The Flight of Death

I was eight when the first bomb dropped. 

 I’ve never been good at remembering details from that first attack. No matter how many shrinks or doctors I see, they all say the same thing; memory loss, most likely brought about by intense and sudden trauma. They’ve got that right at least. 

Almost everything I do know, I learned from survivors afterwards. It was February of 1982. Protests and strikes had been growing in Hama for years. Citizens had been murdered and the people were angry. More and more often the protests ended in intense battles with security officers. The ticking time-bomb of violence was growing closer and closer to setting off. 

But when it finally did, it was the government and not the protesters that made the first move. They sent tens of thousands of troops into Hama, tanks and helicopters following behind.  They rained bombs down on the streets for months, killing thousands of people, injuring hundreds more. 

 And they were just civilians. They weren’t all gang members or protesters; they were ordinary people caught in the crosshairs of a battle that was not theirs to fight. And that was just the beginning. 

 Buildings turned to rubble and bodies clogged the streets. Thousands of people lost their lives, with even more injured. That first wave of attacks blew apart my city. And I don’t remember any of it. 

What I do remember is the chaos that happened afterwards. War and destruction turned my once bright world into one that stunk of blood and death. The fire of machine guns became more common than music. A death from old age rarer than mass graves. And that’s when they bothered to bury the bodies. As the fighting raged around us, we did the only thing we could think to do. We boarded up all the windows, barricaded the doors and did our best to shelter from the storm of chaos outside. 

But then there came the moment when hiding wasn’t enough anymore. The walls of our small house couldn’t protect us forever. Within a month our food supply ran out. Unwilling to see his wife and children slowly starve to death, my father decided to risk leaving our shelter. Armed with nothing but a small pistol, my father and my uncle took to the ruined streets in search of food. Neither one returned. 

Less than a week later, my mother began to fade, devastated by loss. It wasn’t long before she was gone, leaving her remaining four children alone. Nabil was sixteen, barely a man. My sister Iman wasn’t much older than him. With me and our four-month-old brother to care for, they were forced to grow up far too quickly. 

For almost 6 months we stayed in Hama. Nabil learned how to survive, navigating the war-torn streets stealing food and supplies. Most nights we all sat on our threadbare carpet as he spun great heroic stories about his adventures and the interesting people he’d talked too. Later, I realized that Nabil lied. There were no other people, only bodies left mangled and hurried past quickly. 

Iman never told us where she went. She returned to the house in the early hours of the morning, stinking of cigarette smoke and clutching a small envelope of cash. Although I pretended to be asleep in the bedroom, I often heard her crying quietly on the couch, my brother trying to soothe her desperately.  

Between the money she brought in and the things Nabil stole, we were ok. Not living exactly but surviving day to day as our city fell apart around us. Nabil and Iman hid how bad it was from me, always saying that it would be alright, that Allah would protect us. And like a fool, I believed them. 

 Because then something happened that shattered their illusion of safety. Armed soldiers broke into the apartment complex next to our, gunshots ripping through the walls and lodging in our kitchen cabinets. We hid under the bed until it was all over and emerged to learn that over 80 lives had been lost. Our neighbors. It was too close; my brother and sister packed up what few possessions we owned and made plans to sneak us out of the city before dawn.  

I remember our run through the dark roads with perfect clarity. My brother carried me on his back, my thin frame light from continual hunger. My sister hid the baby in a pack over her shoulder and led the way. They picked their way through the rubble with nothing but the fat moon overhead to guide them. As we walked, Iman would continually whisper things like, “To the left Nabil,” and my brother would reach behind him and cover my eyes. It wasn’t until years later I realized they were shielding me from the dead, protecting from seeing the same horrors they had to endure. 

We made it out of the city just as the faint glow of light appeared on the horizon. We walked along the side of the road for a few hours until the world lightened around us. Nabil left me with Iman and disappeared into the forest, returning in a few minutes and leading us to a small cave beneath the roots of a tree. As soon as the sun set, we took off again, continuing our trek through the countryside.  

