Only Aunt Najah and Uncle Yousef come to see
us off. No one else knows our secret. Dapir and Dayah
hug them tightly. Bushra clings to Aunt Najah.
52
“Give our blessings and apologies to the mukhtar,” Baba says.
“He’ll understand,” Uncle Yousef says.
Baba gives Uncle Yousef the keys to our home.
“As soon as Hamza is able to travel—”
“We will join you,” Uncle Yousef says.
There are tears and broken words and kisses.
Dayah sends her blessings to Hamza. I want to be
gone. Saying good-bye is too difficult. Alan stays
close to me, nuzzling my shirt as Aunt Najah holds
me close.
“Hamza will miss you,” she says.
I think of Hamza in his hospital bed in the for-
eign clinic.
I wonder if he even knows I’m leaving.
When the minibus arrives, it’s already almost
full. The bus attendant ties our luggage on the roof
rack and we cram inside, finding corners and seat
edges to perch on. With scarcely time for a final
glance at our home, and at Uncle Yousef and Aunt
Najah shuffling in the chill gray dawn, we drive off,
crunching over rubble and broken brick. The sick
feeling rises in my throat.
The route out of the city is bumpy and winding,
especially as the driver takes sudden turns to avoid
53
broken buildings or unknown groups clustered on the road.
“Better to avoid trouble,” he says. “I don’t know
who they are.”
“What route are you taking?” Baba says.
“Avoiding the souq,” the driver says. “Missiles hit
the theater last night—it’s blocking the highway.”
The sun is already peeking above the horizon
when we finally reach the main road out of Kobani,
busy with shared taxis, minibuses, and people on
foot, all departing the city. The traffic slows and
eventually stops. Horns blare. Men shout. I stare
out at people who look as though they’ve already
traveled a long way. Everyone carries packs and bags
and string-tied parcels. Kurds in bright clothing.
Groups of men with long beards and loud voices.
Women in the all-enveloping black garments ISIS
makes them wear. Nothing of them can be seen—
their faces and bodies hidden entirely, hands and
feet covered with black gloves and socks. They walk
behind their husbands and sons. Bushra watches
them with a troubled look.
“What’s the delay?” she says.
“Road block,” the driver says.
“Who controls it?” says a man in the back seat.
54
“Protection Units—who else?” the driver says.
“They’ll likely search the bus.”
“What are they looking for?”
“Suicide bombers. Deserters.”
A glance passes between Baba and Dayah. It
sends a chill up my spine. I know what they’re think-
ing: what if Dima or Mahmoud is at the road block?
What if they see us leaving the city? Darkness seeps
into my blood. My grip on Alan tightens until he
wriggles and looks at me.
“Has the road block been here long?” Baba says
to the driver.
“Since Kurds took the city. Think it’s bad getting
out?” He glances at us. “Ten times worse getting
back in. They’re terrified ISIS or pro-government
forces will take back control.”
A dozen or more soldiers of the Protection
Units police the roadblock. They wear uniforms
and heavy army boots like Dima and Mahmoud.
Weighed down with guns and bullets, the women
have their hair scraped back under headscarves or
baseball caps; the men are mostly clean-shaven. I
scan their faces from the safety of the minibus but
don’t see anyone I recognize. Maybe fortune smiles
on us this morning.
55
A soldier with his gun at the ready peers in when our turn comes. He studies each of us in turn before
speaking to the driver.
“Destination?” he says.
“Aleppo,” says the driver. “Back before sunset
this evening.”
“Aleppo is destroyed,” the soldier says to all of
us. “Rebel groups fight the Syrian army daily. Every
morning brings more trouble. You’re safer in Kobani.”
“We’re safer out of Syria,” the driver says. “But
that’s not about to happen.”
“IDs?” says the soldier.
The driver collects our papers and hands them
over. The soldier flicks through them, matching
them against each of us. He pauses when he comes
to Baba’s.
“Kurdish?” He leans down to find Baba. “Forces
in Aleppo are targeting Kurds.”
“My mother needs to visit her son,” Baba says.
Dapir smiles and nods at the soldier, who looks at
her. My heart races.
“Bring him back to Kobani,” the soldier says to
Dapir. “He’ll be safer here with the Protection Units.”
He hands back our papers. Waves us on. Nobody
in the minibus says anything as we clear the road
56
block and speed along the open road, heading for Aleppo and a nonexistent uncle. I sneak a look at
Baba. He watches the road ahead, not looking at me
or anybody else. My heart tightens when I think of
the soldier’s words: Forces in Aleppo are targeting Kurds.
“Who is Dapir visiting?” Alan says.
“I’ll tell you later.”
