CRIES OF SYRIA

“You are there and to their ears, being a Syrian sounds like you’re unclean, shameful, indecent; its like you owe the world an apology for your very existence. They say that the supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting and some say that war is peace”

I never imagined I would find myself in Lebanon on the outskirts of the brutal civil war in Syria. As a 29 year old man from Chicago,I did not know what to expect. When I got on the plane last week it seemed that U.S. or allied airstrikes on Syria were imminent, and honestly it was pretty scary.But the fear i felt about the possibility of airstrikes was put into perspective when I met 6 year old Ashad in a Syrian refugee camp on the Lebanese border with Syria. I will never forget the first time I looked into his eyes. The sadness and fear I saw there were years beyond his age, reflecting the extreme violence and horror he had witnessed; sights and sound of war that most of the world will only see in the movies…

For the seven days I was there, most of the kids in the camp followed us in a gaggle, circling us at times, giggling and practicing their English- “hello” and “thank you”.

They loved to see their image on my camera’s display screen after I took their picture.

Not Ashad. He stood off to one side,only glancing occasionally at the other kids following our crew around. He lingered nearby most of the day but didn’t talk to me or anyone else. I met one of my colleagues Sarah during the supper. She was part of our crew here and her job was to teach the rescued Syrians basic English. She always had her ID badge on and was brave enough to be in a war torn area when she had a perfectly good family back home.

“Hey..” said I. “Whats with that kid over there”

I pointed my gaze to Ashad’s direction and Sarah followed.

“Ashad? Tough kid Brad. His father was killed by a sniper.His siblings..saw the body in their local mosque and freaked out” said Sarah. I never turned away my eyes from her as she continued speaking. With a bit of difficulty, I open my Coke can.

Sarah fiddled with her fork.

“And when his sisters freaked out, they rushed out, they were gunned down by one of Bashar Al Assad’s men; right in front of Ashad” she said while pausing for a moment. I could see how scared she was.This is what Syria does to people. It creates a sense of fear in you. Something you’ve never experienced before and the more you try to get over it, the more it takes the toll on you. I found out the rest of story by the end of our meal. Just as he was about to be gunned down by the extremists like the rest of his family, Ashad was saved by the commanding officers of our battalion along with the other Syrian Kids.

The trauma became apparent as he became very introverted, developed a stammer and even started bed wetting. Since being rescued, Ashad displayed aggressive and sadistic behavior towards animals and people including attacking the other Syrian kids and killing a kitten by throwing it from the building.

“I don’t like the planes, or the shells or bombs or mines. Some of them are underground so you might be walking along and the mine explodes and then you die” he had said this to one of the counselors in the camp.

They say that there is a savage beast in every man and when you hand that man a sword or spear and send him forth to war, the beast stirs. Older men declare wars. But it is the youth that must fight and die. Above all there is no flag large enough to cover the shame of killing innocent people.

The rest of the day passed as usual. Armed Practices, Border Patrol with one of the military troops and I worked on my articles. It was midnight when I realized how famished and physically tired I was so I decided to go out for a little walk around the perimeter. We were never allowed to go near the fences because of the security protocols so I was surprised to see someone standing just a few yards away from the guarding fence.I walked towards the blurred figure who was draped in a blanket which was justified at this time of the night as the moonlit sky in Syria was not only just red but paved way for cold winds at night. When I realized who the dark figure standing in front of me was; I halted where I was. It surprised me..At this hour?

“Ashad” I spoke gently enough to let him know that I was standing behind him without startling him.

His hands were trembling from the cold. I was not so sure if it was the cold that gripped is body or the fear of something that I did not know about.I approached the traumatized 6 year old slowly and put my hand on his shoulders.

“What are you doing here kid?” I asked him

“Abba” he replied and gazed at a distance and as I followed that gaze all I could see was the overpowering Syrian darkness covering everything in its way.