“Where are we going Nabil?” I asked as we stopped to share our last loaf of bread.  

“A village,” Nabil answered, ruffling my hair. “We have an Uncle and an Aunt not too far from here. They’ll help keep you safe.” 

“Are you not staying with us?” I protested, confused.  

“No Farid,” My brother’s face darkened. “I must go back to the city.”  

“Nabil, we talked about this,” My sister hissed, swatting his arm.  

“What? Why?” I demanded, scowling. “We just left there.” 

“Don’t listen to him,” Iman assured me, shooting Nabil a glare. “Your brother isn’t going anywhere.” She pulled him a few yards away from where I was seated, but I could still here their furious whispers. 

“Iman, I have to help.” He insisted with a frown. “There are so many people still trapped in there.” 

“Then that is their problem.” She said, turning to him with a low growl. “Not yours. Your job is to stay with us.” 

“Iman,” He tried to say, but she cut him off. 

“Now is not the time to be the hero Nabil.” She looked at him with a calm yet stern expression, the very image of my mother. “Farid needs you.” 

Nabil looked back at me, and I glanced quickly in the other direction, not wanting him to know I had been eavesdropping. I felt his eyes scorching the back of my neck as I tore of another chunk of bread.  

“You're right,” He said after a moment, “We should get going, it’s not safe to be this close to the road.” 

We made it to the village a few hours later, the buildings quiet and dark. Nabil had only visited our uncle once when he was a child, and it took a little while for him to find the house.  

“Wait here,” he said, gesturing to the small alleyway. “I’ll go talk to him.” We watched as he snuck across the darkened street, knocking hesitantly on the door. A light appeared in the upstairs window and after a moment the door opened to reveal the silhouette of a tall broad shouldered man. Nabil and the man conversed for a moment, and the two embraced. Iman breathed a sigh of relief next to me, and we hurried towards the house as Nabil beckoned us. 

They greeted us warmly, my Aunt and cousin cooing over the baby and hurrying to find us all fresh clothes to wear. We were all tired and exhausted, and Iman soon retreated to the bedroom with the other women, bringing the baby with her. My uncle found me a warm woolen blanket, and settled me onto their couch before returning to the kitchen with Nabil. 

The two of them sat in deep discussion, bits and pieces of their conversation reaching me as I drifted off to sleep. 

“Hundreds of bodies,” Nabil was saying, “Stacked, children and rebels piled one on top of another. I saw them dying too, bleeding and screaming.” Nabil’s voice shook and he buried his face in his hands. “I wanted to help, I tried…but there was nothing I could do.” 

“And your father?” My uncle asked quietly. “Uncle Amir?” Through a crack in the door I could see him lay a hand on Nabil’s shoulder. 

“Shot by soldiers.” My brother said. “Both of them. They were just trying to get to the store.” Anger glowed fiercely in his eyes and he spat. “I’ll kill them, I’ll find them all.”  

“No Nabil,” My uncle sighed. “It is not safe. Revenge would only prolong the cycle of violence.” 

“You sound like Iman.” Nabil complained. “They deserve far more than violence.”  

“And your brother,” My uncle appealed, “The baby, do they deserve it? Do they deserve to grow up in that endless circle of death? I’m sorry that your family died, but you didn’t. And now you have to live with it.” 

After a long moment of silence, my brother cursed and got to his feet. “You’re right. They’re the only thing that matters, they will be safe here.” With that they stood up and embraced. My uncle disappeared to the room down the hall and Nabil entered the living room with a sigh. 

  I lay perfectly still as he passed, forcing myself to breath slow and evenly. Nabil stopped to tuck my blanket closer around me and I felt his weight settle on the other end of the couch. We lay there for a while in the darkness, the night quiet and peaceful for the first time in a long time. 

