WORTHY

1

Her house is empty. She's the only one here, left alone with her thoughts.

She curls up on the cold marble tiles, back against the wall.

She closes her eyes, trying to shut out the noise she's hearing. The occasional 'bang' that signifies a bomb hitting the homes of innocent people... and the screams that follow.

It's not something she wants to hear.

It's not something anyone wants to hear.

She's trembling all over, thinking how similar bombings finished her family.

Her father, his loud laughter now gone from the world. He's just a few chunks and pieces of flesh now, rotting away at some rubbish dump. Maybe, some animal has already nibbled on it. Maybe, some bits and pieces of her father have been consumed by crows who took him in their claws and flew away.

She winces, remembering his bloody prayer cap, the only thing that came back that day.

She cries, remembering how her injured brother, the only survivor of that specific mosque bombing returned home, bandages on his head and arm. He was shivering all over and crying. He, an eight year old, had just watched his father and the men of his neighborhood die while praying in the mosque. Does an eight year old deserve to see this?

She screams, remembering how her mother hugged the cap to her heart and cried.

She opens her eyes and her gaze falls upon the letter on the mantelpiece.

She remembers how her parents cried with happiness when they found out. Their daughter going to medical university, something that they'd always wanted.

She'd wanted it too. Become a doctor and save lives.

But now? She isn't even sure if she'd be able to save herself, let alone anyone else.

She looks at the whitewashed walls of the small house. She looks at the TV which doesn't work anymore. She looks at the room and remembers how it used to be a warm and cozy lounge, full of love and laughter.

The house has no electricity, not anymore. The only source of light is the sunlight from the large window.

She can't see anyone from there, the translucent curtains have been pulled shut.

She gets up, stumbles and then, stands firm on her feet. She walks over to the window and opens it, pushing the curtains away.

She can see the thin lane, and opposite to the window, the wall of a shop.

Her eyes widen as she reads what someone has painted over there.

If not us, please save the children of Syria.

She remembers the wailing of a neighbour, who lost her fourteen year old daughter and ten year old son. They'd gone to school and never returned. The result of yet another bombing by ISIS.

"I hate ISIS!" She screams into the empty house.

Most of the furniture is gone so her voice is echoed back. The last word clearest to hear:

ISIS.

She shivers again. How can those monsters name themselves the Islamic State? It's impossible, she thinks. They can't be Muslims. They can't know the real Islam.

"I'm Islam." She tells the house. "Anyone with a kind heart and a firm belief is Islam, not anyone who kills innocent people."

She looks around the room, as if it's filled with people. "I'm Islam and I'm Syria!" She announces. "And I suffer."

She hears the words behind echoed. It's as if the house is telling her to suffer. She winces.

Silence.

She shivers again and tears run down her face. She shuts the curtains again. The sound of bombing has been replaced by the sirens of ambulances. The screaming prevails.

As usual.

She shivers again.