Escape from Aleppo

by N. H. Senzai

  It’s a pharmacy, she thought, cautiously walking toward a set of torn maroon curtains hanging from the wall at the back. She pushed aside the heavy fabric and found a small office, ransacked and empty. All that remained was a wooden desk, a rickety metal chair, and stacks of files, most of them strewn across the floor. With a relieved sigh, Nadia grabbed a few thick files and returned to the door to wedge them under the gap. Someone could push it open, but it was the best she could do. For now, she had to stay as dry and warm as possible. October nights in Aleppo could turn brutally cold and she had none of the blankets her aunts had been carrying. Getting sick now would be a disaster.

  Back inside the office, she slipped off her coat and lay it across the desk to dry out as best it could. She wished she could start a fire but she didn’t have any matches. Her gaze fell on the curtains and she wrenched them from the wall. Wrapping them around her shivering body, she crawled under the desk and curled up like a caterpillar forming a cocoon, listening to the patter of rain against the window. As warmth seeped into her weary muscles, her eyelids grew heavy. Don’t go to sleep! She pinched her arm as the beam from the flashlight flickered. Grudgingly, she turned it off, not wanting to waste the batteries. As the comforting golden glow disappeared, it transformed the deep maroon of the curtain a blood red.

  Chapter Seven

  January 15, 2011

  It’s been a month since Mohamed Bouazizi, the disgruntled vegetable vendor from Tunisia, lit himself on fire and died,” reported Sara at Syria One News, her bright red lips pronouncing each word with care. Except for her youngest cousins, everyone in Nadia’s family sat glued to the television, drapes pulled tight.

  Nadia lounged in the back, listening with half an ear, applying another coat of Purple Passion polish to her nails and waiting patiently for everyone to leave so she could watch Arab Idol. But she was feeling pretty magnanimous, since the milk commercial she’d starred in had just run for the first time earlier that day. Over a dozen calls from her friends had come in, telling her how fabulous she’d been, so she didn’t want to make a fuss, especially since Jiddo looked particularly worried about what the newscaster was reporting.

  “We now have breaking news to report,” said Sara, staring intently into the camera, eyes narrowed. “The president of Tunisia, Ben Ali, unable to manage the discord in his country, has stepped down after twenty-three years of rule and fled to Saudi Arabia.”

  Nadia looked up. The president ran away to Saudi Arabia? She looked at her father, but he didn’t look particularly shocked, nor did the other grown-ups.

  She heard Ammo Zayn laugh without humor. “Discord. She calls it discord, like they had a disagreement over what to serve for dinner!”

  “Well, she’s not going to tell us what we already know,” said Nadia’s mother. “Now that everyone can watch foreign satellite channels like Al Jazeera, they can’t hide the truth of what’s really happening outside Syria.”

  Her father took her mother’s hand and squeezed it. “Ben Ali had no choice,” he said. “After all the demonstrations demanding political and economic reforms, and with over a dozen Tunisians dead, he never kept his promise to hold elections, or make concrete changes.”

  “Yup,” said Ammo Hadi with a humorless smile. “He was pretty much run out of town like a dog with his tail between his legs.”

  “Careful what you say,” snapped Jiddo. He was pale and his hands shook when he reached for his tea. Nana helped him, worry in her eyes as her gaze met Nadia’s. Her grandfather had had a stroke a week after her birthday party, and seemed to grow weaker by the day. Nadia grabbed a box of tissues and took it to her grandparents. Jiddo patted her cheek with a tired smile.

  “It’s not just Al Jazeera,” said Jad, now eighteen and a member of the adult club. “People are getting their news from the Internet, from sites like Facebook and Twitter.”

  “What book and what’s that?” asked Jiddo, looking confused.

  “Jiddo.” Jad smiled, two dimples appearing on his handsome cheeks. “They’re places on the computer where people share news. That’s how I knew about the clashes taking place in Jordan, Algeria, and Oman after what really happened to Bouazizi. Anyone can post pictures and videos of what’s happening, and connect with other people to organize demonstrations.”

