Early during autumn time about 20 years ago, not a single tree was in sight nor could the billowing of the wind be heard. The stillness and depression of the atmosphere hung over the city like a plague. The elderly people in the refugee camp in Damascus, Syria, where we have been living for the past couple of months, love to tell stories about how beautiful the city used to be. I try to stare into the distance and imagine lush greens and flourishing markets, but all I see is masses of bombed-out buildings. I walk past homes reduced to rubble every morning at sunrise and I’m usually able to locate where the blast occurred. Everything is covered is a fine layer of dust. Between buildings, in abandoned lots and on rooftops, I try to pass the time by throwing little pebbles at the walls of destroyed apartment buildings.
“Why is everything so gray around here?,” asks my playful young sister, Amina, as we make our way back to camp to have dinner with mom and dad.
I gaze at her with a gentle smile and say, “Soon we’ll move to a place with lots of color Amina! You’ll see.”
She wraps her arms around me in a warm embrace, and I can feel how thin she is getting. The course of a few traumatic months brought years of age to her physical appearance. Dark circles appeared under her eyes, her shoulders seemed to slump, and she walked around with an alert look in her eyes. Amina did not like to be alone because she would get flashbacks that made tears roll down her pretty blue eyes.
Sometimes, Amina wakes up during the night screaming, and her heart beats so fast that I can practically hear it. The color from her face drains, and she pants like a nervous child because she still has nightmares about the bombs. She can still hear the ringing in her ears. It has become a routine for me to go lay next to her and cradle her in my arms until her soft sobs carry her into a deep sleep once more. No one knows that I get the nightmares too.
As soon as Amina and I get back, we stand in the food line with the 2,000 other people that live in the same severely underfunded refugee camp. The proportions of almost stale bread and cold, flavorless soup are so small that I can usually hear everyone’s stomach growling through the night. Everyone wears old, dirty clothes, and people are always sick. Illnesses spread like wildfire, and all we can ever do is pray because there are no doctors to take care of the dying around here.
“Oh, there you are Abdul! Please wash up and eat your dinner and make sure your sister does too; we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” says my worrisome mother, who seems to have her thoughts all over the place. I nod and take my sister to our usual place: a bed of rocks with a few planks used to form a makeshift table. Sometimes, when it got too dark to see our food, we lit a candle, but that did not help much.
“I’m still hungry, Abdul.”
I grab the remaining half of the bread from my plate and hand it to Amina. I would rather feel the comfort in knowing that my sister will not starve than for both of us to stay hungry. I gaze at her as she picks up and eats each crumb on the plate, ending by licking her fingers to savor every taste of the bit of food she could consume.
“Let’s get you to bed,” I whisper, and lead Amina to the over-crowded area where we spend each and every night.
My mother, Maryam, and my father, Khaled, have been making preparations for the past couple of months for us to leave the refugee camp in Syria and migrate to Italy where we can have a chance at a normal life. Hopefulness fills every beat of my heart when I think about Italy. Everyone there must always be happy; I mean, how could they not? The kids get to go to school and grow up to be whoever they want to be, and there is always tasty food on the table. With the thought of this new life still fresh in my mind, I drift into a heavy sleep and, for once, do not dream about the ground shaking and the walls rattling.
I felt as if I had only just closed my eyes before I feel the firm hands of my father gently shake me awake. I know that it is the middle of the night because the room is pitch black. My father quietly whispers, “It is time to go, Abdul, bring only what you can easily carry.” Anxious and nervous, I rub my eyes and immediately get out of bed.
I tiptoe around the other refugees that sleep on the floor with thin pieces of cloth to cover themselves, careful not to wake anyone. Rummaging through my pile of belongings, I grab my favorite shirt, a small toy car, and some socks. I wonder why we are fleeing during the night, but I do not dare to ask. I make my way out with Amina, and my dad ushers us into a car with some people whom I have never met. Somewhere between the aroma of burned buildings and the stillness in the distance, I come to the conclusion that I may never step foot in this city that is considered “home” ever again.
When I awaken several hours later, I am beyond starving. I feel like I have not eaten anything in days, but we have to save our scarce food supply for the dangerous voyage across the Mediterranean Sea. We board a small fiberglass boat with 13 other people that is manned by two smugglers, who promised to get us to our destination safely. With hardly any room to accommodate this many families, I take my place in a tiny corner behind my mom and Amina.
Exchanging nervous glances with my mom, she assures me that, “Everything will be okay if you have faith in Allah.” Despite the fact that she is extremely scared for all of us, she puts up a strong front to make sure that her kids feel secure. She makes me understand that having faith in what seems hopeful is better than striding through life without any faith at all. I have never met anyone braver than my mother.
The beginning of the extensive journey consists of listening to the calming sounds of the waves and the hushed tones of mothers telling their hungry children not to be scared. I marvel at the beauty of the vast sea and the rich blue color that extends for miles.
Being absorbed in the thoughts of laughter and contentment that I hoped to experience in Italy, I almost do not notice that the boat began to rock back and forth. The current was intensifying, and in that moment, I realize that this boat is old and definitely not sturdy enough to handle any more pressure. A few seconds later the smugglers that were manning the boat jump into the water and begin swimming towards shore. None of the passengers on board knew how to swim. Anger flooded through my body; how could they just leave us here stranded? Thirteen innocent people had left behind everything that they have ever known, and trusted these men with their lives, only to be left unsure if they’ll ever make it to their destination.
Through the corner of my eye I see my dad hastily trying to take charge, but the waves hitting the side of the boat are not making things any more manageable. Panic stricken, I run over and try to help my father. My heart is beating faster than my thoughts are processing. People are drowning left and right, but I keep my focus on making sure that my mom and sister are safe.
“HELP! SOMEBODY HELP US!” I know that my screaming will not reach anyone’s ears because there are no other boats in sight. In fact, there is nothing at all in sight. I do not know where we are at this point.
A huge wave is heading in our direction, so instinctively, I hold on to my mom and sister for dear life, but when I turn around, I can not see my father anywhere. Tears start to roll down my checks. I can not comprehend what is going on. My vision is getting fuzzier by the second, and the churning of the waves make my stomach feel queasy.
“DAD WHERE ARE YOU? SOMEONE PLEASE HELP US! MY MOTHER CAN’T SWIM!” The intense waves start to tear the boat apart. We are going under.
Water starts to fill my lungs, and I think I am dying. My eyes close, and images of my family play through my mind. Oh, how much I love them. I remembered how happy I felt to hear my father’s laughter amidst the desperation of the situation we were in. I remembered how my mom told me and Amina stories before bed when we could not sleep, even though there was a war going on. I remembered the hope that filled each of our souls when we imagined being free. One day Syria will be free.
I do not know how long I am under the water, but someone pulls me out. I quickly regain consciousness and look around on the Turkish rescue boat for my family. I run from end to end, a desperate mess, and I can not stop coughing up water. My arms and legs ache from trying to swim, and my body tells me to just lay down. I do not see my mom, dad, or Amina anywhere, so I ask the man who must have saved my life, “Have you seen my family?”
He kneels down, looks me right in the eyes, and says, “I’m so sorry kid, but you were the only survivor.”
Everything is gray.