Looking back on it now, I wished I had said something. 

I wish I had taken the time to ask him more about my mother and father. About the kind of people they were and what they believed in. I wish I had thanked him for protecting the family we had left. The things he and my sister did to keep us alive...they became my very definition of strength and self-sacrifice. I wish I had told him that I loved him.  

But I was young and exhausted, so instead I slept, sinking into that dreams that for once were uninterrupted by the sounds of war. Little did I know how temporary that peace would be. Little did I know how quickly that cycle of violence would return. And unlike the initial attack on Hama, I remembered every moment, every detail of the day that took everything away. 

Just before sunrise we awoke to screaming in the streets. Car alarms and gunfire rose in a symphony of terror. My aunt and uncle rushed into the living room, followed closely by Iman and my cousin.  

“What’s going on?” Iman shouted as Nabil hurried to look out the window. 

“Soldiers,” He said angrily. “They’re attacking the city. We have to help.” 

“Are you crazy?” Iman screamed, “We have to run.” The baby started to cry loudly, adding to the barrage of sounds from outside.  

“Iman’s right,” My uncle began, “We have to...” 

The door slammed open, falling off its hinges with a bang. Soldiers barged into the room, pointing guns at us and yelling. They forced us out the broken door and down the steps into the village square. Most of the other citizens were already there, woman and children on one end of the area, men lined up on the other.  

In a single heartbeat my brother and my uncle had been grabbed and dragged away. I remember screaming, unable to breathe as I watched them disappear into the crowd. My aunt pulled me back, stopping me as I tried to run to him. We watched in frozen terror as the soldiers paced along the group of men, pulling individuals forward at random.  

“NO!” Iman shouted, and I turned just in time to see a masked soldier force Nabil to his knees and put a gun to his temple. Iman disappeared from my side, running desperately towards our brother. She rushed the soldier, hitting him with her fists and screaming abuse. In one smooth motion the soldier turned raising his gun and shot her in the head. 

It happened so fast. A single bang, and her body crumpled to the ground. She didn’t even have time to scream. My aunt started screaming broken, wordless shrieks of horror. The baby tumbled from where he lay in her arms and my cousin lunged to catch the small bundle. She dropped into a crouch, as I stood frozen in disbelief, staring at Iman’s bleeding body. Next thing I knew my cousin was on her feet, pulled me quickly through the crown of crying women to the back of the square. 

“Here,” She ordered, raising the lid of a crate and shoving me inside. She tucked the baby safely into my arms and looked nervously at the line of soldiers. “You have to hide.” She whispered, “I’ll be right back.”  

I watched as she closed the top of the crate sealing me in darkness. Another gunshot sounded somewhere in the square and I gasped, trying desperately to push open the lid of the box. The baby gave a weak cry, squirming in my arms.  

All at once, the world dissolved into a storm of gunfire, screams cut off with silence and finality. The shooting lasted what lasted felt like hours. I remember curling myself into a ball in the corner of the crate and clutching my baby brother to my chest as I cried silently.  

And then the noise stopped. Outside the square was eerily silent except for the wail of a distant car alarm. I managed to push to top of the box open an inch and could see the first rays of dawn break through the darkness. Another sunrise. 

I can’t tell you how long we were stuck in that crate. Time blended together, it could have been hours, it could have been days. Finally some surviving women heard my shouts for help. They ushered us away from the sqaure, but not before I caught a glimpse of the carnage left behind. That’s something I would be ok with forgetting. 

It’s been many years since that day, but the darkness of that box stays with me, filling my heart with pain. I was “lucky” they told me, I survived. But they were wrong.  

If I was lucky, I wouldn’t wake every night in a cold sweat, screaming for my sister to run. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t flinch every time a firework went off or a door slammed. If I was lucky, I would still have my family, a home, a life.  

I would have been lucky if I’d been shot that day and left to die.  

But I wasn’t. And now I have to live with it.