A Land of Permanent Goodbyes Page 4

  “Okay, we are pulling up. Just let me do the talking,” Fayed said, eyeing his children in the rearview mirror.

  He slowed the car down upon reaching a group of men. But as they got closer, Tareq noticed that they weren’t actually adults, nor did they resemble the seasoned fighters he’d seen on the Internet. Some looked younger than him, sporting flimsy whiskers like his own.

  “Salaam alaykum,” his father said, giving the proper religious greeting as one of the teens approached the car.

  “Walaykum asalaam,” responded the fighter. Tareq immediately noticed the weapon hanging off his lanky shoulder. “Where are you headed?”

  “Raqqa, to visit my family,” his father said, handing him his identification.

  “Why is your beard so short?” The fighter spat on the ground. “You are an old man, it should be this long.” He pointed to his chest.

  “I haven’t been blessed with beautiful hair.” His father cracked a joke in hopes of easing the tension.

  It didn’t work.

  “You are a kafer, shame on you!” The other boys came closer to the car, holding their weapons tight. The brown-haired boy leaned his head closer, gazing through the window. “And look at your trousers! Have you no shame? The law of God is to wear them ten centimeters above your ankle.” His voice cracked.

  “I’m sorry.” Fayed wanted to tell them that the Quran doesn’t use a metric system and that they were being foolish little boys. But instead, he put his head down, unable to argue through the indignity of his circumstances. They had the power in this situation.

  “And your daughter,” the kid added. “What is that on her head? Put a blanket on her. A proper man would not expose his female kin this way. You disgusting kafer! God is always watching.” He pointed to the sky.

  “We didn’t have the proper shops where we came from.” Fayed made an excuse, ignoring Susan’s whimpers. “Shukran. We appreciate you sharing your vast knowledge,” he said nervously as Tareq looked down, holding in the hatred boiling up inside him.

  The sweet words hit the belligerent boy’s teeth as he shared a sadistic smile with his soft-skinned comrades.

  “Massalame.” He waved them off with drunken power. “Go!”

  “Peace be with you too,” Fayed said. He quickly pressed his foot on the accelerator, not wanting the aggressive teen to change his mind.

  They suffered through two more groups of brainwashed Syrian children who’d begun manning these stops as the experienced fighters were sent to the front lines. Tareq felt shock and outrage with each encounter. He wanted to defend his father but knew that one misstep or wrong word could cost them greatly.

  Their mobile phones were checked at the second. Thankfully, Tareq had known to delete their music and photos, taking away further ammunition to be called heretics. Although he’d saved the pictures online, it felt like a betrayal of his dead loved ones as one by one he erased their images from his phone—the one object that never left his side.

  Fayed sped off after every stop. He knew the longer they stayed, the bigger the gamble that an American jet might drop a missile targeting Daesh but also killing anyone in its wake. Although the American missiles were sometimes considered more precise in comparison to the Russian and Syrian militaries’ indiscriminate bombs, they were still known to kill many innocent families too. Truth is, bombs may hit their specific targets, but for an innocent life standing nearby, its so-called precision is meaningless.

  Tareq, Fayed and Susan finally made it to Raqqa before the sun had set. Tareq’s father encouraged his son and daughter to try to take a nap even though they were not far from his brother’s home. He didn’t want his children to accidentally see anything he would find difficult to explain. He had heard too many stories and seen too many clips on YouTube of Daesh’s rule in Raqqa and beyond.

  And as they pulled into one of the main roundabouts, his fears were substantiated. Tareq was grateful his sister was still under her blanket playing with her doll, pretending it was a tent, unaware of the sight that made their father gasp and had Tareq choking on the bile in his throat.

  The sticks were buried firmly in the ground, as the human heads were planted on top of the spikes.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Baba . . .” Tareq said.

  “Habibi, turn your head,” Fayed ordered his son. “Keep an eye on your sister.” But Tareq couldn’t move. His eyes were glued to the image of the three human heads on metal spikes, bloated from the sun, eyes still open but lifeless.

