What We Carry

The night was a symphony of chaos, each missile a screaming

crescendo that shattered the fragile stillness. Flames danced like

vengeful spirits, consuming the remnants of lives once whole, their

fiery tongues licking at the darkness. The ground convulsed with each explosion, a wounded beast groaning beneath the weight of its

torment. Smoke billowed in heavy, suffocating waves, wrapping the

city in a deathly embrace. Cries of anguish pierced the air, raw and

unyielding, mingling with the metallic crash of collapsing walls. Blood etched cruel rivers across the broken streets, glinting under the flickering glow of firelight. The very soul of the city seemed to unravel, its heartbeat drowned by the relentless dirge of destruction.

Liela stood amidst the chaos, her body a fragile silhouette against the raging inferno. Her feet felt rooted to the trembling ground, as if the weight of the devastation had fused her to the earth. The world around her blurred, the colors of fire and ash bleeding together into a suffocating haze. Every sound—the screams, the distant thuds of collapsing buildings, the shrill wail of missiles—was muffled, as though she were submerged in a sea of grief. Her limbs hung limp at her sides, her chest rising and falling in shallow gasps that barely pulled the poisoned air into her lungs. Her mind was a locked room, trapped behind a door she couldn’t open. Suddenly, hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her violently, breaking through the fog like a thunderclap. “Liela!” a voice cried, raw and urgent. Amal’s face, streaked with soot and desperation, filled her vision. “We don’t have time! Do you hear me? We need to move!”

The words hit her like shards of glass, sharp and impossible to ignore. Amal’s fingers dug into her arms, grounding her, pulling her back into the unbearable present. Liela stumbled forward, her sister’s voice still echoing in her ears, sharp as broken glass. Her limbs moved with a frantic, trembling urgency as she dropped to her knees beside the bed. Reaching underneath, she tugged out an old suitcase, its leather scuffed and worn from years of quiet use. The latch creaked open, revealing an empty expanse that seemed impossibly small for the weight of an entire life. Her hands moved instinctively, pulling clothes from a nearby chair and shoving them into the case. A scarf, a jacket, a pair of shoes— her fingers worked without thought, driven only by the primal urge to act. She grabbed a few cans of food from a shelf, their metallic clatter deafening against the silence of her panic. Each item was tossed in with a haste that betrayed her desperation, her movements erratic

and raw. But as she yanked open a low drawer, something tumbled out, landing softly at her feet. She paused, her breath catching up. It was a keffiyeh, its black and white threads frayed at the edges but still strong, the patterns bold and defiant. For a moment, time seemed to falter, the noise of the world receding into an almost unbearable silence. Her trembling hands reached for it, lifting it gently as though it might dissolve in her grasp. The fabric was soft yet sturdy, its texture a familiar comfort. She ran her fingers over the intricate patterns, her touch slow and reverent. The sight of it brought a sudden, vivid memory rushing forward: her grandfather, his hands steady despite their age, draping the keffiyeh over her small shoulders as the setting sun bathed them both in golden light. “This is who we are, ya Liela,” he had said, his voice firm with pride. “This is our story. Never forget.” A sob caught in her throat, and her grip on the keffiyeh tightened. Would she have remembered that moment without this? Would her grandfather’s voice, his warmth, have slipped away into the void of forgotten things? Her chest ached with the thought. The suitcase sat before her, half-filled with what she thought she needed to survive. But what did survival mean without these pieces of who they were? Slowly, carefully, she folded the keffiyeh and placed it atop the growing pile. It didn’t matter how much space it took. Some things couldn’t be left behind.

The keffiyeh lit a dim light of hope that flickered deep within her

frightened soul, she had managed to save something of the utmost

importance to her and now surviving seemed even more important.

Liela’s hands moved with frantic precision as she threw more items

into the suitcase. A pair of towels . A box of tea. A flashlight. Her mind raced, weighing practicality against the oppressive urgency of time. But then her gaze caught on something half-hidden beneath a

toppled shelf. She reached for it, pulling free a cracked wooden

frame. Her son’s graduation certificate. The glass was shattered, a

jagged line splitting his name, but the words still stood clear. Liela

sank to her knees, her fingers trembling as they traced the letters.

She remembered his face that day, beaming with pride as he stood in his robe, holding the certificate high for her to see. She could still

hear his laughter, the warmth of his voice saying, “This is for you,

Mama.” How could she leave this behind? How could she let go of

this proof of his joy, his triumph, his life? Her breath caught, but

before she could fully process, her hand brushed against another

item—a battered photo album, its edges worn from years of turning. She flipped it open, and there they were: her son’s toothless grin as a child, Amal’s mischievous smirk, her own younger face, caught mid-laugh under a canopy of olive trees. Each image was a portal, pulling her back to moments she thought she’d lost. How could these be left to burn? They weren’t just photographs; they were pieces of herself, shards of a life she was already struggling to hold onto. And then, as she reached deeper into the drawer, her fingers found something unexpected: a doll. Its fabric was faded, one button-eye missing, but it was unmistakable. Her favorite doll, the one her mother had stitched for her during a winter long ago. The memory surged forward —a younger Liela clutching it tightly during air raids, whispering her fears into its stuffed body, as though it could absorb them. It had been her comfort, her companion, a fragile shield against the darkness.

