A Land of Permanent Goodbyes Page 2

  A group of girls parked comfortably on the steps of the building giggled as they watched what was unfolding. Tareq never grasped why these girls all seemed to embolden his wayward brother. But the encouragement went both ways. Salim glanced at them with a crooked smile and winked, which made them titter even more.

  As he ran by, Salim made sure to slap his older brother on the butt. “Yallah!” he now ordered Tareq to follow, as he bolted toward the door. “Yaaallaaaaaaah!”

  • • •

  Salim rushed to the bathroom to wash the grime off his body, still giddy about how he’d left his friends. Farrah ran after, begging him to let her play with his old toy cars that were collecting dust on the wooden shelf. She was the little tomboy of the family. When Farrah was a baby, she saw her two older brothers as her heroes, wanting to be exactly like them. Especially Salim. Whenever someone asked her who her favorite brother was, she would get shy and say she didn’t have one, not wanting to hurt anyone’s feelings, but everyone knew by the sparkles in her eyes when she looked at Salim what the real answer was.

  The extra attention didn’t bother Salim the way it would many older brothers. He loved both of his little sisters and saw himself as their protector. He didn’t like the way some of his friends would shoo their sisters away and treat them with disdain. Those boys would often commiserate about how annoying their sisters were. Salim felt that said a lot more about the brothers than it did their sisters.

  One blazing hot afternoon when he was out with the boys from their apartment building, Salim’s friend Azad decided to bulldoze through a group of little girls playing with their jump ropes, including Farrah. Azad thought it was hilarious to hear the girls screech. But Salim did not laugh. Instead, he saw the tear that was welling up in his sister’s left eye. As his own lips quivered, he could feel the heat from the scorching sun permeate his body, setting it ablaze. Salim bolted toward his friend like a bull toward a matador’s cape, still aware enough to leap over a little girl in the way, feeling the wind on his face before landing on Azad. With his fists balled up, Salim started pounding on the squishy flesh beneath him. No amount of “Stop!” or “Get off!” was going to stop him. It was only when Azad started to cry that Salim thought the debt was paid. The punishment Salim received from his parents later meant little to him compared to the hug and kiss he got from Farrah.

  Salim’s affection for his sisters was something that he was always conscious of, but he didn’t know how much that love would change his family’s world time and again.

  • • •

  Tareq set the table as his grandmother flicked her prayer beads with the news blaring in the background. Susan was fast asleep on their grandmother’s lap, hugging her doll.

  “The barrel bombs struck a residential area, killing dozens of people, including many children,” the television report echoed.

  Tareq’s nightmare came flashing back. He licked his lip and could taste the grimy dust again. The sirens from the newscast shook his brain as he smelled the smoke.

  “Can anyone hear me?” he heard one of the rescue workers holler from the television set.

  Tareq’s hands singed, causing him to drop the spoons and forks. As he went to pick them up, his vision blurred and he fell to his knees. Charred fumes burned his nostrils. He glanced up and saw the darkness ooze from the kitchen.

  “Are you alive?”

  The room spun as he strained to move, but he couldn’t seem to pick himself up. The smoldering air enveloped his lungs and his eyes stung and burned.

  “Yallah! Over here, I think he’s alive!” A beam of light blinded Tareq as a storm of dust hovered, permeating the air. The glow spilled from the helmet of a man staring at him.

  “You’re going to be okay.” The man’s voice had an air of authority.

  “Where’s my mama?” Tareq gasped, confused and feeling alone again.

  “Calm down and breathe,” the man in the white helmet said to the terrified teenager. He had been pulling bodies out of the rubble all night. He didn’t know if this boy’s mother was dead or alive. But he knew the chances weren’t good. He didn’t want to tell him that, though, not when he needed his help in saving him.

  “Where is my family?” The teen became more frantic, blinking away the tears in his eyes, coming to the realization that his nightmare wasn’t a dream at all. The real hallucination was the one of his family peacefully at home.

