A Land of Permanent Goodbyes Page 6

  “I don’t know.” His eyes weakened. “I really don’t know. They replay in my dreams at night. Like a Daesh screen in my mind.” He tapped his head. “I went to school with a boy, he was a few years older than me. He came from a good family. He joined a group of citizen journalists, exposing the horrors of our lives for the world to see. He was caught.” Musa’s voice broke. “They stabbed him in the heart, shot him and cut his head off. Over and over, it played. What kinds of monsters do this?” Tareq watched as another tear formed in his cousin’s right eye.

  “Allah yerhamo,” said Tareq.

  “Yes, may God have mercy on all these innocent souls lost.”

  • • •

  As Musa pulled into his neighborhood, he glanced at his rearview mirror. “Dammit!” he barked.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Shit, shit, shit!” Musa continued. “I’m so stupid!”

  “What? What’s going on?” Tareq asked, now scared.

  “I was so lost in my thoughts that I wasn’t paying attention.” He looked ahead. “Use the mirror,” Musa instructed as he pointed a finger up, “and carefully look behind us.”

  Without moving his head, Tareq saw a white pickup truck behind them. The two men in the cab of the vehicle had their eyes on the cousins. “What’s going on?” He recognized the man in the passenger seat. He had seen him at the square.

  “They’re following us.” Musa turned onto another street, and the truck wheeled after them. “Shit!” He pulled into a spot by his home. “Look, we’ll get out of the car and go into the house. Whatever you do, don’t look at them as you walk.” He grabbed the bags from the backseat and opened his door. Tareq kept his head down and followed his cousin’s motions. Both boys closed their doors at the same time. Tareq shifted his gaze to the house. And they kept their eyes on the door as they walked.

  Tareq could feel the men’s glares burning his back as he approached the entrance to the courtyard. Musa creaked open the heavy metal door and quickly slammed it shut once they were in. No longer in view, they ran into the house.

  “Merhaba!” Tareq’s aunt greeted them before quickly registering the looks on their faces. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, don’t worry, Mama,” said Musa.

  “Musa . . . ?” She looked at her son with concern. “Waleed!” she called. Not long after, Tareq’s uncle and father entered the room.

  “Yes, my queen!” Tareq’s uncle said. With one look at his wife’s face, his mood changed. “What’s going on?” He turned to his son. Musa tilted his head down and kneaded the back of his neck. “I said, what is going on?”

  “There are some men outside,” Musa finally responded. Chilling words, even before the war. “I think they followed us from Naim Square.”

  “You were where?” Tareq’s father turned his eyes to his son, who shifted his head uncomfortably while nodding. He wasn’t in the mood for chastisement, but neither was his father, who ran over and embraced the only son he had left.

  “Baba?” Susan’s small voice broke into the room. She was clutching her little doll.

  “Binti, let’s go watch some cartoons,” Tareq’s aunt said. She looked up at the men with distressed eyes. Her husband bobbed his head. A private language both husband and wife understood. Nada would keep Susan away from this, walking her to her own bedroom to watch television. “I bet there’s a channel showing Tom and Jerry. Do you want to watch it from our bed?”

  “Yes!” Susan screamed in delight. “Can Farrah watch too?” She lifted her doll as high as she could.

  “Yes, of course, habibti.” Aunt Nada kissed the top of her curls.

  The men put on a smile and waited with feigned patience for them to leave. But as soon as they heard the door click shut, the conversation continued.

  “I recognized one of them from the square,” Tareq said.

  “Shit!” Musa blurted out.

  “Stop!” his father ordered. “We will deal with this, but no profanity. If they hear you, they can punish you with forty lashes.”

  Tareq’s eyes widened at the thought. Forty lashes for cursing?

  Before they could discuss any more, they heard the doorbell ring.

  “You three stay here,” Tareq’s uncle said. “I will take care of this.” The other three nodded in agreement.

  • • •

  Time went by slowly for the three men waiting.

  “What do you think they’re talking about?” Fayed asked Musa. Tareq could see the fear in his father’s eyes.

  “Truthfully? All I can think, Uncle, is the cubs of Daesh,” Musa answered. The dread in Fayed’s eyes built. “I mean, I think we’re too old for it. But you never know with these guys.”

  “What’s that?” Tareq asked. Both boys avoided looking at Fayed when they noticed the tears building in his eyes, giving him a semblance of privacy and dignity.

  “Daesh has camps, training camps, for children,” Musa said. “Indoctrinating them. Teaching them how to use weapons. But really it’s a month or so of brainwashing. I’ve heard of some kids coming out and executing their own parents for not following their rules.”

  “Impossible!” Tareq said, horrified.

  “Wallahi, it was in the news and our neighbor witnessed one,” Musa continued. “They said the mother tried talking her son into escaping Raqqa together because she wanted to save him from the war. Instead, he turned her in and was the one who executed her in front of a crowd.”

  “Ya Allah.” Tareq dropped his gaze as they all fell silent again.

  They heard the handle squeak and the door creak open. The men stopped breathing as Tareq’s uncle stepped in. He was alone. They let out the air they had trapped in their lungs.