Our journey continues without incident. Signs of
war are everywhere. A rusted and blown-out tank is
pulled off the road; the scorched and shredded black
flag of ISIS flutters from it. Baba points out ruins of
medieval palaces and ancient forts in the hills, gut-
ted and burned by fighting. We pass bombed facto-
ries and businesses. Near lunchtime, the traffic slows
again.
“Road blocks for Aleppo,” the driver says.
“Controlled by?” a man says.
“Syrian Armed Forces.”
“We’ll get out here,” the man says.
Nobody asks questions as three men get out of
the minibus. It’s better not to know why people
want to avoid the Syrian army. Now only one other
family remains on board with us. We shuffle into
vacated seats as the minibus continues over a road
pockmarked with bomb craters and littered with
57
wrecked vehicles. I stare in silence: I never thought I would see destruction worse than in Kobani.
“We won’t get into the Old City,” the driver says.
“As near as you can,” Baba says.
“They’ll divert us to the highway.”
The Syrian army doesn’t check papers like the
Protection Units. They peer into the back of the
minibus, scanning our faces, then wave us on.
“Looking for men,” the driver says. “Perhaps our
friends were right to get out earlier.”
“We’re heading west,” Baba says. “Can you get
us to the road out of the city?”
“Too dangerous to go tha
t far.”
“Where can we get transport west?”
The driver looks at Baba. “No minibuses. No
microbuses. No shared taxis. Nothing left in Aleppo.
Only transport like mine coming from Kobani or
Homs—here and back in one day. Nobody will stay
in Aleppo. Nobody works out of Aleppo.”
A second road block diverts us to the ring road.
Crowds of people hang around, sitting, waiting,
walking. Others get out of buses and shared taxis
to walk into the Old City. “We’ll get out here,” the
man with the other family says.
Six of them climb out. They pay the driver and
58
disappear into the crowd. Only my family is left.
The minibus swings onto the ring road. Traffic is
backed up. We edge along slowly. After ten minutes,
the driver pulls over. “End of the line. Or I won’t
make it back to Kobani before dark.”
“We need to go farther,” says Baba.
“I’m not sitting in this traffic. It could cost me
my life. You’ll be quicker cutting through the Old
City on foot and walking out on the west road.”
Dayah looks at Dapir, Alan, and me. We’re not
exactly candidates for long-distance walking. She
questions me with her eyes. Dapir opens the door to
clamber out. The bus attendant drags our luggage
from the rack. Baba argues with the driver about
the fare.
“I’m not paying that much!” Baba says. “You
haven’t even brought us where we want to go.”
“I took a risk getting you here,” the driver says.
Baba mutters under his breath. He settles up, and
the minibus drives off. We stand alone at the side of
the road, trucks and shared taxis and minibuses edg-
ing around us. I stare at the heaps of bags surround-
ing us. For the first time, I understand what Dayah
meant when she said no room for luxuries.
59
6
We don’t talk much as we walk. Our luggage is heavy
and the day is warm. As we get closer to the Old City,
we talk even less. There is too much to look at. Too
much to see. Every other building is in ruins, spill-
ing rubble and broken bricks onto the streets. Cars
are rusted hulks, half buried beneath debris. I’ve seen
similar destruction in Kobani. But here in Aleppo,
it’s on a much bigger scale. Whole roads are blocked
with wreckage and shattered buildings. We pass
through the Old City walls. In the Old City, Baba
points out the fine mansions and covered souqs, the
ancient caravanserais, the mosques and churches—
everything burnt and broken and twisted.
And the people. I’ve never seen anything like the
people of Aleppo. Most of the women are cloaked
from head to foot in black clothing. I can’t see their
60
faces or expressions. I can’t even see their hands or feet, because they wear black gloves and socks.
Sometimes, I glimpse the shadow of dark eyes as
they peer at us through their veils, but when they
see me look, they turn away. Always in the company
of male guardians who stare us down as we pass,
the women whisper like black ghosts through the
crumbling streets, vanishing suddenly and silently
into ruined buildings. Some of them carry guns over
their shoulders.
“We need to cover up more,” Dayah says to
Bushra and Dapir. “Before we run into religious
police.”
For once, my sister doesn’t object. We’ve all
heard of punishment beatings and fines in rebel-
held cities for women who fail to dress a certain way.
Dayah, Dapir and Bushra put on the most conserva-
tive headscarves they have. Then Dayah pins scarves
across their faces so I only see their eyes. This is something they’ve never done in Kobani. Alan begins to
cry. He butts himself against me and doesn’t want to
hold Dapir’s hand.
“This is not the Syria I know,” Dapir says.
“It’s safer to cover up than to risk being pun-
ished,” Dayah says.