  “I’m sure the Assad regime is not happy about this,” prophesized Ammo Zayn, his voice low.

  Nadia shivered, Arab Idol forgotten for the moment.

  • • •

  Soon after Ben Ali fled Tunisia, Egyptians took to the streets and camped out on Tahrir Square in the heart of Cairo. Within days their president, Hosni Mubarak, tumbled from his dictatorship. Then came Yemen, Bahrain, Morocco, and Libya. Ammo Ramzi, married to Khala Lina, brought back newspapers from a business trip to London, and as Nadia sat at the dining room table looking for the fashion section, she noted similar headlines emblazoned across the front pages: ARAB SPRING TAKES ROOT IN THE MIDDLE EAST.

  That’s what it was being called in the West: the Arab Spring—uprisings across the Middle East, challenging corrupt authoritarian regimes. Intrigued by the adults’ worried, hushed conversations, Nadia ran a search on the Internet using Jad’s laptop and found a definition of “authoritarian.”

  Not fully getting what it meant, she lugged the computer to her father, who was in his office. A tad annoyed to be pulled away from a pile of contracts he was examining, he sighed, running a hand over his balding head. At first, Nadia thought he would tell her not to worry about such things, but he surprised her by explaining that an authoritarian regime was a ruler or government that held complete power over the lives of its people, and that the people were not free to choose their leader, or the rules that governed their country. When he noticed the computer screen, his lips tightened.

  “These are uneasy times,” he said, voice gruff. “A search like this might be noticed by someone. . . . Erase your search history and never do a search like this again. If you have questions, come to me.”

  For once, Nadia didn’t argue. She was surprised by the fear in his eyes, their color a shade darker blue than hers. Someone. In her gut she knew what he meant. All Syrians did. Their president, Bashar al-Assad, was the son of the country’s previous president, Hafez al-Assad, who’d come to power in a military coup in 1970. In school she had learned that the Assad family were their saviors and guardians, the ones who built modern Syria and maintained peace and prosperity. It was drilled into her that only they could keep the religious and ethnic groups from fighting one another. But on the streets, in the shops, mosques, churches, salons, and universities, the mukhabarat and their informants were everywhere, listening and reporting back what they learned, making people who disagreed or dissented with the Assad regime disappear into the night. . . . They fit the definition of “authoritarian regime”: a ruler or government willing to do anything to keep their power, thought Nadia with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

  Chapter Eight

  October 10, 2013 4:56 a.m.

  For the third time in the past twenty-four hours, Nadia awoke with a start, muscles sore, brain befuddled, not quite certain where she was. Then it all came rushing back. She sat up, head thumping the underside of the desk. Grimacing in pain, she threw off the heavy curtains and stuck her head out from beneath the desk. Silence greeted her ears. The rain had stopped, and the window was still a small dark square. Relief that she hadn’t slept away the night evaporated after she squinted down at her watch. Dawn was barely an hour away. She crawled out, pulled on her damp coat, and grabbed her bags. As she moved toward the doorway, a sharp bang echoed at the front of the store, followed by a slow creak.

  Heart in her throat, Nadia retreated beneath the desk, making herself as small as possible. A dozen possibilities of who it could be raced through her mind: Syrian army troops, mukhabarat, or worse, shabiha. . . . Her father’s whispered conversations tumbled through her mind, of what the shabiha did to people they thought were traitors. Or it could be one of the rebe
l groups. If that was the case, she could tell them that her father was one of them—maybe they would help her.

  At first she didn’t see the small glowing lights, not until they appeared at the office door. They were low to the ground . . . coming straight for her. . . . What on earth . . . The lights narrowed and picked up speed while Nadia flattened herself against the back of the desk. Muffling a cry, she tensed as a furry object leapt into her chest and buried its cold nose in her neck. Mishmish! Nadia released a hot rush of air as purring filled her ears. “You silly, silly cat,” she whispered hoarsely, her face sinking into his damp pelt. Joy quickly evaporated as footsteps came through the doorway and into the pharmacy.

  We have to get out of here, Nadia thought.

