Without Refuge

by Jane Mitchell

Dayah says. “It’s usually something bad. Why can’t

  you keep your head about you, Ghalib?”

  “I made him do it, Dayah,” Alan says in a small

  voice. Dayah looks at Alan. Bushra looks at Alan. I

  look at Alan. “I told Ghalib I would tell you he was

  going to the souq with Hamza if he didn’t take me

  along.”

  He’s a good liar. Even I’m convinced. Dayah’s

  eyes soften as she looks at him. Everyone softens

  when they look at Alan. Something about him makes

  people want to care for him. Dayah bends down and

  picks him up. He’s definitely too old to be carried

  but he gets away with it.

  “You’re never to go to the souq with Ghalib

  again,” Dayah says to him.

  And as we walk home, I think Alan might be

  useful to bring along next time. He might keep me

  out of trouble.

  10

  2

  Our mukhtar is a smart man. As soon as we heard whispers of ISIS coming to Kobani, he gathered up

  a group of men from our neighborhood and trav-

  eled to the industrial center on the outskirts of the

  city. They bought a dozen electricity generators and

  drums of diesel with the utility allowance from the

  city council, brought them home in a convoy of

  minibuses, and locked them into the storage sheds

  behind the mosque. Plenty of people were furious

  about it.

  “What a waste of money,” some said. “ISIS will

  be gone in six months and we’ll have no money to

  repair potholes and fix street lights.”

  “How will we pay for trash collections?” others

  said. “Our streets will stink of rotting litter. We’ll be overrun with rats.”

  11

  “Perhaps it’s time to vote for a new mukhtar,”

  some even said.

  But the mukhtar merely smiled and nodded.

  “Just you wait and see,” he said.

  And we did wait. And we did see.

  ISIS attacked the city every day for months. Even

  now that the Kurdish People’s Protection Units have

  pushed them back, the fighting goes on endlessly and

  US airstrikes can happen at any time. Every power

  station in Kobani has been destroyed and most of the

  utility poles are smashed in half, tossed like broken

  logs along the roads. When the overhead lines were

  first dragged down by explosions, the cables sparked

  and whipped like live snakes but the current soon

  ran out. Now Alan and his friends drag the dead

  cables behind them as they play soldiers.

  The mukhtar opened his stores to hand out a

  generator and diesel drum to every inner courtyard

  in our district. Now the families still living here are

  full of praise for his farsighted thinking.

  “What a great investment,” some say. “ISIS might

  be here for a long time but we have power to cook

  our food and light our nights.”

  “How else would we manage to feed our families?

  To brighten the dark?” others say.

  12

  “We’re lucky to have such a smart mukhtar,”

  everyone says.

  In the early evening, the streets in our neighbor-

  hood vibrate with the engines of the generators. Blue

  diesel smoke fills the air as women gather to cook

  eggplant and canned tomatoes and rice. My family

  joins in the bright light and buzzing energy. Once

  the food is cooked, Dayah eats inside with Dapir,

  Bushra and the other women and girls. They talk

  about who has left the neighborhood, or the latest

  school or health clinic to explode. Babies and tod-

  dlers doze in their laps or play around their feet.

  In the courtyard, the men and boys eat under

  the stars. If my father gets home on time from his

  pharmacy, he joins their talk of the war, or of hav-

  ing no jobs, or when might be the right time to join

  family in Canada and Turkey and Germany. Alan

  and the little kids run around, pretending to shoot

  each other.

  “This is boring,” Hamza says tonight.

  We sneak down the road to sit on the crumbling

  wall of the mukhtar’s mother’s house. She lived there

  until six weeks ago when a barrel bomb tossed from

  a helicopter smashed into it. Luckily for her, she was

  visiting her daughter and grandchildren on the other

  13

  side of Kobani at the time. The front wall was blown out, but by some freaky coincidence, her carved

  wooden dresser full of her antique china collection

  was left perfectly intact. She took herself and her

  china collection to live with her daughter.

  “Bring the women’s shoes and phones over to

  my house in the morning,” Hamza says. “The buyer

  will collect them at lunchtime.” The light from the

  courtyard shines on his face.

  “I’ve only got two pairs of shoes left,” I say. “One

  pair got left behind after the airstrike.”

  “Are you serious?” Hamza says. “What am I sup-

  posed to tell the buyer?”

  “Give him something else,” I say. “An extra

  phone or one of the shirts.”

  “You’re not being professional, Ghalib. We sup-

  ply to order. We don’t offer random substitutes like

  phones and shirts. How do you think I secured our

  buyer in the first place? This is not a smash-and-grab

  business.”

  Hamza looks at me. Something in his expression

  makes my scalp tingle. “We have to go back for a

  third pair, Ghalib.”

  “I’m going to the souq with Dayah and Bushra

  in the morning.”

  14

  “The buyer comes at lunchtime.”

  “You’ll have to go on your own.”