  “Everything is fine for now,” he said, rubbing the beads of sweat off his forehead. “But we need to be ahead of them.” He was met with blank stares. Uncle Waleed shifted his attention to Tareq and Fayed. “You guys have to leave sooner than planned. The money we got out today will have to be enough. It should get you to Turkey.” He then turned to his son and put a hand on his shoulder. “And you will go with them.”

  “No!” Musa yelled. “I’m not leaving you and Mama. I’m your only son, your only child. I can’t leave you.”

  “Hayati.” Uncle Waleed’s voice was soft and eyes were gentle. “There is no choice. When the war is over, you will come back. Or, if it comes to it, we will join you later. Either way, we will reunite.”

  • • •

  But they all knew that might not be possible. And the truth is, I know so many families who have said the same with only sadness to meet them when I did.

  This family was no different.

  CHAPTER 10

  The invisible lines in your world hold so much power.

  Your eyes do not see them, but whether you live or die can depend on which side you stand on. The trajectory of your life is conditional.

  On one side of the line, fighter jets rip through the sky, releasing cluster bombs, lighting up entire neighborhoods and painting the streets with the blood of limp corpses lying in the rubble. Hearts shudder with fear at every breath, in every minute of every day. Awake or asleep, you live with terror.

  On the other side, the only danger from the sky is the storm that rolls in, shooting lightning through the clouds, or from the birds that flap their wings, dropping their lunch on an unsuspecting street merchant. Children go to school kicking rocks while filling the air with the music of their laughter. There are still problems, but your chances of survival outweigh a premature demise.

  Your borders were devised by man. A rain cloud or even a bird does not recognize the barriers created by the human mind. Neither does a gazelle or an ant. The tremors on your planet didn’t cut up your land the way mankind has.

  As desperate Syrians fled their homes and stepped over those artificial lines in search of light, they watched as others walked into the darkness, continuing to fuel the flames of disorder. Like in other war-torn countries, foreign elements destroyed their homes and their homeland even further.

  There was initial relief when they first crossed those invisible lines. But the hardships did not end. Days turned to months, every moment a struggle filled with uncertainty. It included regret for leaving. And anguish for not departing sooner. There were days without food and months lacking proper shelter. Although it was a battle to survive in their new homes, I continued to see worse in the cities they’d left behind.

  They are called the “lucky” ones. But in these situations, no one is truly lucky. Luck has abandoned them, sometimes never to return.

  Neighboring countries like Turkey, Jordan and Lebanon have borne the brunt of the refugees who have left Syria. They’ve taken in the millions who flooded their borders, completely altering their populations. But it hasn’t always been a generous welcome. Nor do those who arrive all want to stay. Most would like to eventually go back to their homes once things settle, like many refugees throughout history. They don’t realize that they likely will never have a true home again. Doomed never to be a part of their new world and forever ripped from their old.

  A once proud people, many Syrians have been forced to endure lives of squalor and indignity. Some forced into prostitution, others used as slave labor.

  The tourist spots of Istanbul are now filled with children selling tissues to help feed their families. Old, frail women who should be sitting in their kitchens having tea, like Tareq’s grandmother used to, now spend seventeen-hour days on the streets of Beirut begging for alms. And fathers can be found giving away their young daughters in marriage, far earlier than they should, at Jordan’s Zaatari refugee camp, because it makes it easier to feed the rest of their family.

  There are the richer refugees who are able to afford their new lives in new places, able to start businesses and buy new houses. But they, too, don’t feel as if they truly belong.

  When you are a refugee, everyone has lost, at least for the time being.

  It’s usually just the wicked who benefit from the misery of millions.

  And the journey beyond those invisible lines can become just as heinous as living inside the fire.

  CHAPTER 11

  Taken just two days apart, the trip to leave Raqqa was as heart-pounding as the one to enter. But Tareq and his family were lucky. They left mere weeks before Daesh closed off the city, after which the only way to leave would have been through smugglers.

  Musa’s neighbors sent their two older daughters, Shams and Asil, with Fayed. Their parents were afraid that Daesh would try to marry the attractive sisters to fighters. To save them, they said goodbye. “We will meet again,” their parents said through tears. Those words would become another broken promise.

  Having the young women along worked well for Fayed and his family. Traveling with women made the checkpoints somewhat easier—especially when the girls gave their brother’s ID to Musa, making him their chaperone. Fewer questions, less harassment.

  They decided the safest bet was to go through the Aleppo countryside. A trip that used to take two and a half hours would now take them twenty-four, passing eight checkpoints along the way. Fayed left his car with his brother, and they instead shared a beat-up white minibus carrying other passengers.

  “What happened there?” Asil asked the driver as they passed the charred skeleton of a similar vehicle.

  “A mortar shell,” he answered, unblinking and unfazed.

  “Who was in it?” Her voice began to shake.

  “People who were trying to go to the border.” The driver looked at her through the rearview mirror. “Passengers like you, with a driver like me, and a talisman like this.” He tapped his hand on the holy verses hanging from his mirror before pulling out a cigarette from his front pocket. “Most of them are dead.” He shook his balding head. “They feared a death at home; instead, they died searching for life.”

