim and slurped her tea. “We should all be lazy and take long afternoon naps so we can also be crazy.” Tareq’s teyta knew her curmudgeonly attitude was one that the family found endearing, so she kept playing the part. Everyone recognized that her dry sense of humor disguised her true adoration of the family she helped create and build. They all heard her prayers thanking God five times a day for the blessings bestowed on her.

  “Is Baba home yet?” Tareq asked his mother.

  His father worked with his uncle at the family shop a few blocks away. The mini market did well enough to feed their large family. But since the war began, business had been very slow. Many people were leaving, and the rest didn’t have the money to purchase the few items in stock. And Tareq’s father, Fayed, didn’t have the heart to let his customers leave with empty hands and stomachs. So, much of the time he gave food away for next to nothing, and sometimes for exactly that—nothing.

  But the biggest worry hadn’t been business. It was the bombs that indiscriminately fell from the sky. Every morning, after Fayed closed the front door behind him, the family counted the minutes until his return. Tareq used to help out at the store, but with the continued air strikes in their city, his father had asked him to stay home and take care of the family. God forbid, but if something should go wrong, I want you to be the man of the house.

  “No, Baba is not home yet, but do you mind finding Salim before he gets too far?” Nour asked her eldest.

  “Yes, of course!” He welcomed the request. Any other day he would acc
ept but be weary at the thought of reining in his younger brother. But on this day, he was just pleased he had his family nearby and alive—unlike so many people from his city. The task reminded him of how grateful he was.

  “And make sure your sisters have an eye on the babies, not just on that silly cat and mouse!” he heard his mother call as he sprinted out of the kitchen. With a quick glance, he noticed Susan was now on the blanket with the babies, using her doll to kiss Sameer’s cheek as he squawked with delight. Satisfied, Tareq continued out the door.

  • • •

  “Salim!” he yelled at a group of boys playing on the dusty side street. His brother’s hair seemed lighter than usual due to the dirt and grit that had layered onto it.

  “We’re not done!” Salim hollered back.

  As Tareq took in the view of his neighborhood, his breath caught in his throat. He still wasn’t used to the mountain of broken concrete and twisted iron sticking out of the walls that used to make up the apartment block across the road. The building’s skeletal remains gave a glimpse into the apartments of neighbors who no longer lived there and some who no longer lived at all. That air strike killed twenty-six people, including two of his classmates—a brother and sister who used to bicker all the time but would quickly fight anyone who bothered the other. Tareq shook his head in an attempt to scatter those memories, hoping they would fall out of his ears like crumbs—but it never worked.

  “Yallah, Salim! Come on! Mama said it’s time to wash up!”

  “Uuf!” Salim got ahold of the soccer ball and kicked it toward the busy road that divided their building from the destroyed structure. If he couldn’t play anymore, he wanted to make sure the fun was over for everyone.

  “Salim!” the boys roared in frustration. They now had to decide who would go after the ball in the middle of traffic. They would never admit it out loud, but the boys were more afraid of the ghostly ruins on the other side of the road than the cars that whizzed by, superstitiously believing that by going into the rubble they would jinx their own families.