She hadn’t thought of it in years, and yet, holding it now, she realized how much of herself was stitched into its threads. Tears blurred her vision as she clutched these objects to her chest. To anyone else, they were useless—shattered glass, faded photographs, a broken doll. But to her, they were everything. They carried the weight of love, of struggle, of survival. They were anchors to a world that war was trying to erase. To leave them behind would be to abandon not just things, but pieces of her soul. Liela looked down at the suitcase, its small confines taunting her. How could she fit her entire life in there? How could she decide what was worth saving, when everything was tied to a memory, a meaning, a moment that mattered?

Liela’s eyes roamed the room, her chest heaving as the memories

surged faster than she could contain them. The suitcase sat open at

her feet, but it no longer seemed big enough. How could it be, when

the entire house was spilling over with pieces of their lives? She

looked at the corner by the window, now cracked and smeared with

ash. This is where we sat and ate dinner every night, she thought, her throat tightening. She could almost hear the clatter of plates, the laughter that echoed even when food was scarce, the soft hum of her mother’s voice as she served them. Her gaze drifted to the far wall, where a faint shadow remained on the plaster—the outline of a vase that had once stood proudly on a shelf. This is where Amal and I were punished for breaking it, she remembered with a bittersweet pang. She could still feel the sting of their mother’s scolding, though it was always followed by the warmth of forgiveness. That wall had held their childhood mischief, their

mistakes, their innocence. And then her eyes fell on the armchair in the corner, its fabric now charred and sagging. This is where Baba used to sit and drink his tea. She could see him there, his hands steady as he lifted the delicate glass, the faint smile that would play on his lips as he listened to the radio. The chair was empty now, a ghost of its former self, but it still held his presence. She could almost smell the faint scent of mint tea lingering in the air, defying the smoke and destruction. The house was crumbling around her, but to Liela, it was alive with the echoes of everything they had been. Her hands clutched the edge of the suitcase, knuckles white, as a sob tore from her throat. “I can’t leave it,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I can’t leave any of it.” Her words spilled out in a frantic rush, her eyes darting from one corner of the room to the next. “This is where Amal and I watched tv. This is where Mama taught us to braid our hair. This is where we hid during the first airstrike, do you remember, Amal? We were so scared, and Baba kept telling us stories to make us laugh.” She turned to her sister, her expression wild and desperate. “How can I leave all of this behind? How can I let it go? If the house falls, it all falls with it. Don’t you see? The memories—everything we are— they’ll disappear.” Her voice cracked, and she pressed her hands to

her chest, as if trying to hold it all inside, to keep it from slipping away. Tears streaked down her face, cutting paths through the soot and ash, as she stood amidst the ruins of her past, clutching at memories she could not bear to lose.

Amal stepped forward, her voice firm but trembling with emotion as she gripped Liela’s shoulders. “Liela, listen to me,” she said, her

words cutting through the storm of hysteria. “These walls, these

things—they don’t hold the memories. We do. The vase didn’t teach

us forgiveness; Mama did. The chair doesn’t carry Baba’s warmth—

it’s in your heart, in the way you make tea just like he did. These

objects—they’re only echoes, reflections of what already lives within us. If you stay here, clutching at these pieces, you’ll lose what truly matters. What good will it do to preserve these things if you’re not here to remember them? What good is a photo if the person who lived that joy is gone?”

She paused, her grip tightening as she looked into Liela’s tear streaked eyes. “Think about it, Liela. The house can fall, the objects

can burn, but they’ll never take the stories we carry. The love, the

laughter, the lessons—they’re in us. And if you die here, so does

everything you’re trying to protect. We have to let go of the weight of these things so we can carry the memories forward. We are the

keepers, not the objects.” Her voice softened, a plea now. “Come with me, Liela. Let’s save what really matters—ourselves, each other.”