  “What’s happening?” Susan asked, popping out of her covering.

  “Nothing!” both Tareq and Fayed blurted out.

  Fayed pushed his foot on the accelerator—just enough to speed past the roundabout without garnering unwanted attention from outside elements. Susan’s small voice was the jolt that Tareq needed to detach from the barbaric display and focus on protecting her from witnessing what he would never unsee.

  “What were you saying to Farrah?” Tareq asked.

  “I was telling her that we’re leaving Syria.” Susan looked at her doll. “And she’s coming with us. Everyone’s coming. Because they’re all here,” she said, tapping her chest in the exact spot her father had told her their family would forever remain. “But I’m telling her that we must say bye to Ammo, Khale and Musa first.”

  “Yes, but remember, we tell everyone else who we meet that we are not leaving our country. And that’s technically not a lie because we’ll be back.”

  “Then why can’t we say it?” Susan raised her right eyebrow, perplexed. Yet another feature she shared with their mother.

  “Because not everyone will understand.” Tareq’s words sounded as tired as his sunken eyes looked.

  “Why? We go. We come back. It’s easy to understand.” Susan rolled her eyes, making her brother crack a half smile.

  “You’re right. But for me, will you just keep this information between us?”

  “Uff . . . okay,” she puffed. Tareq kissed his baby sister on the forehead, releasing a spate of giggles from her tiny mouth. She pushed him off and started to whisper in her doll’s ear using the made-up language she had shared with her older sister.

  Tareq reverted his attention to a city he no longer recognized. The streets looked lifeless compared to what he remembered from his last trip to visit his uncle. He saw two men and noticed their long beards and the Kalashnikov rifles hanging off their shoulders. Members of Daesh, the reason the streets were void of color and life. They don’t look Syrian, he thought.

  Growing up, he used to come to Raqqa a few times a year. He loved visiting his family there. Taking trips to the river with barbecues by the water, baking in the hot sun and jumping into the Euphrates to cool off. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the pebbles and rocks beneath his feet and the green water lined with trees; he could still feel the sun on his chest when he concentrated hard enough.

  Tareq remembered a simple city that was full of energy. But now he saw the same signs of damage that befell his hometown. Bombed-out buildings and the smell of war. It’s an odor that has changed little through the ages—a recipe of dust, death, destruction and despair. It’s a stench that sticks in the noses of those who’ve inhaled the vile concoction, and it never leaves—always finding a way to return in a dream, a memory or even in a time of joy, when it manages to slip forward and harass you, a painful reminder of the moments—the parts of your soul—that were stolen and replaced with anguish.

  The sun continued to set as they pulled into the street where Tareq’s uncle’s house was, tinting parts of the sky into a deceivingly peaceful pink hue. Uncle Waleed ran out to greet them before telling them to quickly move their car inside the property, at every instant looking around to see if anyone was watching.

  He opened the rusting metal gate and rapidly waved them in as his eyes swept the road. When the car was in, he slammed the gate behind them.


  CHAPTER 6

  “Did you sleep well?” Aunt Nada asked the next morning. Her eyes were warm and her presence comforting.

  “Yes, shukran.” Tareq forced a smile out of politeness, but the action felt unnatural. He knew his mother would want him to put on a brave face for their family, especially for his aunt. He wanted to tell her about his vivid nightmares and why the dark circles around his eyes wouldn’t disappear. It’s difficult to rest when every night you are stuck in the rubble again, but this time it’s not your body trapped under the kitchen wall, it’s that of your younger brother. Your dead brother Salim.

  Instead, he quietly watched his aunt pour water into a metal saucepan. She added coffee grounds and stirred it over the stovetop, waiting for a full boil. When the bubbles raced, she moved the small handheld pot off and on the flames, three times, letting the foam build up and then die down before pouring the hot coffee into tiny ceramic cups.