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We hurry through mostly empty, mostly silent streets. The only sound is the crunch of our feet over
broken stone.
Children Alan’s age don’t play with pretend guns
or run through the dirt dragging dead cables like
in Kobani. They squat in the dust of broken door-
ways instead, staring at us with big eyes and sunken
cheeks. They hunt through heaps of rubble, eating
what they find. They haunt the windows of dere-
lict buildings, appearing like wraiths, disappearing
as quickly. Their faces are yellow, their hair matted
and filthy. They scratch at their bodies through torn
clothing, pick at scabs on their scalps.
“What are they?” Alan says.
“Children,” Baba says.
“Where are their proper clothes? Their homes?”
“They don’t have any.”
“Why don’t foreign aid clinics help them, Baba?”
I say.
“The foreign aid people have been evacuated
from Aleppo,” Baba says. “It’s too dangerous. And
local groups can only do so much.”
The whole city seems to be inhabited solely by
these eerie children and ghostly women. The only
men we see are the male guardians with the women,
62
and soldiers of the Syrian Armed Forces patrolling the streets in armed vehicles and trucks, guns at the
ready. Always at the ready.
After a while, even looking becomes too much.
I’m too full of what I see. Instead I turn my gaze
to the cracked pavements. I concentrate on stepping
around shattered bricks and avoiding dark stains,
but still, I can’t escape the familiar stench that hangs in the air like a thick fog: the sickly odor of rotting bodies and open sewers and burning. The smell
clings to my nostrils and sickens my belly. There is
no escape. I distract myself by guiding Alan, helping
him to keep his balance on the rutted road.
At the end of a street, crowds of people gather in
a square. There must be three or four hundred men,
women and teenagers, their backs to us. We stop to
see what’s happening. The hordes are engrossed by
something in their midst. It holds their rapt atten-
tion. We see flickers of movement, hear a single
raised voice. A cheer goes up. The crowd begins to
chant, voices rising louder and louder in unison until
the sound takes over everything.
“We need to leave,” Baba says.
He turns us from the crowded square. He walks
fast. We scurry after him until the chanting has faded
63
behind us. Still, Baba strides ahead. Bushra and I jog to catch up with him.
“What was that?” I say.
“Public punishments,” Baba says.
“Beatings?”
“Who knows?” Baba says. “Lashing. Stoning.
Something barbaric.”
Bushra looks at me. “I’m scared, Ghalib.” Her
voice is a whisper.
I’ve never known Bushra scared
before. It fright-
ens me. She’s such a fighter. Such a strong spirit.
“We’ll be out of Aleppo soon,” I say.
Baba finds the west road at last and we leave
the troubled Old City and head toward the town of
Urum al-Kubra. The road opens out. As we walk
farther from the city, I relax a little.
Cars and trucks sometimes pass us, but no mini-
buses or microbuses. We don’t try to get a lift. “You
don’t know who might be driving,” Baba says. We
don’t get offered any lifts either. “The driver doesn’t
know who he might be inviting into his vehicle.”
People keep to themselves. It’s safer that way.
We stop on a little tree-covered hill for a late
lunch. Dayah, Dapir, and Bushra finally unpin their
face veils and loosen their scarves. I gulp water as
64
Dayah and Dapir hand around pitas stuffed with cheese and canned tomatoes.
“How far is it, Baba?” I say.
“A long way on foot,” he says. “I thought there
would still be transport.”
“Will we get there before dark?”
“I hope so.”
“What if we don’t?” Bushra says. She’s been quiet
up to now. She still looks scared.
“We’re doing well, Bushra,” Baba says. “We will
reach town before dark. How are your feet, Ghalib?”
My feet have been stinging for the last hour, but
I haven’t said anything. And since we have so much
farther to go before dark, I can’t say anything now
either. Dapir and Alan are doing so well. I don’t want
to be the one to hold everyone up.
“Not too bad,” I say.
“I’ll give you painkillers,” Baba says. He opens
his bag. “They’ll help.”
We don’t linger after we’ve eaten. We pack up,
take up our bags and walk again. We’re not the only
travelers along the route. Ahead and behind, people
straggle along the length of the road. Sometimes we
pass groups eating or resting. Sometimes families
turn off the main road toward villages and farms.
65
The afternoon passes. We walk and walk. We no longer talk. There’s too far to go and too much to carry.
The heat burns out of the day; the painkillers
burn out of my system. My feet are on fire. Every
step feels like I’m walking on knives.
We shift the bags around and Baba carries Alan
for a while. The air turns golden.
Bushra peers at the evening sky. “It is far now,
Baba?”
“Not far.”
Without Refuge Page 5
