Anas and Hina were neighbours when 4 months old, best friends
at 4 years, and lovers at 14. They had been carried together by their mothers
around the markets of Aleppo as toddlers. They had crossed busy streets
together, hand in hand on their way to school. They had found spots for themselves
across the vast old city where they left behind the fragrance of the happy
times they spent in each other’s arms.
Now, all he can smell is gunpowder and blood.
Everything is finished now. He can see her lying there, bullets
through her stomach, her arm lying three feet away- he can smell death. But,
all his eyes show him are images of the day Hina’s mother had brought home a
puppy for her. He sees her- all three years old, laughing with glee at the
puppy’s antics. And, now, everything is gone- their houses, parents,
familiar spots, the puppy, Grover…their very bodies.
All he had left was memory.
His uniform is torn. His legs bleed from the bullet wound. He turns away from her body. Anas was never a thinker, but he heard Hina’s voice in his head now, her eyes towards the sky, talking as if she’s reading the secrets of the world hidden behind the clouds, “We are not fighting on different sides, Anas. You may swear by the government, and I may want the rebels to take our country back. We may want different things for our country, but, Anas, you and I, we want the same things for each other. The same future together, the same present without this bloody taint of war.”
His uniform is torn. His legs bleed from the bullet wound. He turns away from her body. Anas was never a thinker, but he heard Hina’s voice in his head now, her eyes towards the sky, talking as if she’s reading the secrets of the world hidden behind the clouds, “We are not fighting on different sides, Anas. You may swear by the government, and I may want the rebels to take our country back. We may want different things for our country, but, Anas, you and I, we want the same things for each other. The same future together, the same present without this bloody taint of war.”
Did they have a choice, he wondered.
War doesn’t give you time to wonder. The last sound he heard
before the bullet pierced his head was the clatter of her footsteps catching up
with his as they made their way to school.
Notes:
Notes:
Talaus means 'stain' in Arabic, which is the official language of Syria.
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