" Bye Zeniah Bye"

Untitled Part 1

"Bye, Zeniah. Bye."

It had been almost a fortnight since the shelling began. Except for brief lulls, the bombardment was relentless.

Zeniah had never been exposed to anything like this before. At first, it was almost exciting, like something out of a movie. From her window in Aleppo, which offered a broad view of the distant city, she watched fireballs descend and explode in vibrant orange bursts. She didn't yet understand the brutality of it, the blood, the limbs lost, the families obliterated. It seemed so far away, unreal—just like the wars on television.

The raw truth hit her one morning when Dad came into her room, his face pale and grave. He knelt beside her bed, his voice strained. "Ameera," he said, using her nickname, meaning princess in Arabic, "you can't go to school today. A missile hit your school. It's gone. There were teachers inside when it happened..."

Her head spun. Farnaz—her favorite teacher. Was she among the dead? The realization tore through her: this wasn't a game or a movie. This was war. Real war, and it had shattered her world.

The city she loved was crumbling. Aleppo, once filled with narrow lanes where she and her friends played during endless summer evenings, was a ghost of itself. She remembered vendors shouting, girls in colorful dresses flirting shyly with boys, families strolling together, businessmen hurrying to strike deals. It was alive—brimming with energy and laughter. Now, the streets were empty, filled only with soldiers, fighters, and the wounded, bleeding into the dust.

The people had changed too. Her father warned her to be careful, to trust no one. Even Hamsha, her best friend, had become a stranger overnight. One evening, during Ramadan, Hamsha came over to break her fast. They climbed to the terrace as the golden sun dipped low, casting a warm glow over the city. They sipped juice, ate dates, and prayed for peace as the call to prayer echoed from the Umayyad Mosque. After she left, Dad pulled her aside, his voice low. "You can't see her anymore, Zeniah."

She stared at him, confused. "But you love Hamsha. We all do."

Dad sighed heavily. "Her family... they support the loyalists. It's too dangerous. The rebels are watching. If they find out..." His words hung in the air like a death sentence. The idea of cutting off her best friend felt impossible. But this was war, and war cared nothing for friendships.

The very next day, a shell screamed past their house, striking Maqbool Uncle's home at the end of the street. The explosion shook their walls, and she felt its fiery heat, far too close. Her heart pounded as she realized how narrowly they had escaped death. Life could be snatched away in seconds.

She rushed to the window and saw chaos. Maqbool Uncle's house was engulfed in flames. Bloodied figures stumbled out, screaming, crying, covered in dust and debris. In the midst of it all, little Ayesha emerged, her tiny body trembling, a deep wound on her forehead gushing blood. She screamed for her father, "Aba! Aba! Where are you?" Her desperate wails pierced the air.

Then, in an instant, there was another explosion. And just like that, Ayesha's cries were silenced forever.

Zeniah's house shook violently. Glass shattered, and for what felt like an eternity, there was only silence. She couldn't hear a thing. Her father rushed in, lifting her in his arms, tears streaming down his face as he carried her to the kitchen. The family huddled together, broken by fear. She gestured wildly to indicate she couldn't hear. Her mother held her close, weeping silently, stroking her forehead.

They made the decision then—the kitchen, located at the back of the house, was the safest place to stay. It was separated from the main structure by a small courtyard, where Zeniah and her friends once lay under the stars, dreaming of their futures. Now, the stars were hidden behind a permanent veil of smoke and destruction.

Her little sister Fatima was shivering. "What do you want, Fatima?" Zeniah asked softly.

"I'm hungry. I haven't had milk for ten days," the little girl whispered.

Zeniah wasn't surprised. Their food supply had been dwindling for weeks. One evening, she overheard her father telling her mother that if the war continued, there would be no food left for anyone. What kind of life was this? Children were being slaughtered, those who survived starved. She couldn't help but think of the stories her Jiddo, her grandfather, used to tell. He'd walk with her on warm May afternoons, recounting the days when Aleppo was prosperous, bustling with life, a jewel on the trade routes. Caravans would pass through, merchants and travelers flocking to the city, drawn to its beauty like bees to flowers.

"Always be proud, Zeniah," he had said one day, standing atop a hill overlooking the city bathed in twilight. "This is your home."

Now, her home was dying.

The only sounds in Aleppo now were the rumble of tanks and the roar of guns. No birds sang. Even the sky seemed too afraid to weep.

But amidst the despair, something astonishing remained: hope. Despite the destruction, people still talked about the future—about what they'd do when the war ended. Zeniah herself dreamed of traveling the world, of seeing the tall buildings in the West that made your neck hurt just to look up at. She imagined laughing with friends, dancing, falling in love.

But there was no love in Aleppo. Only death.

That night, as they prepared for sleep, Zeniah's mother searched the empty tin drums for any scraps of food. She found a lonely cabbage, a few carrots, beans, and a cucumber. It wasn't much, but it was something. They shared a thin vegetable soup. Zeniah refused her portion, knowing her parents were starving themselves to keep her siblings fed.

As they huddled together on the kitchen floor, her father's voice woke her in the dead of night. "Zeniah... my darling..." His voice was barely a whisper, thick with pain.

She followed him into the foyer, where he clasped her hands tightly, avoiding her gaze. His eyes were brimming with torment. "Forgive me," he said, his voice cracking. "But this is the only way..."

For the next five minutes, he told her his plan, breaking down several times, his hands trembling. His choice wasn't a choice at all—either he sacrificed his daughter, or the whole family would perish.

The next morning, Zeniah dressed in her best clothes. She stared at herself in the mirror, seeing the girl she once was slipping away, replaced by someone older, someone who had to be strong. "Let's go, Dad," she said quietly.

They reached the army barracks by noon. Farhan, the grocer, was already there. He had brokered the deal.

A young officer approached, his eyes lingering on Zeniah. He motioned for her to follow. Her father tried to rise, but the officer held up his hand, ordering him to stay.

The realization hit her like a tidal wave. She wasn't coming back. Her father, the man who was supposed to protect her, had sold her to save the rest of the family.

And yet... perhaps he had no choice.

"Bye, Zeniah," her father whispered, his voice hoarse, broken.

The officer led her away, the door closing behind them. A world closing in on her.

That night, the old general came. The deal was simple: her body for her family's safe passage to Damascus.

As she lay violated, Zeniah's mind drifted. Through a small, dirty window, she saw the city in flames. Yet in her heart, she saw the caravans returning to Aleppo. She saw her family smiling.

What a wonderful world.

"Bye, Zeniah. Bye."