  “We are helping them as well. I just need you to be calm.”

  “Don’t help me! Help them!”

  The man in the helmet ignored Tareq’s demand. “What’s your name, habibi?”

  Tareq couldn’t answer him; his words were stuck in his throat, along with his emotions. He felt like he was choking on a clump of scalding charcoal.

  “It’s going to be okay. I just need you to calm down. Wouldn’t your mother want you to be calm right now?”

  Tareq knew the man in the white helmet was right. His mother would want him to be strong and collected. She’d want him to get out of the rubble and help locate his siblings.

  “Tareq. My name is Tareq,” he mustered enough strength to say.

  “Tareq, good. I’m going to lift this piece of concrete up and I am going to need you to move toward me. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Yes. I will try.”

  “Okay, good, on the count of three. One . . . two . . . three!” The man with the helmet grunted loudly. “Yallah, come toward me!”

  Tareq could feel the pressure slowly lifting off his stomach, immediately sensing a surge of relief as he slid out, escaping the wall of his home that once held a golden-beaded hanging of the ninety-nine names of God—it was supposed to protect his family. Tareq hoped it still might.

  The man in the helmet waited until he could see that the boy’s whole body was safely away from the wall before dropping it back down, sending a dust cloud up into his own mouth. Coughing, he bent to pick the boy up. Instinctively, Tareq wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, feeling the soot layered on top of sweat.

  “Please, I need to find my family,” he begged.

  “I know, habibi. I’m going to help you.” The kindness in his voice convinced Tareq that this man was telling the truth.

  And he would help find them, but he couldn’t promise that they would all be alive.

  CHAPTER 3

  Hours passed at the site of their bombed-out apartment building. Most of the survivors could do nothing but watch and weep as the corpses were lined up on the ground—bodies that included Tareq’s grandmother and mother.

  The moon shone bright as he lay between his mama and teyta. Holding their lifeless hands, Tareq tried breathing in his mother’s scent one last time, but all he could smell was smoke and dust.

  He squeezed her palm, ignoring the sirens that engulfed his neighborhood. Although limp, it was still the same hand that he had held as a timid child when stepping into crowded souks in search of spices and clothes. He stroked the elegant fingers that had caressed him gently, making him feel warm and safe. “I will be okay, Mama, please don’t worry. I will take care of my little brothers and sisters just like you took care of us.” He looked at her closed eyes with those perfectly arched brows and took in her beauty. Even dead, his mother looked peaceful and gracious. Tareq brought her delicate hand to his mouth, pressing it to his lips ever so gently. A kiss goodbye. A finality he didn’t want to accept; no child ever does, no matter their age.

  When he looked up, he was brought back into the current chaos, listening to the sounds of wails and the sirens. The man in the white helmet wasn’t alone: There were many wearing the same uniform—they all had the same tan vests and tired eyes. Some helmets were brighter, others stained with the gloom of war, a thick layer of death and broken souls.

  Tareq spotted the man who had pulled him out—Ahmed—marching forward, carrying something. His headlamp beamed in fr
ont of him, making it hard to see what was in his arms. It was when he got closer that Tareq recognized the long dark brown hair bouncing with Ahmed’s every step.

  “I’m sorry, habibi.”

  He handed Farrah’s wilted body over to her big brother, who rocked the young girl in his arms as he kissed her round cheek. The tears falling from his face cleaned the dust from hers.

  “I found her in the room next to where I found you.” Ahmed quickly turned and walked away, unable to take the grief. His only way to cope was to keep working and continue digging. He promised this boy he’d help find his family, and right now that’s all he could do for the kid.

  Tareq went to lay his sister down next to their mother when he spotted the red car still clutched in her hand, Salim’s toy that was passed down from Tareq. A Matchbox sedan that would live in Tareq’s dreams and memories forever, connecting him to his days here and a life that no longer existed.