  “Here you go, ibni.” She handed him a mug. The smell of cardamom and coffee started to relax Tareq’s mind, which still couldn’t shake the image of the severed heads from the roundabout—an image that would forever be tattooed on his brain.

  She pulled a chair next to him. “You know I loved your mother so much.” Nada had been waiting to speak with Tareq alone.

  “She loved you too,” he said. His mother had truly cared for his aunt. They were brought together by marriage, not by blood, but they were as close as true sisters. They even called her khale instead of mart’ammo, which was expected for an uncle’s wife. The sound of the laughter between the two was one that he could still hear in his head. Squeals that would stop people in the street, curious to see what was going on. Sometimes the strangers would give them raised eyebrows and disapproving glances. Which would only set them off again.

  A sandstorm of more memories began flying around Tareq’s mind, clouding his aunt’s words. Memories that would fade in time but for the moment were ever present. His favorites occurred in the yard outside. Tareq and his cousin, Musa, would kick the soccer ball around, pretending they were playing in the World Cup. The laundry basket made the perfect goal. There would always be a baby or a toddler nearby. His mother and aunt would drink coffee and shriek with laughter in the background. After the boys built up a sweat, the mothers would replenish them with lemonade, halawe’ tahine sandwiches and an overwhelming amount of kisses.

  The image lunged at Tareq’s heart. He would give anything to hear his mama’s chuckles again, the music of her laughter. He felt guilty for even thinking about why his mother was gone but Musa still had his—but it was there, with all the other thoughts he tried to shake out of his head.

  “Are you okay?” his aunt asked, breaking through his trance. That’s when he noticed he was actually jiggling his head again. Trying, like he had before, to get the bad thoughts out.

  “Yes, sorry, I’m fine.” His cheeks flushed.

  “You will always be like a son to me too,” she carried on. “God only gave me the ability to have one child, and I will always be grateful for that gift. But you and your brothers and sisters—I felt you were my other children.” Her voice cracked. “Children I wasn’t able to have, but my sister did.”

  “Shukran,” he thanked her.

  “She was my sister. And you are my son.”

  “Yes, shukran.” He tried to smile but couldn’t. He had no doubt that his aunt meant well. But he also knew that no one could take the place of a mother. His aunt recognized this too and couldn’t help but feel for Tareq. He was only a year younger than her own son. She saw him grow from a baby to a young man. And now he seemed like the small boy again who would ask for a gentle kiss when he skinned his knee.

  In my experience through the millennia, every man, no matter the age, becomes a boy again when his mother dies. He can have gray hair and withering bones, but his heart will always be of that child who longs for the caress and touch only a mother can give.

  Musa slammed into the room with his wild energy. The short and stout boy had grown to be a tall and skinny man in the few years since he and Tareq had last seen each other. Tareq realized his aunt looked thinner too—her cheeks gaunt and nose pointy. The last several years of war had visibly affected them as it had affected all of Syria. Food was scarce, and the supplies you could find in the markets had drastically risen in price—even in places like Raqqa, once considered one of the breadbaskets of the country.

  “Man, this house feels better with you in it.” Musa hit his cousin on the back. “I feel like we’re cut off from the whole world, and now a piece of it has returned. At least for a little while.”

  “The world has more than forgotten us, Musa,” Tareq muttered.

  Musa furrowed his brows, holding back his usual jokes, aware his cousin was hurting. Instead, he grabbed the hot cup of coffee his mother had just poured for him.

  “Ibni, if you are going out for a shop today, can you get me some hair color?” Tareq’s aunt looked at her son. She instinctively pointed to her roots, which had white lines sprouting through like weeds.

  “Yes, of course, Mama. Usual color, or can we get a bright red one this time?” Musa smirked.

  “Uuf! This boy! My regular color!” She pretended to be annoyed as she went to grab some biscuits from the cabinet.

  “Tareq, you want to come with?” Musa asked. “I can show you how much this place has changed. It’s really depressing.”