  “You’re the one who lost the shoes, Ghalib.”

  “I didn’t lose them,” I say. “They were collateral damage.”

  “It was your fault.”

  “We had no choice,” I say. “We had to get home.”

  “There’s always a choice, Ghalib,” Hamza says.

  “I choose to go to the souq and get another pair.” He

  smiles as he looks at me. “Tonight.”

  “What? Don’t be crazy, Hamza. Nobody goes to

  Freedom Square at night.”

  “It’s early.”

  “It’s dark.”

  “Scared, Ghalib?” His sneer is unmistakable.

  “There are unexploded shells. And snipers.

  And ISIS. Not to mention Protection Units every-

  where—they’re not going to just let us get away with

  snatching stuff.”

  “Everyone knows where the sleeping bombs are,”

  Hamza says. “ISIS and the Protection Units won’t be

  out until later. We’ll be back by then.”

  “We?” I say. “You think I’m going too?”

  Hamza jumps off the wall. He brushes dust from

  his trousers. Peers into the courtyard where knots

  15

  of people eat and talk in the blue smoke. Soft voices reach across the night. The smell of cooking hangs

  in the air.

  “Of course you’ll come, Ghalib,” Hamza says.

  “We’re family.”

  I blink. I look at Hamza. He’s far braver, fa
r stron-

  ger than me. It’s his job to make decisions; it’s my job to go along with them, even if I don’t want to.

  “What will I tell Baba and Dayah?” I say.

  “Nothing! We’ll be back before they even notice.

  It’ll take less than an hour.”

  We skirt the bright courtyards around the

  mosque, avoiding any light that might expose us. At

  first it’s easy to see, but as soon as we move away

  from our neighborhood, everything melts into inky

  blackness. Familiar streets are unrecognizable from

  a couple of years ago, the ruined houses empty and

  silent. Hardly anybody lives here now. Only a few

  places have candlelight gleaming through scorched

  curtains or open doorways. Rubble heaps are the

  remains of friends’ houses, of the corner shop where

  we bought ice cream, of our local bakery. Walk-

  ing here in the daytime is bad enough, but at night,

  ghosts of the dead haunt these deserted streets.

  I spook at every sound: rats cheeping in the trash,

  16

  broken bricks settling in the night. My heart skips a beat when I see the glow of a cigarette tip burning

  in the dark. A man stands silently, watching us pass.

  “We’ll go along Aleppo Way,” Hamza says. His

  voice is loud in the darkness. “It’s quicker at this

  time. Not so much rubble and masonry.”

  “But lots of Protection Units,” I add.

  “They won’t touch us.”

  The streets reek more at night: darkness draws

  out the smells. I hold my breath as the stench of rot-

  ting trash mixes with smoke and pulverized con-

  crete, smashed-up sewers and rot. We reach the

  unexploded bomb half-buried in the ground at the

  start of Aleppo Way, its nose buried deep in the dirt,

  wing blades pointing at the sky. We’ve passed it doz-

  ens of times, daring each other to touch it, but the

  night bloats its evil. I scrunch my fists in my pockets

  and sneak by, not wanting to brush my fingertips

  against it. Even Hamza is silent and swift as he sidles

  past. We pause to stare the length of Aleppo Way—

  the longest stretch of our journey. Light from cook-

  ing fires in derelict buildings softens the dense dark.

  “So many fires,” I say.

  They could be fires of the Protection Units, or of

  local people forced out of their homes. They could

  17

  even be the fires of ISIS troops sneaking back into the city, creeping close to our neighborhood.

  “Protection Units, Ghalib,” Hamza assures me.

  “They’re not the enemy.”

  He strides down Aleppo Way, passing the

  scorched skeletons of trees along the street. Glass

  crunches close to me as I catch up with him. I lurch

  against Hamza. He shoves me away.

  “You’re worse than Alan,” he says.

  But a thread of nervousness weaves through his

  laughter. It dies completely when a man steps from a

  broken building. I see his silhouette. The silhouette

  of his raised gun. My heart hammers. Words spill

  out of me, stuttered, broken.

  “We’re locals!” I say. I lift my arms over my head.

  “We’re locals! No weapons. No gun.” My voice

  cracks.

  The man stops dead. He looks us up and down.

  He holds his gun steady. “What are you doing here?”

  he says.

  Firelight shines behind him. I can’t see his face:

  only his silhouette. Beside me, the brave and mighty

  Hamza has clammed up. I look at him to answer,

  and my heart stops as he slinks behind me. Me—his younger cousin!

  18

  “What are you doing here?” the man says again.

  “Women’s shoes,” I blurt out. “We’re looking

  for women’s shoes.” It sounds ridiculous. What will

  he think?

  He lowers the gun. Pulls hard on his cigarette.

  “Not easy to walk in women’s shoes over rubble,

  boys.”

  His voice is louder than necessary. To draw the

  attention of others inside, I realize, as four men

  emerge from the broken building.

