March 3rd 2016
The Darkest Night
Without warning, one summer, I arrived
to a familiar building that was not its usual creamy mint green color. Instead,
my grandparents’ building was splashed a banana cream color that was completely
unappealing. To us six grandchildren, memories were born and etched on the
walls of our cracked green home. However, a new overpriced hotel had purchased
the land outside our window and began their five-star revamping, eliminating
the culture that existed on our street.
Besides painting over our building,
every little kiosk and shop was paid off to disappear. No more chips or soda or
candy just outside our door. No more familiar good morning greetings to the
shop owners. And no more clear view outside our balcony. What was a noisy busy
strip of history transformed into stores that proudly accepted Visa and Master
Card because nothing under $200 was in stock.
One thing made me smile and that was
the rebelliousness of the walls of this building. The cracks that had found
their way across the building from years of life were pushing through the
banana paint with force. These walls have seen and heard a great deal and no
amount of shiny yellow can erase that.
There are stories from women, working
in kitchens and sewing shops all hours of the day to support their four of five
children. There are stories of near miss shells that fly over buses that
transport workers because it’s currently the cheapest method of transportation,
aside from their two feet. There are stories of mother’s missing their sons who
have been drafted into the military. I can see the massive distress in the eyes
of both—the mothers and the many many sons I pass on a daily basis at the
checkpoints. Young, very young men, wearing military uniforms, sleep
deprivation and sadness.
This war is hard on everyone. Everyone.
There are people who recall being
forced out of their homes undressed because of gas bombs or masked attackers in
the night. I can only imagine, and imagining is not nearly close to feeling the
genuine fear many people are living in.
Summer nights in Syria used to consist
of watching horror films with my cousin/best friend after everyone else went to
sleep. We’d quietly sneak off into the kitchen, make a feast out of leftovers
and scraps—or order delivery (yes, they have that in Syria)—then tiptoe back
into the living room where the eerie music of terror awaited us.
Were they scary? Yes. Did we kind of
walk towards bed with hearts racing? Yes. But deep down I really didn’t have authentic
fear that the same demented freak or murderer would be hiding behind the shower
curtain as I brushed my teeth. Not until tonight, when it was already 8:00 p.m.
and the electricity—that had been cut off at around 12:45 p.m. this
afternoon—still had not returned.
My grandmother said this was nothing
compared to other times where 48 hours passed without power. She told me this
beneath two thick robes and a blanket, right after scolding me for not wearing
socks. “You’re going to get sick, Teta!” she said sternly. It can get quite
cold here at night and I thought of all these men, women, children and older
folks who have to live in the cold without any source of heating when the power
remains out. We had battery-operated lights and I assumed we would just go to
bed early like my grandparents. That was until a heavy frightening pound came
across our door.
I froze on the couch as I remembered a
few years ago, after the war started, a woman we know had her entire house
ransacked and stolen, while another woman had armed men smash straight through
her door in search for someone or something and then climb to her attic. What
if this was happening here? What if someone broke through the electronically
locked metal door downstairs, climbed to the top and was waiting to see if we
would open up or if he would have to break in?
My mom quietly walked to the door to
try and see if anything could be made out in the peephole through the darkness.
Remember, no electricity, therefore no hallway lights. He pounded again on all
the doors and then again. I grabbed my phone and realized there is no 9-1-1
here in Syria. Who do I call? Do I blast a cry for help on Facebook or do I post
my own eulogy?
For what seemed like an eternity, my
mother stayed by the door. I started praying fiercely for the electricity to
return just so we could have any means of decent lighting to figure things out.
We called our neighbor on the first floor and she was not expecting anyone nor
had she let anyone in nor had anyone knocked on her door.
Finally my mom made her way back to me.
“It’s a guy and he has a flashlight or a lighter because it keeps sparking on
and off so I can’t really see his face.” Now we were two frozen beings on the
couch and I remembered my cousin even more and thought: this is real fear.
Though we are staying at my
grandparents’ apartment, we are technically bunking at their attached guest
room, which has a separate entrance leading to a small studio on its own.
Therefore, it requires leaving the main home, entering the hallway where Sir-Knocks-A-Lot
awaits, and unlocking the door that leads into the guest studio.
“We are so NOT going out there,” I
said. “We will sleep on these couches until the electricity returns, God knows
when, because what if the dude is still there? What if he’s hiding up on the
staircase that leads to the roof? What if he pops out when he hears us opening
the door?”
I was scaring my mom but not
unnecessarily. These were all genuine concerns to keep in mind. Syria is not as
safe as it used to be and so one must be well prepared.
We scraped up any throws and couch
cushions and nestled into uncomfortable position for safer sleep. “May God protect those who sleep in this much fear on
a daily basis,” I said aloud before closing my eyes. My mother seconded the
prayer and we began thinking aloud about the situations like this that a great
majority of Syrians are in. The many people sleeping in the streets or
extremely unsafe neighborhoods. Those sleeping on country borders and in
refugee camps, not really able to sink in to a deep peaceful sleep. Not knowing
if they’ll be raped or attacked or kidnapped or have their belongings stolen. Using
their backpacks and jackets as pillows and blankets, if they even have those. It’s
their horrific reality every single day.
I couldn’t sleep. Every few seconds I’d
jump, thinking I heard a sound or saw a shadowy figure move in the dark and
wondered if this man had found a way into the house like he had into the
building. Three hours later the electricity finally returned. My grandmother
had woken up to get water and found us beneath asymmetrical cloths, half asleep
with the lights beaming brightly because I was too afraid to get up and turn
them off. “What are you doing here? Go sleep in your room!” Too tired to
explain anything to her, we picked up our keys, leaving everything else behind
on the couch, and walked fearfully towards the first door.
“You think he’s outside and will hear
us unlocking the door?” my mom asked. I looked at her sternly and said, “Please
don’t scare me. I’m going to blind him with my flashlight.” As we slowly opened
the door (and squealed) we found nothing but empty space. We switched on the
hallway light, quickly dashed to the other door, fumbling to get our key in
place. Reciting Quran and prayers of praise, we made it into our room and our
bed safe and sound.
We were told a variety of different
theories of who this man could be, but were told to rest assured it was no
“bad” man, only someone who was lost or delivering something. My mother and I
looked at each other and realized everyone was trying to make us feel better
but in reality, no one knew who he was. And the greater concern was how did he
get in? We were left pondering this thought for a long time and becoming even
more concerned about the three elderly families that live in this building—my
grandparents and their two neighbors.
This amount of stress and fear takes a grave
toll on the human body and mind. Think about all these displaced people,
shivering from the cold and the anxiety, unable to sleep unless it is with one
eye open. Imagine the parents, worrying about their children as well. Imagine
the elderly and their weakened bodies. Imagine walking in the dark across
unknown territory hoping that you’re heading towards welcoming freedom and a
better life to find you’re hated or marginalized. Syrians have been so wronged
in this uproar and the most fragile and innocent are paying the price.
This war is hard on everyone. Everyone.