  She slithered out from beneath the desk, set Mishmish on the floor, and tried to open the window. It was sealed shut, probably to keep thieves out. In growing panic, she spun around, looking for another escape route. Nothing.

  Calm down! she told herself. Take a deep breath. Think. . . .

  Whoever was out there didn’t know she was back here. Maybe, just maybe, she could make a run for it. She tucked Mishmish inside his burlap bag, then got back on her hands and knees and crawled toward the doorway. Flattened against the edge, she paused, shoulders tense, trying to hear what was going on. Someone snorted, then came the clatter of boots. Nadia tried to count—there seemed to be an awful lot of feet out there.

  “Now, now, don’t be upset, my dear,” came a calm, gravelly voice. An irritated snort came in response. “I just need to stop here for a bit. We’ll find a more comfortable spot after our meeting with Alaa.”

  Nadia frowned. This sure didn’t sound like hardened soldiers, or rebels. She heard the front door shut with a thud, which alarmed her. A few seconds later, soft light spilled in through the doorway that led to the back office where she hid. Nadia gingerly peeked around the corner, and her eyes widened. In the middle of the pharmacy stood a slight man in loose woolen pantaloons and a navy vest, a taqiyah (skull cap) covering his cropped white hair. With his back to her, he leaned over to inspect the contents of the shelves. Past him, near the door, stood a sturdy, dun-colored donkey. Nadia stared at the stout, long-eared beast, who eyed the man balefully and snorted again.

  “Not exactly what I need, but there are some useful things left,” muttered the man, crouching down to inspect the floor. He picked up bottles and packages and stacked them along the counter, then searched the crevices along the floorboard.

  A surge of relief flooded through Nadia as she eyed the old man. She knew better than to assume he was no threat, but at least he didn’t look like a soldier or cold-blooded assassin. She calculated the distance to the door, which unfortunately had a donkey blocking it. But if she ran for it, she could make it. The man had crossed to the other side of the store and slipped behind the counter to scrutinize a line of dusty bottles on the top shelf.

  Nadia kneaded her thigh, then her calves, working out the tightness. Somehow she just had to get around that donkey and through the door. With a deep breath, she gave Mishmish a pat and stepped through the office door at a dead run. Eyes locked on the animal, she made a snap judgment. She ducked and went under its stubby legs, inhaling a wet, musky scent as she reached the door on the other side. She grabbed the handle and pulled, just as the ornery donkey backed up with a huff. The door jammed, arrested by the animal’s hairy backside. There was no way to slip out.

  Trembling, Nadia turned and saw the old man still standing on the other side of the counter, looking at her with a startled expression on his bearded face.

  “Hello, my dear,” he said calmly, as if he were meeting her in her grandparents’ living room for a dinner party. “It appears you are in quite a rush.” His bright amber eyes glinted through silver spectacles.

  Nadia swallowed, her tongue thick and dry in her mouth. “Um . . . yes,” she said, the words popping out of her mouth. “I’m really in a hurry to get somewhere.”

  “I see,” said the man. “Well, if you’d like, Jamila can move, and you can open the door and proceed.”

  “Yes, that would be very helpful,” said Nadia, shifting the bags on her shoulder. Mishmish chose that moment to pop out his head and yowl.

  The donkey’s ears perked up and she turned her head toward Nadia so that the two animals’ noses could touch.

  “I see that you have found your cat,” said the man. “He was following us all evening and stopped at this store as we made our way through the rain. He would not budge until I opened the door for him.”

  “I thought I had lost him,” said Nadia, giving Mishmish a scratch under his chin as a jumble of emotions bubbled within her. “Thank you for helping him find me.”

  “Alhamdulillah, thanks to Allah, you both found each other again,” said the man, raising the flashlight he had toward Nadia. “It looks like you have quite a cut on your forehead.” He passed her one of the small tubes he’d collected. “You should apply some of this, it will keep away infection.”