  “What’s not these days?” Tareq’s uncle came into the room with Fayed, immediately eyeing the pot on the table. “Ah, coffee! Perfect timing!”

  “Musa, please don’t drive around too much,” Tareq’s aunt pleaded. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I agree with my brother’s wife.” Tareq’s father greeted his sister-in-law with a gracious nod before putting a hand on Tareq’s shoulder. “How did you sleep, omri?”

  “Fine,” Tareq lied. “You?”

  “Same,” said Fayed. The dark circles around his eyes showed Tareq that he was being untruthful as well. “Your uncle and I are working on a few things today to help with our trip out. Will you be okay here?”

  “Actually, Ammo, I was hoping that Tareq could go for a shop with me. If that’s okay?” asked Musa.

  “I don’t think I feel comfortable with that,” Fayed responded.

  “Let him go!” Tareq’s uncle chimed in. “He’ll be fine. With the proper clothes, no one will bother him. Besides, the boy is invincible, Fayed. A building fell on him, and he barely has a scratch to show for it.”

  “Waleed!” his aunt yelled as the rest of the room stared, horrified by his uncle’s brash statement.

  “What?” Uncle Waleed looked around. “Are we going to just pretend nothing happened and ignore it all?”

  “No, but . . .” Aunt Nada stopped herself. She looked as broken and lost as Tareq felt. The pity in her eyes upset him even more. He knew he couldn’t stay in the house and deal with those sympathetic stares all day. It would drive him crazy.

  “It’s fine. Uncle Waleed is right. The worst has happened to me.” Tareq avoided everyone’s glances, afraid the compassion would burst his emotions into a puddle of tears. “I want to go out with Musa. As long as Aunt Nada is okay with taking care of Susan.”

  “Yes, of course.” His aunt gave in. She couldn’t say no to Tareq right now; her heart wouldn’t let her.

  “Okay, great, that settles it.” Tareq looked at his father, ignoring his rightfully concerned frown.

  CHAPTER 7

  “I’m glad you came,” Musa said. His hands gripped the steering wheel. “Truth is, I don’t like leaving the house by myself. As much as I hate being stuck in that place all day.”

  “Do you get scared when you leave?” Tareq asked.

  “It’s not that.” Musa nudged the accelerator, making the car speed up slightly. “I just feel like I have more freedom inside than I do out here. Everyo
ne’s watching us now.”

  “It’s so different. It all looks dead.” Tareq scanned his desolate surroundings. Abandoned homes. Closed shops. An absence of women. “It’s like an alternate universe.”

  “It is dead. This is the city of the walking dead. Even in the areas that still have people in them—they’re not living, they’re just surviving,” Musa said. He scratched his scruffy face. “It feels like our whole country is living in an alternate reality. You’ve got Russia, Assad and even America in the air, and Daesh, the Free Syrian Army and militias on the ground.”

  “Syria is gone,” Tareq said with glazed eyes.

  “Well, it’s not the same Syria, that’s for sure. Welcome to the caliphate.” Musa turned the steering wheel. “The people who run this place are not Syrians. This land no longer belongs to our people.” He glanced at the rearview mirror. “I wish my father would take us away too. But he believes the war will end soon; he’s thought that for years.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s afraid if we leave, someone will take over our home.”

  “Would they do that?”

  “I mean, when other families have left, they’ve spray-painted on the houses, claiming the Syrians who lived in them were American spies. So the homes become a free-for-all.” Musa raised his right eyebrow. “Really, it’s their way of stealing the best property. And if the family comes back . . .” He lifted a finger and slid it across his throat.

  Tareq shifted in his seat. “Have you told your father that you want to leave?”

  “No, because he never would. And I wouldn’t go without him . . . Look.” Musa tilted his chin toward a man walking on the side of the road. His thick black beard fell to the chest, and a rifle hung off his right shoulder. He was wearing white clothes with a black vest, skullcap and sandals. He looked just like the men Tareq had seen yesterday as they were driving in.