by Sumia Sukkar
THE BOY FROM ALEPPO
WHO PAINTED THE WAR
NOW A BBC RADIO 4 DRAMATISATION
PRAISE FOR
THE BOY FROM ALEPPO WHO PAINTED THE WAR
‘Written with an insider’s knowledge of the land and its people.’
Kate Saunders, The Times
‘[A] powerful debut novel.’
John Everington, The National
‘A perversely beautiful and viscerally disturbing read, powerfully written. In a brilliantly executed and convincing narrative, from the first line, we are propelled right inside the boy’s head. The giddying fulcrum of autism in the context of a non-autistic (insane and violent) world works perfectly and the terrifying disintegration of normal life, the family and civilisation makes one feel as though one is on a descent to Hell. Once picked up, this book is impossible to put down. At the end, you will be shattered, your view of the world changed forever.’
Suhayl Saadi, award-winning author of Psychoraag and Joseph’s Box
‘I’m still reeling from the emotional rollercoaster it takes you on. It’s a clever writer who can draw that scale of emotion in one book. A stunning book, which bravely covers a horrific topic but does so in a way which reminds us that through every traumatic time, you can still find love, affection and humour.’
Jess McGlynn, Catch A Single Thought
First published in 2013
paperback edition 2014
by Eyewear Publishing Ltd
Suite 38, 19-21 Crawford Street
London, W1H 1PJ
United Kingdom
Cover design Stuart Poulson
Typeset with graphic design by Edwin Smet
Printed in England by TJ International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall
All rights reserved
© 2013-2014 Sumia Sukkar
Afterword © 2014 Laura Guthrie
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, companies, events or places is entirely coincidental.
Set in Bembo 12 / 14,5 pt
Print ISBN 978-1-908998-46-0
eBook ISBN 978-1-783015-92-4
WWW.EYEWEARPUBLISHING.COM
THE BOY FROM ALEPPO WHO PAINTED THE WAR
A NOVEL OF SYRIA
by Sumia Sukkar
with an Afterword by
Laura Guthrie
For my precious family,
with love.
Sumia Sukkar
is a British writer
of Syrian and Algerian ancestry,
brought up in London.
This is her debut novel.
My blood has travellers in it: a Damascene moon, nightingales, domes and grains. From Damascus Jasmine begin to send whiteness across the air so fragrance itself is perfumed by their scent.
— from Nizar Qabbani’s ‘A Damascene Moon’ Translated by Sumia Sukkar & Todd Swift
Characters
Adam — The boy from Aleppo who painted the war
Ali — Adam’s neighbour/ friend
Amira — Adam’s cousin
Aunt Suha — Adam’s aunt
Baba — Adam’s father
Isa — Adam’s brother
Khalid — Adam’s brother
Khanjar — Famous mercenary
Liquorice — Adam’s cat
Maha — Mama - Adam’s mother
Miss Basma — Adam’s teacher
Nabil — Adam’s friend
Tariq — Adam’s brother
Uncle Shady — Adam’s uncle
Walid — Khalid’s friend
Wisam — Yasmine’s lover
Yasmine — Adam’s sister
Contents
Chapter One: ORANGE
Chapter Two: VIOLET
Chapter Three: NAVY
Chapter Four: BURGUNDY
Chapter Five: WHITE
Chapter Six: BLUE
Chapter Seven: YELLOW
Chapter Eight: RED
Chapter Nine: MAROON
Chapter Ten: BLACK
Chapter Eleven: INDIGO YASMINE
Chapter Twelve: BROWN
Chapter Thirteen: LIME
Chapter Fourteen: GREEN
Chapter Fifteen: GREY
Chapter Sixteen: BYZANTINE YASMINE
Chapter Seventeen: RUBY
Chapter Eighteen: LAVENDER
Chapter Nineteen: MAGENTA
Chapter Twenty: CHESTNUT
Chapter Twenty-One: CARMINE
Chapter Twenty-Two: CLOUDY WHITE
Chapter Twenty-Three: ROSE
Chapter Twenty-Four: APRICOT YASMINE
Afterword by Laura Guthrie
Acknowledgments
Notes On Arabic Words
Chapter One
ORANGE
‘I CAN’T DRAW! There’s too much noise outside!’ I shout to Yasmine.
‘Adam, calm down and just continue Habibi!’
‘Yasmine, tell the kids to yes, yes, yes, stop making noise! They listen to you.’
Yasmine lowers her head. She does that when things are difficult to explain. I don’t like it.
‘Adam Habibi, you’re old enough to understand this is the beginning of a war.’
Mama never used to shout at me. It’s at times like these that I miss her the most. Yasmine’s fingers ruffle through her hair, her fingers look frail, just like the number one. I feel sorry for the number one, it seems lonely. So I think I feel sorry for Yasmine too. Yasmine lifts her head up now. That means she is not upset. Her eyes look like the number eight, friendly and sad.
‘Yes I’m 14, does that make you happy Yasmine? What do you mean a war? Do you mean like in Dighton’s paintings? But I can’t see that from the window. Look here Yasmine, kids are just running around. No one is wearing uniforms.’
