The Northern Lights

Chapter 13. False Promise Forged at Home.

Syria, 1983

Azra hears what she presumes is her brother enter the house. The door rattles, as wind from the outside world comes whirling in, bringing noise and an unwanted scent.

"Malik!" she excitedly squeals.

He ignores her, paces with purpose to the kitchen. Malik tips toes by the fridge, hand pats the top of it, nothing sits there but dust and old photos. Azra's jealous, she can't reach the top of the fridge even with a chair under her feet. Boxes fill the living room, stuffed with memories, plates and furniture.

Her eyes study her tall brother, the few unkempt hairs on his chin, "What are you looking for?"

"Where is mama's Quora?" he asks, pupils wandering around the large dining room, but Azra does not know if he speaks to her or himself.

Aza's tummy rumbles, "Immy is upstairs, ask her,"

"She's busy,"

"How do you know?" again, her stomach shakes, "Can we go play? You promised!" nothing, just the sound of a drawer sliding open, "Why do you need that stupid book anyway?"

Malik pauses, his countenance is filled with a look of dread, "How dare you," he says bluntly. A cold sweat shivers down Azra's spine. Malik continues pulling drawers, most of them empty, "I need it for school."

"So, we can't go outside?"

"No."

"Not even to play football?"

Malik sighs, "Not even to play football."

Azra can't pin the day her brother became dull, but she remembers exactly what the days were like before he did, when they would walk up to the group of boys who always played football with their bare feet and her brother would demand a spot for his little sister, "She's better than half of you!" he used to shout. They begrudgingly agreed, he was at least twice the size of each of them.

Azra leaves the kitchen, her bare feet are met with the warm rug in the living room. She has been reading a plentiful number of books, each one stacked on top of the other, a miniature tower that leans on top of the table. Long ago, she hoped to have stack so many books that the table collapses. But soon the table won't occupy the room she sits in, and neither will her family. Azra glides to the couch, opens a novel.

The tower beside her isn't comprised of thin books, they are thick blocks of paper, each containing stories of other imaginary worlds and people that she can visualize so clearly, they could be mistaken for past lives' memories. Fictional tales that she imagines. Azra is more inclined to believe in them more than the book her brother desperately scours for in the kitchen. Her favourite from the stack is one of Malik's stained geography books from school. She has read it over a dozen times, studying each line obsessively as though preparing for an exam, but there is no test to be filled, just a child's endless curiosity.

As Azra's eyes hurry from left to right, she begins to tap her feet. An urge flows through her veins, one to run around with a ball at her feet, a craving of fresh air and lactic acid in her legs. "The world is dangerous," her father used to say, "never go alone, always have Allah." But Azra had never once held Allah's hand. Never once saw him fight for her to play football. She does not believe what she can't see, what she can't imagine.

Azra folds the corner of the page, before closing the book and leaving it on the couch with the memory of her brother taking her out to play. She is sick of this containment. She wants to see her country, not four walls and a ceiling. Azra tiptoes silently to the front door, it creaks open, she prepares to be flooded with questioning, but like the answers to most of her queries, her brother's voice remains silent. Azra's feet slide into shoes that used to be as bright pink as flamingos but are now covered in specks of dirt and dust. Malik does not hear the soft rustling of the front door opening and closing.