It was a crisp autumn morning, 60℉, which was neither hot or cold. It was just right as the fall breeze toyed with the trees. Rehan had just finished her breakfast that comprised of foul mdammas, halawa, laban arabi, and makdous. I sat down beside her on my alkursi alhizaz and placed my lips on her forehead. She grunted in disapproval, but the tension in her face was soon released, acknowledging that I loved her. I slipped on my hospital white hijab and placed my dark hair into a tight ponytail as I got dressed for work. I was a psycho-social care specialist, providing support for children that were traumatized by the civil war. Rehan admired my profession, always saying how one day, she, too, would assume my role in the workforce, aiding all types of people. I rarely praised my beloved daughter for her kindness, for fear that such exalted self esteem would get her into trouble down the road. Many mothers in the village questioned my actions, but I felt that it was necessary. Only now do I see that this was unethical and wish I hadn't taken her magnanimity for granted.
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Syria's War
Short StoryThe aftermath of a child's death leaves a mother grieving and distraught. Short story I wrote for a school assignment inspired by the true account of a mother who saw her daughter blown to pieces in a war-torn country.