Liela’s chest heaved as Amal’s words struck her like a blow, slicing through her desperation but igniting something deeper—rage, sorrow, defiance. Her trembling hands shot out, grabbing Amal by the shirt and pulling her close, their faces inches apart. Her voice, raw and cracking, erupted from her throat like a storm unleashed. “So you’re telling me,” she shouted, her words trembling with fury and heartbreak, “that if I were to die here, you’d just leave? You’d walk away, Amal, just like that? And what about this?” Her voice broke as she thrust her arm forward, her wrist trembling beneath the weight of a delicate, hand-woven bracelet. The tiny strands of thread were faded, fraying at the edges, but their colors still whispered of the love that had tied them together. “You’re telling me this means nothing to you?” Liela’s voice grew louder, angrier, the tears spilling freely down her face now. “Do you remember what we promised each other when we made these? After

Mama was gone, when we sat there with shaking hands, trying to

hold ourselves together—do you remember? We promised, Amal. We promised that no matter what, we would never abandon one another. No matter how hard, no matter how hopeless. And now you’re saying it’s just a thing? That it’s just thread?”

Her fingers tightened around Amal’s shirt, her eyes blazing with pain. “This isn’t just a bracelet! It’s her, it’s us, it’s everything we’ve survived together. You’re telling me you’d leave this behind? Leave me behind? How can you say that? How can you even think it?”

Her words hung heavy in the air, a desperate cry not just for

understanding but for the soul-deep connection they had shared—a

connection Liela feared was slipping through her fingers like sand.

Amal didn’t pull away from Liela’s grasp. She let her sister’s anger

crash over her like waves against a rock, steady and unyielding.

When Liela’s voice cracked into silence, Amal reached up, gently

resting her hands on her sister’s trembling wrists. Her voice, when

she spoke, was soft but carried the weight of a thousand truths.

“Liela,” she began, her tone steady but her eyes glistening, “I could

never leave you behind. Not you, not Mama, not any of it. But don’t

you see? This bracelet… it isn’t what binds us. It isn’t what holds the

promise we made. It’s just thread. The promise lives in us, in every

step we take together, in every breath we share. If this bracelet were gone tomorrow, would our love disappear? Would the promise break? No, Liela. It’s not in the things—it’s in us.” Her hands slid down, cupping Liela’s trembling fingers as she continued, her voice growing warmer, more insistent. “Mama isn’t in this bracelet or in the house or in any of these things. She’s in the way we hold each other when we’re scared. She’s in the stories we pass on, in the way we fight to stay alive, just like she would have wanted. Don’t you understand, Liela? The memories don’t die when the objects are gone. They live because we live. Because we carry them in our hearts, not in our hands.” Amal’s voice softened, a thread of pleading weaving through her words. “If I stayed here for the bracelet, for the vase, for the photographs—if I let myself die for these things—what would that mean? What good are promises if we don’t survive to keep them? What good is this bracelet if it weighs us down instead of lifting us up? Liela, I love you more than anything in this world, but holding onto the past will cost us the future. Mama wouldn’t want that. And I don’t want that for you.”

She paused, her thumb brushing over the bracelet as her voice

broke, ever so slightly. “This doesn’t mean nothing. It means

everything. But it means so much more because you’re wearing it.

Because we’re still here. Together. Don’t let this war take that from us, too. Let’s carry what matters in our hearts and leave the rest. Let’s survive, Liela. That’s what Mama would have wanted. That’s what I want.”

Liela’s chest heaved as Amal’s words slowly unraveled the tight knot

in her heart. Her trembling fingers loosened their grip on Amal’s shirt. The room, the house, the destruction—all seemed to faded becoming distant echoes in the face of Amal’s unwavering presence.

Tears, silent and steady, traced paths down Liela’s soot-streaked

face, her sorrow and love mingling in the warmth of Amal’s embrace. In that moment, the weight of everything she had clung to—every object, every memory—seemed to dissolve, replaced by the irreplaceable comfort of her sister’s arms, a safety that no bomb

could shatter. Her head sank against Amal’s shoulder, her breath

ragged but steadying in the rhythm of her sister’s pulse.

Amal’s arms tightened around her, holding her as the world outside

howled, as though the storm itself could never break the bond they

shared.

The house groaned beneath the weight of the chaos, but in

that embrace, Liela found a stillness, a peace that had eluded her for what felt like an eternity. Slowly, with a final, bittersweet glance at the room that had once been their home, Liela reached for the suitcase. The silence between them hung heavy, but there was no more frantic urgency, no more indecision. Her hands moved with purpose, the keffiyeh carefully folded, the photo album tucked beside it, the doll left behind like fragile echoes of the past. Together, they closed the suitcase. The latch clicked softly, a small but profound sound that seemed to settle in the air, a quiet surrender to the future. They stood, side by side, the weight of their shared sorrow now lightened by the strength of their unity. The house trembled once more, but this time it felt like a distant memory, a place of shadows they were leaving behind.

Amal took Liela’s hand, her grip warm and sure, grounding her as

they moved toward the door. With a final glance at the crumbling

walls, the fading remnants of a life they would never return to, they

stepped out into the night. The air was thick with smoke, and the

moon veiled behind a haze of ash, watched over them as they ran.