Yasmine closes her eyes. She looks green. She is usually ruby. That’s my favourite colour. I use it in most of my paintings. I remember when mama used to say I should never stop painting. She promised she would keep my paintings with her. But now they have to stay with me.
‘It’s okay Yasmine, I’ll just paint with the noise.’
Yasmine blows me a kiss. We do this to show our love. Before she died, mama told her that she should blow me a kiss every time she is proud or happy with me. Mama used to do that to me because she understood I don’t like people touching me.
‘Yasmine, do you like my painting?’
‘It’s lovely Adam, but why not try painting something new for a change?’
Yasmine always says this. She thinks I paint the same picture. I don’t. No two pictures are ever the same. It’s hard to explain that to her. She starts walking away, so I don’t need to explain anything. The colours are always different. I sometimes use pastel colours and at other times harsh bright colours. All the paintings have different feelings behind them. I wish Yasmine would understand this like mama used to. I feel content now so I use a lot of turquoise. I continue painting until it is time for Baba to come back home.
Baba comes back home every day at 4:48 p.m. He doesn’t even need to ring the bell any more. He knows I’ll be waiting to open the door
for him at that exact minute. It has been like this for three years, ever since mama died. He looks more tired every passing day. The bags under his eyes are clearer now. I blow a kiss onto them every night hoping they will go away. I don’t like seeing him tired. Yasmine has the hot water ready for Baba to soak his feet as soon as I open the door. He is never a minute late and is always holding a bag full of papers to mark. When he is not too tired he even stamps them with colourful words like ‘well done’ and ‘excellent’. I like to help him when he uses the stamps. They’re fun to play with. Baba sometimes complains about me playing with the elastic band around my wrist. He says the sound annoys him, but I can’t let go of it. It has to always be on my wrist. It helps me think.
Yasmine has made stuffed vegetables. It is the 26th of January and mama isn’t looking down on us today. I love stuffed vegetables: they are like a bowl of emotions because they are very colourful. I sometimes imagine the peppers arguing with each other because they all feel differently. ‘I feel melancholy in this bowl of food,’ the red pepper would say. ‘Oh red pepper, how can you feel that way? You should be so angry that we are going to be eaten,’ the aubergine would frown. My imagination sometimes takes hold of me and I get louder.
Yasmine always brings me back, reminding me that we shouldn’t be too loud because Baba is tired. When Yasmine cooks six peppers, I know that mama is watching over us, because mama always made six stuffed peppers. Today there are five on the plate. This makes me sad, but it’s okay, mama is probably resting. I sometimes wonder if mama eats stuffed vegetables and baklawa in heaven. I know they have a lot of yummy food up there but this is her favourite dish. Yasmine sometimes sighs and smiles a weak smile when I tell her about how I know when mama is watching over us. I can’t explain why some things are true. But I am sure this is true. I don’t lie.
Mama died when I was 11. I miss her. She always told me I should be good and go to university to show people my paintings. I can’t wait to go to university. My classmates say I belong to the special needs class and not university. They are stupid and wrong, says Yasmine. I don’t like meeting new people, so I won’t speak to anyone in class at university. So many people like to create small talk. I don’t see the need for it. It’s silly and a waste of time. I don’t know why people don’t realise this.
Khalid, Tariq and Isa come in and join the table. They are all the same age and at university. They are triplets. Even though they look alike they all have different colours. Khalid is orange, Tariq is teal and Isa is green. That’s how I tell them apart. Orange brother always smiles and looks cheerful, he is the one who makes all the jokes in the house. Teal brother always gets me chocolate and comes home the latest. Green Isa is the quietest. He doesn’t study architecture like the other two, he studies Arabic literature instead. Hardly anyone notices his presence, but it’s hard for me to overlook his aura.
‘Yasmine, can I get up from the table please?’
‘You didn’t even finish your food Adam.’
Everyone is sharing from a plate in the middle of the table but I always need a plate of my own. I don’t like my food touching anybody else’s. So Yasmine can tell I hardly ate. I don’t get up from the table but keep fidgeting and start banging my feet on the ground. Yasmine ignores me. I don’t like it when she does that but if I say anything she’ll make me eat and I don’t want to. I wait until everyone else excuses themselves from the table. Yasmine is upset I think. Her face looks long. When her face is round she is happy. I have a long face when I think of mama. My heart feels bloody and black, I can’t smile at anything. I try not to think of mama much because I don’t like the feeling. I don’t know why I feel that way when I think of her but I am too scared to ask too many questions about it. I just try to forget. Now that I am trying to forget about thinking of mama I can’t stop. I hate it when this happens.
The violet colour of her death that came out of her coffin is now stuck in my mind. I can sometimes go days without thinking about it, but when I start, it is hard to stop. She looked like snow. Not made of snow, but just a pile of snow in a box, messy and about to melt and turn into water. I wanted to touch mama and see if she felt as cold as snow but Yasmine said it would be better not to. Mama’s hair looked like a pigeon sitting on the snow. It is scary to remember it. I feel sick now. I’m scared.