  He examined the small toy and couldn’t find a dent on it. “How did you survive this and they didn’t? How?!” With a rage he had never felt before, he threw the car toward the rubble. “How are you whole and not them?” He fell to his knees, crying again.

  After more time passed, Ahmed returned to say that he couldn’t find any additional survivors. “You should go to the hospital. Before we pulled you out, there were others who were sent there. You will likely get more information if you go there.”

  Creases surrounded his rescuer’s light brown eyes. They were the eyes of an elderly man who had seen too much, the eyes of an old spirit coming toward the end of life. Not the eyes of a twenty-five-year-old who, a few years ago, was studying to be a doctor.

  Once the war broke out, Ahmed’s plans for his future came to an end. No longer able to study, he decided the only way to help his fellow Syrians was by joining the Syrian Civil Defense—an organization full of men and women who rushed toward the fire while everyone else ran away from it. His mother begged him to stop his work, as they too were now targets, but he told her, “If I can’t help my people, I am already dead.”

  Ahmed convinced one of the men watching what was going on to take Tareq to the hospital and helped him into the small blue hatchback. “I’ll take care of your family here,” he assured the boy. “Good luck, habibi. Massalame, Allah ieshfeek.” With a wave, he closed the door on the kid that he knew he would likely never see again—this was what Syria had become, a land of permanent goodbyes.

  • • •

  As the car drove down the street, Tareq surveyed the destroyed and dilapidated buildings along the way. What was once considered strong, indestructible construction now looked like a city made of the thinnest cardboard, crumbled by the hands of the devil himself. Tareq shut his eyes and leaned his forehead on the cool glass, unaware of the blood that dripped down his scalp. The physical pain was numbed by the enormous emptiness in his soul.

  The middle-aged driver didn’t know how to console the teen, so he too stayed silent. When they pulled up to the hospital, Tareq stepped out of the car, strengthened only by the hope of finding someone, anyone from his family who was still alive.

  “Yislamu,” he muttered to the stranger who had brought him there, thanking him, before shutting the car door.

  The tears and screams inside the emergency room echoed the sounds from his bombed-out home, but now were contained in what felt like a powder keg of emotions waiting to explode and tear the hospital apart. The stench was more concentrated. The tang of blood and death was everywhere. There was no escaping the sour odor inside the hospital doors.

  A doctor ran over to Tareq, eyeing the blood that trailed down the side of his face. “Come with me!” she demanded, grabbing an arm and pulling him to a room full of other patients, none of whom were critical. Pushing him down onto a plastic chair, she pulled over a tray on wheels. As she dabbed liquids from her bottles and searched his head, her panic steadied. “You’re going to be fine.” She took a breath. “I just need to bandage up your head and you can rejoin your family.” She instantly regretted her words as the young man’s eyes began to well.

  “I’m here to find my family,” he whispered. The compassion in the woman’s face made it hard for him to keep his emotions at bay. Evading her tender gaze made it easier. She began to wrap a bandage around his head. “My youngest sister and brothers, they may have been brought here.” His lips quivered and voice trembled while he fixated his eyes on the blue wall. “We couldn’t find them. Al Defa’a al Madani told me to come here.”

  “Can you describe what they look like?” she asked, using surgical scissors to cut the gauze.

  “Salim is thirteen, Susan is four and the twins are almost six months. Here, I have pictures.” He pulled out the old cell phone his father had given him last year. It wasn’t as fancy as the ones some of his friends owned, but it had all the features he wanted, including a camera. The doctor continued to wrap, tuck and bandage as Tareq scanned his photos. He felt guilt and pain as he swiped past the lively, smiling faces of his mother, grandmother and Farrah.

  He quickly found a family picture of everyone together, longing for the day it was taken. An afternoon when they’d wanted to go to the park but thought it was too dangerous to leave the apartment. Instead, they had settled for a barbecue on the balcony and laid out a blanket on the living room floor. Eating off the plates set on the ground, with the TV off, just enjoying their time together.