I wanted to comfort Ashad in the best possible way I could, yet a part of me wanted to know the whole story behind the painful expressions that shadowed his face. Maybe some wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word. What I saw in the eyes of this war torn kid that night was something that I had never seen before. Pain changes people, it makes them trust less, over think more and shut people out. It took me sometime to convince him to come in the tent with me. At first he trembled with hesitation but when he felt I represented comfort and care, he sat down still careful and alert of everything in his surrounding. I pick the hot cocoa cup from near my bed and offer it to him. It was surprising how despite the cold, the mug managed to keep itself warm as if it waited for Ashad’s hands.

“You know you could get in trouble for that kid” said I staring at him,expecting an answer. But all that followed was sips of coffee and shudders.

“What were you doing there? Did you see someone?” I asked again,desperately wanting to start a conversation. He smiled a bit and I remembered that the prettiest smiles hide the deepest secrets.The prettiest eyes have cried the most tears. And the kindest have felt the most pain. As I looked into his eyes I found the memories sneak out of his eyes and roll down the cheeks. Ashad started crying.

He said nothing but kept the cup aside and closed his eyes in order to stop the tears from flowing down. You see the most painful tears are not the ones that fall from your eyes and cover your face.They’re the ones that fall from your heart and cover your soul. I held him in my arms and could feel how the biting winds of Syria had engulfed this 6 year old’s body with cold and bitterness.

“Tell me..tell me all about it” I said. I wasn’t sure if he would tell me what I wanted to know but as I was about to give up on this quest; he spoke.

Shrieks of pain,yells of a 6 year old driving down with his wounded father.His mother had just given birth to his younger brother in the truck a couple minutes ago.Ashad was scared, just like everyone else in the back of the truck. The extremists had opened a new front in their village, forcing them to leave the place which had been home to their ancestors. The child recollected his father talking to the old men of the village before embarking on the journey to find a safe land. He clearly remembered the men telling his father that they have no food supplies left.This had reduced their hopes to ashes.

It began at night.The Attack. All little Ashad could remember were the loud whispers of his mother asking him to wake up and her gentle hands caressing his cheeks as he struggled to sit on the bed. The loud bang of the gunshots in the distant valley sent shivers down his body. Suddenly the door of the cottage opens and Ashad saw his father panting briskly.He stood there as white as a sheet.

“We have to go” he said. “Now!” raising the intensity of his voice. With that, the child was pulled up in the arms by his father and the pregnant mother carried her daughter in her arms. What happened after stood as a blur in young Ashad’s mind. He remembered being taken into a black truck which had the initials of “Bārak Allāh Fīk” on the back meaning “May Allah Bless You”. He stayed in his father’s arms for some time.

“Abba where are we going?” he had asked his father curiously as he shifted his focus from the wooden toy which was gifted by his grandfather, to his father’s face which appeared withered and pained.

“Somewhere safe my child” the father replied with a small but reassuring smile on his face.

“I am scared!” Ashad said and continued fiddling with his toy. His father caressed his cheeks and said

“My child, nothing is to be feared. It is only to be understood. Now is the time to understand more so that we may be fearless.”

In the truck, Ashad saw old faces which reflected misery and fear. An old lady kept chanting the words “Bismilahi rahmani rahim” meaning . In the Name of Allah, the Most Beneficent, the Most Merciful!

The sky above them, closed in as the dark, ominous yet fascinating rainclouds have driven near, gathering together in a council. As it begins to drizzle, soft, warm and little raindrops, fall in line, gently, carelessly hitting the earth, moistening it in their line. Graceful drops, carrried and distorted by the majestic wind, create an enchanting melody on the jeep’s window, as they one by one fly into it. Alike the raindrops are carried by the wind, Ashad’s mind engaged with this scene, it let him fall in love with the beautiful earth. After all, a little rain shall not be the cause of sadness, as it truly is a reminder of the moments of love wich it makes easier to determine. So he kept his gaze out of the window and tried to overpower what he just witnessed and his fears with the scenery which mother nature provided to comfort him.

For the entire time he was telling me his ordeal, my eyes remain fixed on this 6 year old Syrian boy who never deserved what he went through…

TO BE CONTINUED….