HOMEMADE MELODRAMA

Beautiful Calm Driving

"Assef?"

The voice seemed surreal. 

"Assef!" 

The dream I was a citizen of shattered all around me. I couldn't even say goodbye to the euphoria I had. I tried to piece together the broken shards of my dream, but my mother's grip brought me back to life. 

I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to that world.

A world in which I could see my mother's face.

"Assef!" she shouted once more, "Wake up! They're coming!" She continued to violently shake me until she was confident I was awake. I, in a daze, struggled to get up and find my walking stick while I heard my mother frantically run around our small apartment. "There's no time!" she yelled as she yanked me through the door and into the dilapidated hallway. I was without my walking stick. 

Screams surrounded us. I heard dust fall and the lights sway as mortars struck around us. 

Boom. 

My old elementary school.

Boom.

My old mosque.

Boom. 

The apartment down the street where my best friend lived. 

"What's going on?" I yelled as she helped me into a staircase. The other residents of the building began to flood the stairwell. I heard screaming in many different languages.

"It's Assad! His army is coming!" someone behind me shouted.

Assad. His name echoed inside of my brain like a bullet ricocheting. Assad. The one who will finally take away everything from me. Again. 

We rushed out through a door in the stairwell, people dispersing. 

"Get the fuck off!" My mother yelled as she rushed to a truck. It was covered in a thick layer of rust. I'm surprised I didn't cut my fingers when I placed them on the metal frame. 

The summer sun in Syria is a brutal sun. Always shining. Never stopping. Even at nighttime, I could sense its heat over me. How dare that sun shine so brilliantly when my country is falling to pieces? How dare he not shed a tear for Syria? I wished I could see it so it could see the pain in my eyes. It burned my skin. 

"Soraya!" a familiar voice behind me shouted. It was from a floor or two above me. What was his name? Yasser? Yasser. "Into the truck, damnit!" She threw the two of us in and clutched onto me. I heard Yasser jump in. No more screams. Everyone was gone now. They're smarter than we are.

Mortars continued to shake the earth in the distance.

Yasser began to drive like a madman. I thought that he was running over people because I didn't remember the road leading away from our apartment complex being so bumpy, but I didn't question him. I hate that. I hate that I sat idly by and encouraged him with my silence to run innocent people over.

The earth moved beneath us. For a time, it felt like the truck was not moving and Allah was bringing sanctuary closer to us. 

But the sounds of mortars falling were replaced by a constant, ominous grumble. I heard people scream again and buildings began to fall. That's when I remembered one of the last days in school before the war started, that Syria sits on the edge of the Arabian plate.

"Earthquake," I whispered.

And as if it was on cue, the ground began to shake uncontrollably. My mother and I were tossed around in the backseat as she gripped onto me even tighter. We were both in constant fear that our seatbelts would come undone and we'd fly out into space. 

The ground was relentless. In those moments, I lived in constant fear of the earth opening up its mouth to swallow me whole with its big teeth. I prayed. 

Allah, if you are to kill me today, please restore my sight. Let me look into the eyes of my killer.

At least then, I'd know when it's happening.

Being blind has usually managed to be a blessing. I don't have to see fighting on television. I don't have to see fear in my mother's eyes. I didn't have to see my father's corpse in the wake of a bomb that fell from the sky.

Taking away his life.

Taking away my sight.

The earth stopped shaking and Yasser came to a stop.

"Are you two okay?" His voice quivered with fear as I heard him play with something in his fingers, probably his rosary. He was an Israeli national, I think, who sympathized with Syrian Christians and began to sneak them into Israel. Then he opened up to Muslims like my mother and me. 

We both nodded yes and Yasser began to drive again. I heard buildings crumble and the mortar strikes resumed. I knew that Assad's army would be slowed, but not stopped.

Yasser drove onto a bridge as my mother wept. Why, Allah? Why? I've never heard her cry so profusely.

The bridge began to give way.

Soraya. 

Mother.

I didn't get to see my mother again. I didn't get to see my killer.

Fire.

Blood.

Whose is it?

It's mine. 

But, I did see my father.

And I smiled.