  Their uniforms show they’re with the Protection

  Units, not ISIS. They won’t shoot us, but we might

  get a beating. The men circle us. They can hardly see

  Hamza because my swaggering cousin has shrunk

  to almost nothing behind me. The first man teases

  us for the amusement of his friends even though he

  must see my terror. Now that he has an audience, he

  puts on a silly voice, high and girlish.

  “Will you bring me back a new headscarf?” he

  says. The others laugh.

  “Let them go, Mahmoud,” one of them says.

  “They’re only kids.”

  “They shouldn’t be out looking for women’s

  shoes at night,” Mahmoud says. He looks at me. Even

  though it’s dark, even though his face is in shadow,

  19

  it seems that his eyes glow with red fire like the tip of his smoldering cigarette. His gaze burns into me.

  “You know a war rages in the city, boy? You

  know you could be shot dead at any time?”

  I can’t bring myself to say it was Hamza’s stupid

  idea. That I didn’t want to come in the first place.

  That I agree with Mahmoud. All I can do is nod

  dumbly and wish I was anywhere but here.

  “Do your parents know where you are?” Mah-

  moud says.

  “No.”

  “Then get back to them before I march you

  home and shame you in front of your father. You

  and that cowardly boy behind you.”

  This is the truest thing Mahmoud has said. I

  stumble around and crash straight into Hamza, hud-

  dled behind me. I put my hands on his shoulders and

  turn him from the men. I hiss in his ear, my rising

  laughter clear to him.

  “Come on, cowardly boy.”

  I get no further. A deafening roar engulfs the

  dark city streets. A wavering beam of light snaps on

  high in the night sky. Powerful and glaring, it shreds

  the darkness. Someone screams.

  “Chopper!” one of the soldiers says.

  20

  I spin back, stunned by the sudden noise and light. In the dazzle, Mahmoud points skyward.

  “Barrel bomb!”

  He races from the blaze of brightness and the

  deafening racket.

  The roar of the chopper shrieks loud and low

  until I think it will tear my head off. Its beam slashes glaring light through the blackness. Violent gusts

  blast my ears and face. Clamor and chaos slice my

  blood and heartbeat.

  Men raise their guns. Blast them skyward in a

  blaze of fire and bullets. Tearing wind beats me to

  the ground. Hamza screams. He is still screaming

  when I shove him into the broken building.

  21

  3

  I push myself up from the smoking rubble. Wipe

  dust and pulverized plaster from my eyes and nose.

  My throat stings. I spit grit. My lungs scald in the

  burning air. The chopper is gone, taking with it the

  searing light and thunderous throb.

  I look around from where I sit on top of ho
t

  rubble and broken brick. It shifts and slides beneath

  me with the sound of broken crockery. Everything

  has changed. Everything is different from moments

  before. Everywhere reeks of hot metal and burning

  fuel. Teetering walls grind and strain. My back and

  shoulders throb from bricks and chunks of plaster

  that beat me as they crashed down. My fingers find

  tender lumps on my skull but no blood. No broken

  bones. I clamber to my feet, seeking something to

  steady me. I reach for half-walls and broken pillars.

  22

  The ground slides and tilts and burns my feet. My shoes are gone, blasted off in the explosion.

  “Hamza?”

  My voice is small and broken. Thick with dust.

  I cough. Spit again. I search for Hamza in the dark-

  ness and smoke and dust. He must be close by. But

  my world has shifted.

  The whole building has shifted. The blast and

  the collapse and the chaos could have flung him any-

  where. Close to me, a broken body lies under a heap

  of smoking rubble. Scraps of burnt uniform flutter in

  the rising heat. It’s one of the men who stood next to

  me moments ago. Some of him is missing. There’s a

  lot of blood. I look away.

  I clamber through the hot night. Feeling.

  Searching. Rocks and blown-out bricks tumble

  and clatter. A terrible grinding creaks up high, as

  though the whole structure might collapse at any

  moment. I need to get out. But I also need to find

  Hamza.

  Fires hiss in corners, seeking something to

  devour. They flare high and angry as wooden

  doors and old curtains catch light. They give a little

  brightness in the ash-thick air. Heat rises with the

  oily smoke.

  23

  I see another figure. I’m afraid to look, but I have to know. I slide and scramble over the hot uneven

  ground. Hamza!

  I crouch next to where he’s sprawled on his back,

  blasted among the charred debris. He doesn’t move.

  He might be dead. His legs are wedged between

  broken bricks and fallen walls. One arm is flung

  above his head, the other across his chest. I wipe ash

  and grit from his face. Scoop dirt and broken bits

  from his mouth with my finger. Something hot and

  wet slicks over his face. I think it’s blood. I think the sharp broken bits are teeth, but there’s not enough

  light to see. I lean close and listen. Hamza breathes,

  but it’s ragged and unsteady. I clear the rubble across

  his chest so he can get air, even though that air is