  “I haven’t seen him”—the doctor pointed at Salim—“but I have seen her and them.” She looked at Tareq, who was unable to read her expression.

  “Can you take me to them?” he asked, excited to see his siblings. All he wanted at that moment was to kiss and hug them. They needed one another more than ever.

  “She’s being treated right now, but she will be fine, I promise.”

  His eyes widened, elated by those words. Susan was going to be okay. Suddenly the emptiness he had been feeling started to fill.

  “I will take you to your brothers,” the doctor said, this time not sharing any more information.

  Tareq followed her down a busy corridor that got quieter as they continued to the end, abandoning the mayhem. The stillness sent a chill up his spine. He suddenly longed to hear the wails of a baby. A sound he spent so many hours of his life rocking and cuddling to stop. They paused outside a light blue door. She put her hand on his back and said, “I’m very sorry,” before walking away.

  • • •

  Tareq stared at the bodies of his baby brothers. His eyes were as lifeless as their small bodies, which lay on a shared hospital trolley. Ameer wore the white booties their grandmother had knitted for him, and Sameer the yellow. Their pacifiers were still attached to their striped blue-and-white onesies—orange for Sameer and green for Ameer.

  Tareq continued to look intently at his brothers, hoping to see their tummies move up and down, like they used to when they would sleep peacefully. He stayed motionless, listening to the clicks of the clock above, losing track of how long he had stood there staring. He didn’t know what else to do. His job was to protect them. He was their big brother. He was the one who’d changed their diapers every morning when they woke up. He was the one who’d given them their bottles. He was the one who would dress them, attach their bibs and clip on their pacifiers—orange for Sameer and green for Ameer.

  Tareq finally found the courage to move closer. He glided his fingers through Sameer’s dark wavy hair and grabbed ahold of Ameer’s pudgy hand. It was then that he noticed a spot of blood inside Ameer’s nostril. The doctors must have missed it when wiping his sweet face. That one tiny stain was the proof that Tareq did not want to see. His brothers were dead. That blood made it feel instantly real.

  “I’m so sorry! Please forgive me!” He began to sob, pressing his face into the unmoving bodies of his little baby brothers. “I’m so sorry!” He struggled to breathe through his wails.

  He begged f
or the forgiveness of his youngest siblings, who wouldn’t have been able to answer him even if they were alive. He begged for the forgiveness of his mother, grandmother, and sister Farrah, whose bodies were still lying on the ground, cold and alone. He begged for the forgiveness of God, believing he must have done something to deserve this suffering, to deserve this emptiness.

  Tareq felt a hand on his shoulder, jolting him back into the dark and desolate hospital room. He turned to find his father, who immediately held him tight.

  “Baba, I’m sorry, I couldn’t save them!” Tareq continued to cry.

  “Shhhh . . .” Fayed said, choking back tears as he firmly held his eldest son while staring at his youngest.

  CHAPTER 4

  They didn’t find Salim’s body. That often happens in war. Families are forced to suffer not only loss, but also the bleak existence of living with dark hope. These are the people I meet with broken souls, tired hearts and lost minds, clinging to the fantasy that their loved one is living in a dreamed existence. They know, at least deep down, that this is not the truth, but they dream it anyway, because to fool the mind helps fool the heart. And to fool the heart is what they think they need to survive. In reality, it’s more like being addicted to a drug that controls your every breath and thought. It doesn’t allow them the freedom to be happy, because no matter what, the darkness will always shadow the dream.

  This black cloud positioned itself in the back of Tareq’s mind as, days later, they sped down the highway. His thoughts raced. What if Salim was able to get out? The chaos would have made it easy for him to go unnoticed. Maybe he was too dazed. Maybe he has amnesia like they do in the movies when someone has head trauma.

  “Baba, we need to go back and find Salim!” he blurted out.