I leave the sitting room and run to my room since it’s not my turn to help in the kitchen today. I always open my door, count to three, take a step back and jump onto my bed from the door. I never step on the carpet between the door and the bed. If I do it means I won’t have a good day. Even when I am too tired to jump I have to. Being in my room makes me feel warm and brown. I love the feeling, the feeling means home. My window is dusty and it hurts my eyes. I need to clean it, now. I jump to the window and try to blow the dust away. It’s from the outside. It doesn’t usually get this dusty. Maybe a sandstorm is coming. I can still see through the window but if I let the dust grow it will slide into my room and turn into a big weird creature that will eat me when I am not looking. It always happens in the horror movies that Yasmine doesn’t like me watching. There are no children running outside like usual. The café opposite my window has the chairs on the tables. The name ‘Al-Sham’ is full of dust and the café seems like it is abandoned and empty.
Chapter Two
VIOLET
I SOMETIMES PRETEND I’m a dinosaur who is complaining about being the last one left here, not having anyone to play with and who eats humans who don’t want to play with him. Sometimes I even pretend I’m living in the Stone Age and hunting for food, like in The Flintstones. It’s so much fun to pretend I am someone else. I am good at playing games like that. When I am in bed and the lights are off I imagine I am a firefly glowing in the dark looking for a mate like in Grave of the Fireflies, but I never imagine I am a scary insect because then I won’t be able to sleep.
The sun just came out. I always wake up as soon as there’s light. I just can’t sleep with light outside and I don’t like closing the curtains because I feel trapped. I was once playing hide-and-seek with Khalid and I hid under the bed and he couldn’t find me. Mama then called him and he forgot about the game. I waited for hours. After that I hated small and dark spaces. They’re scary.
I can look outside my window when I sit up on my bed. The street outside is still empty and now even dustier. The café is still not open and I can see posters all over the walls. It must really be a sandstorm or maybe a war like Yasmine said. I jump up to the window to read what the posters say but I can’t read them from this far. I look at my watch. It’s Saturday. I don’t have school today so I can’t go outside. I only go out when I have school. I don’t have any other reason to go outside otherwise. I will have to wait to read what the posters say. I can smell coffee from the kitchen. I hate the taste but I love waking up to the smell. I can hear the sound of the television from the sitting room. No one is usually up this early on Saturday apart from Yasmine and me. I jump back on my bed and then to my door to see who is watching television. I want to watch my morning show about modern art but I guess today I won’t be able to. I walk five steps then turn one foot to the right and put the other foot down and count three steps to the sitting room.
The sitting room looks like a messy art canvas with bright colours. My eyes squint. It’s too colourful for me in the morning. The whole family is sitting around the television. Everyone has their duvets on them. I wonder how long they have been there for. The breakfast is still on the table: red and yellow peppers cut up on a plate and five coffees with labna in a bowl. I miss mama’s labna, she made the best.
Nobody turns around to see me come into the sitting room. I wonder what is going on. I guess it is because of the sandstorm. It can’t really be a war. No one is dressed in army clothes. On the screen, there are huge groups of people on the streets protesting with banners but I can’t read them from here.
‘The revolution in the Arab world has been going on for nearly nine months and now Sy
ria is facing upheaval,’ says the voice-over in a tone almost as if a vicious array of metallic pins were rushing out of her mouth. I can’t watch any more.
Yasmine gets up to go to the kitchen and sees me standing there.
‘Adam, go wash up and I’ll make you breakfast.’
‘What’s going on Yasmine? Are we protesting as well? I thought there was a sandstorm.’
‘Sandstorm? Oh Adam, just go wash up.’
‘Yasmine, why don’t you tell me?’
‘Adam, there is no sandstorm. There is going to be a war. A real war, we are going to go and protest tomorrow.’
‘I have school tomorrow Yasmine, I can’t go protesting.’
‘You can’t go to school Habibi, you can stay home with Isa.’
‘But I have to go to school, I can’t miss any classes.’
‘Oh Adam… Habibi because of the war, there is no school. Everyone is out protesting. School will start again soon, I promise.’
‘Okay Isa and I will stay home Miss,’ I say and run towards the bathroom, through the kitchen, without stepping on any black tiles and then jump into the bathroom from three steps back. I brush my teeth with a perfect pea-sized amount of toothpaste. I have a pea I keep in my cupboard to compare the size. I brush three strokes to the right, then three strokes to the left. I then brush three strokes up and down and spit in the middle of the sink.
In the shower I think about school. There is only one boy I like in class, Nabil. He is the only one who is nice and doesn’t make fun of me. He even buys me lunch sometimes, but he is usually out of money. I don’t mind sharing my lunch with him, but I don’t let him touch the part I am going to eat.
‘I have a surprise for you,’ he once said as he rushed into the room and sat next to me.
I moved my chair a little away from him, he was too close and his breath was in my face. It smelled of coffee and chewing gum. I love the smell of coffee, but not on someone’s breath.
