[The
passage that follows is a letter written by Layal, a young refugee,
to her grandmother.]
“I
sit on the balcony. Aleppo spread before me black and deserted. The
clatter of crockery in the dark means life goes on. No sound save
sporadic gunfire from somewhere, then a single shell preceded by a
peculiar whistle. Someone is leaving this planet with a dry throat.
Aleppo before me black and still. These huge shadows might be trees
or childhood goblins or black vapours exhaled by women waiting for
children who are already numbers in a news report.”
Extract
from “The Aleppo Diary” written by Mohammad Fouad
Abdalrhman
Ismail/Reuters
June,
2021
Athens
Dear
naane,
This
letter will never reach you. I believe that this is part of
the reason why I decided to write to you in the first place.
It’s
been nine years since I last saw you. Nine
years
and nine months,
I reckon,
since
you last held me in your arms. Oh how I wish I could be little again.
How I wish I could fall into your embrace and feel your warm touch on
my skin…
I
am writing to you because I miss you and because the only way to be
with you now is to go back to the time when the world -our world-
began to end. So much has changed ever since. But, how do I tell you
about all this without telling you of
our story; a story of love, pain and chaos.
It
was October 16, 2012 when waaldi
was badly injured in a patrol and ommi
decided we had better leave Aleppo. We were supposed to wait for him
to get better, but all our plans were canceled when two days later he
passed away in the hospital due to the insufficiency of the medical
supplies. A nurse called us a few hours later requesting that we
collected his belongings, so
that his room could be ceded. On our way there we tramped on, that
last long day in Aleppo.
The
streets were filled with corpses. I saw lifeless bodies, bruised and
dismembered, covered in mud and blood. Yet these very bodies, these
oddly shaped masses, had once hosted souls of their own. They were
mothers and fathers to sons and daughters. They had once been
children walking around in shiny shoes, playing hopscotch with their
friends in a busy sandlot. They were loved...
Last
week I saw a young woman with a scarf
in a dark
shade of pink and all I could think of for the rest of the day was
your garden in Qatmah,
full
of
damask roses, gerberas and asters. “Time flies and people come and
go. This
little
garden of
mine has yet
to fail me. It’s not like it has somewhere else to go.”
you had once said to me in a playful manner. “One day you too will
leave in
search of
your own home. That’s
how life is.”
I
could tell
you had put an effort to make
your tone more
sympathetic, but the words still came
off
sorrowful.
“I am
never gonna leave you, naane.
You are my home”
I promised,
right
there, under the shade of a
pistachio
tree that’d been there for longer than you and
I could
remember.
The
night ommi told us we were leaving you had come over at our house.
She explained to Daama and I that the longer we stayed the more our
chances of surviving this madness decreased. You were
sitting
beside me, near the fireplace, your gaze fixed at it. I think now of
that look in your eyes, how you stared into the swirling flames
watching your reflection, your entire body, warped in that lifeless
mirror. Never before had I seen an expression so harsh as this in
anyone’s face, let alone yours. Back then I couldn’t have made
out the anguish on your features. If only I had known…
The
next morning we took the bus to Qatmah. Ommi stayed behind and tried
to sell our house and furniture in Aleppo for a fraction of their
value. Our time there we spent in the garden, watering the flowers
and picking up vegetables to cook with. After dinner, we would sneak
into your bed and l lie there with you. You recounted
your favorite stories. Tales we had heard so many times, we knew by
heart, but never really grew tired of. After each one of them ended
followed a small pause. A moment in which all the magic in the world
took a break, as if to catch its breath, only to come back stronger
in the form of words only you could have uttered.
“I
am scared” I let out suddenly. You kissed my cheek softly and
whispered to my ear, not to wake Daama up.
“No fifteen-year-old should be exposed to the sight of death and
decay. You cannot stay here. In Europe, you will be properly taken
care of. Your journey as a woman is just getting started.” “I
just wish we didn’t have to leave. I wish that we could stay here
in Qatmah. I wish that I would only kiss you and ommi and Daama
before I go to bed because I love you and not because I’m afraid I
will not wake up in the morning.” You took a deep breath, carefully
measuring your response. “Maybe we were born right when the world
decided it had better end. Decided
I say, because the world too is alive, like you and I. That doesn’t
mean we must give up in enjoying life. It should only encourage us to
be braver and kinder. Life is too short for you to be scared, Layal.
You must know, however, that since it’s been offered to you, you
have the responsibility to live it and appreciate every second of it.
Do you understand?”.