  Following those words, one of the passengers decided to get off the bus at the next town and find his way back home. “If my fate is to die, I will die in my own house with my family,” he said.

  Their hearts raced at every checkpoint.

  The government ones were the hardest for Fayed. Despite passing areas of conflict and shelling, his chest would thump the loudest when he thought about their money being taken again. It’s all he had to take care of his children and Musa until he could find work.

  Little relief came when they reached the border. Hundreds of people were there, also trying to cross. Many had longer and more difficult journeys, spending nights in stables, in fields and inside dilapidated factories—wherever their smugglers would take them. But they all arrived exhausted. And now it was a waiting game to see if the Turks would let them in.

  Syrians have cumulatively spent millions of hours at crossings like these. Forced to endure the elements—the blazing sun, relentless rain or blistering cold. Waiting, only to wait even more. If it wasn’t the weather, it was the fear of not being allowed through—and the wrong customs agent could cost you your freedom and possibly your life. Racial and religious profiling intensifies in wartime, and this war was no exception.

  Tareq attempted to ignore the faces around him. They upset him. Every face had a story, a family, a struggle. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the landscape. Soaking in Syria one last time. He whispered his goodbyes to the vegetation, the red dirt and the olive groves that surrounded them.

  Their wait was only three hours because they had their passports. Far shorter than the days it could take the others who’d left their IDs behind.

  They just missed the bus to the Turkish side of the crossing, so they took the mile-long trek by foot. A silent walk with other families carrying bags, belongings and regrets.

  With each step, Tareq knew this was another permanent goodbye. No matter how he tried to deny it. There was no coming back. He thought of the country, the cities and the people he was leaving as he walked between the fences that held signs warning of land mines. He thought of his family, forever a part of Syria’s land where they were laid to rest. What kind of person abandons his family? he thought as he looked at the wires lining the top of the concrete walls. And as a droplet of sweat trickled down his eyebrow and into his eye, he suddenly saw a misty vision of Salim standing beside him. The little brother he was abandoning.

  “I don’t want to leave you,” Tareq said to his brother’s visage, glancing around to see if anyone else could see him. But he knew he was alone. This was all in his head.

  “You have to. Think of Susan. You couldn’t save us, but you have to try and save her . . . and Baba. They need you more than I do.”

  “But . . . I don’t want to leave our family,” Tareq whispered, not wanting to look crazy to those around him but also grateful for the hallucination.

  “You mean our dead family? What can you do for the dead?” Salim raised his brow.

  “I’d rather be near them.” A tear fell from Tareq’s eye. “I’d rather die near them.”

  “This isn’t your time to die.” Salim rolled his eyes. “Always trying to take what I got.” He smirked before looking at his big brother. “I will take care of them. But you take care of our father and sister. Promise me.”

  “But . . .”

  “Promise me.” Salim’s hazel eyes glistened through the hazy apparition.

  “I promise.”

  It was a promise Tareq intended to keep. If the world allowed him to.

  Salim’s smiling mirage disappeared just as they approached another building, one bearing the pockmarks of AK-47 and DShK fire. The duty-free stores lay abandoned with pictures of Syria’s past luxuries for travelers—perfume, candy and alcohol. Nonessentials to today’s traveler. All the shops contained now were shattered glass and a broken past.

  Dozens of little boys ran toward them with wheelbarrows and pull carts. They were persistent and pushy, competing for two or three liras to take back to their starving families.

  When they passed the third and final check, Tareq and his family took a deep breath despite the insolent treatment from the Turkish officers. Walking forward, they saw a line of yellow taxis ahead. Anxious families were waiting for their loved ones to arrive, some desperately approaching arrivals and asking if they’d seen their relative make it through customs. Syrian money changers chanted out offers of Turkish liras for the Syrian pound. Others offered Turkish SIM cards for their phones. And not far from where they were standing, they could see Turkish armored vehicles on patrol looking for Syrians trying to cross the border illegally.

  They had made it. They were in Turkey. Legally. Tareq couldn’t believe that the steps it took to make it past this crossing were all that was needed to escape warfare.

  But relief was short-lived, and they had to say goodbye again. This time to each other.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Are you and Susan okay?” Tareq asked his father, his ear pressed against the telephone. It had been nearly four months since he saw them last.

  “Yes, ibni, don’t worry about us. It’s my job to worry about you.” Fayed sounded distant. Tareq hoped it was due to the connection. “How are you and Musa doing?”

  “We’re fine,” Tareq lied. Before the war, he had never deceived his parents, and lately he felt that was all he was doing with the one he had left. “We have a nice place to stay and have made good friends.” He tried to change the subject. “Have you heard from Shams and Asil?”

  “Not since they found their aunt and uncle,” Fayed said. “I’m sure they are fine. How about food, are you getting enough to eat?”

  “Yes.” Tareq’s stomach pinched. He had no idea when he had last eaten. “Baba, I should go. Musa needs to call his parents.” Another lie. “But please kiss Susan for me. I hope we can meet soon.”