A tattered plastic bag hung from my shoulder as I clambered up the steps to my broken house, lying in the heart of what was the beautiful city of Aleppo, now only reduced to a mere skeleton to what once was. The buildings that had so rightfully earned the name of "skyscrapers" now crumble underneath the woe from its people. I ducked through the open doorway, picking my way through the rubble that I could not even recognize as my own living room. I allowed myself a moment of melancholy for the life I would never go back to. This place previously greeted with laughter and love, now faded into lost dreams and memories, washed over in grey. An old, yellow sofa lie in the corner, tipped to its side. I could faintly recall my dislike of the disgusting mustard-like shade of the cushions, but now I only wished see anything that wasn't covered in the muddled greys of my present world. Slowly, in my daze, I approached the sofa, dragging the tip of my finger across its surface, shedding a layer of the cinder that fell from what was left of the ceiling. Like hopeful, little snowflakes I may not even live to see again. Raising my eyes to the shattered window in front of me, I gaze at the remains of my city, wondering where the blues, and reds, and greens had gone to. Where were they hiding? The pieces of my past? Where did they go? My journey through the shell of my house was a careful trek through the ruins of the kitchen, and the dining room. Broken barriers would allow me an occasional glance to the remains outside, but it was no better there than here. Shady skies clouded and broiled above in shifting waves of dull metal, the dust in the air leaving a bitter taste on my tongue, every breath from the smoke leaving a stinging feeling in my nostrils. I pushed on towards the staircases, just barely intact. The boards creaked underneath my bare feet, one hand grasping the precarious handrail whilst the bag thumped quietly against my thigh. The second floor had almost been demolished from the most recent bombing. My bedroom filled with childhood treasure reduced to scraps and soot. This was my life now. This hollow, monotoned, cracked, depleted excuse for Aleppo was my life now.
I wasn't alone in this, though. Through all of the heartbreak and misery, my mother remained by my side. She did not change, even as our world came tumbling down in pieces. She is still the same woman that made sure I ate first. The same woman that still made me clean the only intact parts of our home, still braided and tucked my hair into my headscarf every morning, still brushed away my tears in the mourning of my father and brothers the way she did when I fell off my bike. The same woman that shielded me from the falling debris, the same woman that screamed in my ear to "RUN" when she almost couldn't. The same woman I knelt next to right now. A thin sheet of burlap was thrown over a curled figure in the leftovers of the master bedroom. "Mama," I whispered, gently shaking her shoulder to wake her. "I'm home Mama, I'm home." It was almost impossible to tell time around here anymore. The clocks had been blasted off of the walls, cellphones were of no use, and even if there was something functioning, the time was almost always off. The sun did not shine, as if it too knew the grimness of our situation, and shied away from the gore. I didn't blame it. If I could, I would do the same. Grey covered our little spot on the planet, and night was only known when black rolled in, to claim its time.
Her frail figure rolled over at my touch, and I helped prop her into a sitting position. As time went on in our desolate wasteland, my mother grew weaker and weaker. Behind the smile mums were famous for putting on, I could see the weariness in her eyes, the lines beginning to form around her mouth and eyes, whether from smiles or sobs I couldn't tell at this point. I wondered if I still looked the same. If someone from my old life came strutting down the street, would they recognize me? Or, were my cheeks too sallow? My caramel skin too caked in the blood and dirt from the missiles? My dark eyes too empty for familiarity?
"Amal." her voice was croaky, revealing the true extent of her exhaustion. "How are you--" she paused, coughing into her red headscarf for several minutes, my hand rubbing her back soothingly. Identical to the way she had done for me when I was younger. "How are you ibnaty? Did you get enough for you as well?" I exhaled an exasperated sigh through my nose. Once a fussy mother, always a fussy mother, in wartime and all. Discretely, I was grateful for her constant nagging. She seemed to be the only thing that made sense anymore. My anchor in the storm. I pretended to rustle through the bag, as if I didn't know yet.
"There's enough." the lie slip past my lips with ease, the weeks of having to reassure her with little white fibs now becoming second nature. In the beginning, when the missiles first began to rain down on us, organizations from all over the world flew in. I can vividly remember how excited I was. How bright my hope was when it was rekindled, but slowly, as the attacks became less and less frequent so did our so-called aid, leaving us in an aftermath of destruction they had barely made a dent in. The people dwindled like the spark of a mere daydream they had the audacity to light. "You do not need to worry about these things." leaning over, I pressed my dry, cracked lips against her cheek, and almost recoiled at the feverish heat that met them. She was getting worse.
"I am your mother," she stiffened in her posture with a sense of indignance, gazing at me with a strange, unreadable expression. Pride or pain, that her daughter was forced to grow up so quickly, I did not know which. "It is my job to worry about these things, Amal," her fingertips swept a loose strand of hair back into the grubby blue scarf. "Not yours."
I did not know how to reply to such a statement, because the truth rang in every syllable, as clear as a rooster's early cry. No. Maybe in our past days that might've been true, but time only runs forward here. "Eat first, Mama. That is your job for now." My cheeks turned upwards in a hint of a smile and I brushed her fingers away gently, placing a bland bun into her palm.
"Amal..." she looked at me, warningly and I knew this was the time of day where we fought over who got which piece. There was still a shard of normality here. Teenagers and mothers still fight. I just never thought it would be over who would be hungry that night.
"I won't eat until you do." I countered, jutting my chin out in a display of stubbornness.
"Ibnaty, do not try to fight me on this. You are younger. You need this more than a weak, sick lady like me. This bread would be put to better use if--" I could already see her hands beginning to move, her fingers unwrapping from around the little lump of baked grain, but I was faster, and my hand closed over hers in a firm grip.
"Exactly. You are sick. You need the food and the water to survive." My tone grew in determination, hard and steely in a type I had never heard on myself. "You need to survive." I repeated. It was not a plea, or a desperate cry, but a command. I would not be losing any more than I already had. I would not let her be taken, not by any hand, be it God or the Devil.
Perhaps claiming that I would overpower God himself, was not the best idea, for fate had a cruel twist in place for me. The ground began to rumble, a low hum in the atmosphere beginning to grow into loud roar. Our eyes turned towards the horizon, a subtle ripple of panic rolling between us at the dots, broadening themselves into cylindrical shapes as they drew closer.
I stood, frozen and for the first time in a long time I truly felt like a child: scared, small, facing something I couldn't handle.