  Nadia took the antibiotic cream with a shaking hand. The kindness in his words penetrated deep in her heart, and, without warning, tears rolled down her cheeks. “Everything has all gone so wrong,” she sniffed. An avalanche of words tumbled from her mouth, telling him all that had happened, ending with: “Do you have a mobile phone?”

  “No, my dear,” said the man, shaking his head. “I do not care for such newfangled things.”

  “Do you know where Asbahi Clinic is located?” she asked, hoping at least for directions.

  “Yes, I do,” said the man.

  “Can you tell me how to get there?” asked Nadia, hope renewed.

  “This area has become very dangerous with the approaching battle,” said the man. “It is not safe for a girl to be out alone.”

  “Yes, I know about the battle, my father told me,” said Nadia. “But I have to go. . . . I’m already late, and if I don’t reach my family, they’ll think I’m dead and leave for Turkey without me.”

  The man took a deep breath, his lips pursed as if pondering something. “I will take you there,” he said finally.

  “You will?” squeaked Nadia, surprised.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s only a half an hour walk from here, if things go smoothly.”

  Nadia paused, staring at the frail old man, a moment of uncertainty flaring as she wondered if it was wise to go with a stranger. “Okay, thank you,” she finally said, realizing that at this moment she had no other choice.

  The man sighed. “All right. Let me collect some things and we shall be on our way.”

  Chapter Nine

  October 10, 2013 6:09 a.m.

  Nadia stood at the pharmacy door, watching the old man efficiently harness Jamila to a small four-wheeled cart parked on the street, a tarp covering its top. He leaned down to refasten the cloth wrapping on the donkey’s hooves.

  “Why are you doing that?”

  “To muffle her footsteps,” he replied. “It is wise to be stealthy on the roads these days.”

  Nadia nodded. Like a pesky splinter, doubt dug into her skin as Khala Lina’s lecture to all the kids not to play outside came back to her—during desperate times, people did bad things to one another, and you needed to be careful of strangers. Who is this man, really? she thought. Should I trust him?

  “Before we reach the clinic, I need to run a small errand,” he said, checking a silver compass. “It won’t take long,” he added, slipping the instrument into his pocket. “It’s on the way to the clinic.”

  Fingers clinging to the doorframe, familiar whispers rang in her mind. Don’t go outside. It’s safer here. Nadia stared down at the ground. “Stop it,” she hissed, pulling her woolen cap over her ears.

  “Are you all right?” asked the old man.

  “I . . . ,” began Nadia, “I don’t like being outside.”

  The man nodded. “Yes, it’s difficult for many. Living under the fear of being bombed and hearing mortar and gunfire for so long can have a terr
ible effect on the body and the mind.”

  She nodded, tongue-tied as she battled both her fear of being outside and the uncertainty of trusting a man she’d just met. The man lifted a corner of the tarp and rooted around in his cart. “Here,” he said, handing her a dark blue visor with what looked to be flaps on both sides. “Wear this, pulled low over your eyes. Stay beside me and keep your eyes focused in front of you.”

  Nadia took the hat, again surprised by his kindness. She realized that she had to trust him, at a least a little, if she was going to find her family. Once he dropped her off at the clinic, he’d be gone. She snugly fit the visor over her father’s olive-green cap and pushed away from the door. The hat made it so she could see only in front of her. She found it surprisingly calming. Relieved, she took a deep, ragged breath. The air, usually a mix of gunpowder, smoke, concrete dust, and rotting garbage, smelled fresh, cleansed by the rains. She took a quick peek at the sky and spotted a line of pinkish-yellow light licking the eastern edge of the city. Silence pressed against them from all sides, as if they were the only inhabitants of the city. But soon the chirp of birds trilled through the air, welcoming dawn.

  “We needed this rain years ago,” muttered the old man as he took off down the street.

  Nadia had heard similar things from her father. What did he call it? Climate change. Yes, that’s it. He’d explained how burning fossil fuels like oil and coal was warming up the earth. In Syria, it had triggered a seven-year drought, turning rich farmland into dust. Their livelihoods gone, farmers flooded into the cities. Driven to despair, their voices had merged with others in the rising tide against the government.