A
week later we woke up at the crack of dawn and packed our stuff. That
evening we left the house with only our backpacks, containing three
changes of clothes, some dry food and any of our personal effects we
could fit, provided that we would be able to carry them; a book, a
diary, a fancy bracelet, a brand new pen we never got to use. These
were all we had now, but you already know that. We waited close to
the entrance of the village barely exchanging any words. After a
couple of hours the truck arrived at last. I took a seat in the back
and waited for you to do the same. I held out a hand for you but you
didn’t move. For a second or two the world grew quiet. You looked
at your feet and then at the few stars that had already appeared in
the sky, gesturing, as if to wipe the mist from your eyes. "You’re
not coming, are you?". You said nothing. “Ommi will be furious
with you,” I said. With your eyes, you bid me farewell and pleaded
with me to understand. “But-
they will be cruel to you!” the pitch of my voice was getting
higher with every word and tears began to seep down my cheeks. I took
your hands in both of mine. “And shall we never sleep in each
other’s arms again, naane?” Daama demanded just now realizing we
were parting. A strangled sob escaped your lungs and you wrapped your
arms around us, pulling us as close as you could.
Daama
climbed into the truck and I heard the engine start before it moved
away in low speed. We had not yet crossed half a mile and, in that
moment, I felt as lonely and homesick as ever. I had become a
runaway. I was leaving my friends and family behind for War, this
ruthless beast, to savage. But most importantly, I was breaking my
promise to you... In the distance, as we drove by, familiar sounds
were somewhat audible until
the
night engulfed the last of them.
We
stayed in Sharran for a few days. An old friend of ommi’s was kind
enough to let us use a spare room in her house. During our journey to
Rajo and then Adana, we were not always provided with luxury of a
car. Therefore, we had to keep walking until exhaustion caught up
with us. At night, Daama and I held each other for warmth as we
slept.
To
get to Europe we had to go through Turkey or Egypt. Even though the
latter would be more expensive, better living condition could be
assured and this way, we could reach Europe by land. After
weeks of sleepless nights and endless moving we ended up on Lesbos at
first, and then Tilos, where we spent two years. To make ends meet,
ommi got two jobs, one at a local restaurant and another in a hotel.
She worked long hours and often came back late at night while I
stayed at home taking care of my then five-year-old sister.
Many
families of refugees living in Tilos were planning to settle in other
European countries and some others dreamed of spending the rest of
their lives there. Ommi had always wanted us to get a higher
education so that we could grow into independent and self-sustained
women, but for that to work out, we’d have to move again and settle
in a larger city. In 2015 we had saved some money, both from ommi’s
wage and the monthly allowance we received from the UNHCR, and were
ready to leave.
We’ve
been living in Athens for the past seven years. After I graduated
from high school I enrolled at university and got my first job in a
small bookshop downtown. I am currently living in my own apartment.
One I pay and care for myself. I am a teacher now naane, like I once
told you I’d be, and I spend my days with children like Daama and
I. Children who have grown up only ever knowing war. Kids that have
fallen prey to indiscriminate violence and terror.
Yesterday
morning Daama called before heading to school. “Last night I had a
strange dream. We were in Qatmah with naane and there was no war. We
had just finished cooking kibbeh and were eating outside in the yard,
just like we used to.” she paused for a second. “You know it’s
funny-” she murmured. “But, when I close my eyes, I can still
hear her voice. It’s like she’s right next to me, telling me that
story with the queen’s ring. Remember?”. I, too, close my eyes
and think. What of, I’m not sure. I am standing 1433 miles away
from home. 1433 miles away from you naane, but I am happy. I am happy
because, even though I yearn for you, it’s the first time in years
that I can go to bed and sleep without the fear of yet another
nightmare. I am happy because, against all odds, I am right here and
I am alive. In my head I am picturing your daughter, my mother, but
all I see is your eyes. Your face has, by now, already begun to blur
in my mind but this, your eyes, I can feel them burn my insides.
Oh
naane, what a wonderful thing it is to have been born just as the
world began to end!
As
ever yours,
Layal
Al-Hatab
Square in Aleppo’s Old City. Sebastián Liste/ Noor Images, for The
New York Times
notes:
Naane
→ grandma
Daama
→ (Syrian name meaning ocean, river) Layal’s little sister
Waaldi
→ father, dad
Ommi
→ mother, mom
Aleppo
→a
city in
Syria,
which serves as the capital of the Aleppo Governorate. With an
official population of 4.6million in 2010, Aleppo was the largest
Syrian city before the Syrian
civil war;
however, it is now the second-largest city in Syria, after the
capital Damascus.
Qatmah
→ a village
in northwestern Syria, within Afrin District (Aleppo Governorate). It
lies northeast of Afrin and west of Azaz.
Sharran
→a village in northern Syria, administratively part of the Aleppo
Governorate, located northwest of Aleppo near the Turkish border.
Rajo
→ town in Afrin District, Aleppo Governorate, northwestern Syria.
Rajo is the center of a sub-district of the same name with
approximately 65 villages and farms around it.
Adana
→ major city in southern Turkey. The city is situated on the Seyhan
River, 35km inland from the north-eastern coast of the Mediterranean
Sea.
Dimitra
Kalliakmani
