Escape from Aleppo

by N. H. Senzai

  “We are indeed in dark times,” sighed a man, staring into the fire.

  “Where are you from?” Basel asked, leaning toward Ayman.

  Tarek gave him a rebuking look, but Nadia understood. Ayman’s Arabic sounded different, and frankly, his accent was terrible.

  “America,” Ayman said. “But my family is originally from Egypt.”

  “Pah, he’s a regular pharaoh,” joked a man, and Nadia smiled.

  The men laughed, a bright, cheerful sound. For a moment they were transformed into what they’d been before the war: farmers, shopkeepers, taxi drivers, and office workers. They are fathers, brothers, sons, and husbands, she thought. She ached for her family, her brothers, wondering if her father was waiting for her at the allotted spot at the border.

  She shivered, leaning into the fire as rain drizzled in through gaps in the plastic above them. She spotted one of the men pulling out his cell phone.

  Hope leapt through her heart. “Does it work?” she asked.

  “No, the network’s still down,” he grumbled, turning it off.

  “Be careful with that,” said Ayman. “Government forces are using cellular signals to track rebels.”

  “He’s right, you must be careful,” said Ammo Mazen, glancing down at his watch. “If you have asked your questions, we must be going.”

  “You will need to take another path,” said Khalid. “The road you were on is blocked by those foreign bastards who call themselves ISIS. They’ve been fighting other rebel groups to usurp power.”

  “Shameful,” whispered Tarek. “Muslims fighting Muslims.”

  “Islam has nothing to do with it,” said Khalid, a look of disgust on his face. “These foreign hypocrites use religion as an excuse to fight some glorified war, seeking power and fame. They are ruthless barbarians, posting videos on the Internet of their atrocities, like blowing up ancient sites or killing civilians for not following their brand of Islam.”

  “And we Syrians die, caught between outsiders and Assad,” added the man with the gash on his head.

  Ammo Mazen shook his head. “I pray you make it safely out of the country, my son,” he said to Ayman. “Tell the world about the plight of the Syrian people.” As Tarek and Basel helped him settle on the cart, he turned to ask, “Do any of you know where the rebel group the Freedom Army could be?”

  Basel froze and ducked behind Nadia. What’s wrong with him? she thought.

  “Freedom Army?” asked Khalid. “Never heard of them.”

  Ammo Mazen frowned. “Young Basel’s grandfather is with them.”

  The men looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Basel,” Ammo Mazen called out.

  But the boy didn’t budge, so Nadia stepped away from him, confused about why he was acting so shy all of a sudden. He stood there, red-faced.

  “Basel, what is your grandfather’s battalion called?”

  “I made it up, sir,” he whispered, so softly they had to lean in to hear.

  “What?” cried Tarek.

  Everyone looked baffled, except Ammo Mazen. “Were both of your grandparents in the building when it was bombed?”

  Basel nodded.

  Nadia felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. He has no family at all. She lay her arm across the boy’s rigid shoulders and held him close without saying a word.

  “All right, then,” said Ammo Mazen, as if the conversation hadn’t taken place. “We must be leaving now.”

  • • •

  Basel’s hand clutched in hers, Nadia followed a circuitous route northeast, as directed by Khalid. Basel was her responsibility now, whether she liked it or not, as was Ammo Mazen, who lay in the cart with his eyes closed. He needs to get to a doctor quickly, she thought. They headed deeper into the Old City. The air grew redolent with the smell of smoke, and an inky residue coated the buildings. Nadia ran her finger along a wall and it came back covered in soot. A memory stirred in her mind, of the previous year, on a cool September night.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  September 28, 2012

  Nadia and her parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins clustered along the balcony of Nana’s apartment, watching in horrified silence as black clouds billowed up from the east, across the river. News quickly made its way through the neighborhood, and Jad brought the latest as he came panting through the balcony doors: The Old City was burning. It was less than four and a half miles away, and they could see the fires illuminating the sky, eating everything in its path like a plague of locusts.

  “Ya Allah,” Nadia’s mother whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks.

  “I can’t believe it,” Khala Lina growled. “They are destroying the very heart of Haleb . . . erasing five thousand years of history and culture.”

  Nadia’s father stood stony-faced. “Father cannot see this,” he muttered. “He will not be able to bear seeing his childhood home like this.”

  Nadia’s mother squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry, he’s in his room. Your mother is with him.”

  “The rebels are holding strong against the army,” said Jad, cheeks flushed.

  “They’re both destroying the city,” grumbled Khala Lina.

  A sick feeling spread through Nadia’s middle as she leaned over the railing of the balcony, her small hands held up against the brilliance of the flames. She’d been to the Old City countless times, especially when visitors wanted to tour its rich medieval sites.

  A highlight of the day always included shopping at its famous souq. Sprawling for miles in all directions, the souq was a network of bazaars, the largest covered market in the world. It spanned seven glorious miles and had over six thousand shops. Each souq specialized in something unique: Souq al-Hiraj was noted for its rugs and carpets, Souq Khan al-Jumrok sold textiles, and Khan al-Shouneh was a fascinating labyrinth crammed with art, ceramics, and handicrafts. Ladies flocked to Souq as-Siyyagh to purchase gold jewelry and gems, while blacksmiths labored over elaborate metalworks in Souq al-Haddadin. And it was all burning, centuries of history and culture turning into ash. As Nadia stared at the glowing flames, a cold, dreadful certainty blossomed in her heart. She glanced at her father’s beloved face from under her eyelashes. Etched upon his features was the terrible knowledge that the world as they knew it had changed and there was no going back.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  October 11, 2013 5:32 p.m.

  At the next turn, the winding path deposited them at a wide intersection, and Nadia realized where they were. In the very soul of Aleppo, its ancient souq.

  Nadia pulled out the compass, which pointed north through the souq, as Ammo Mazen sat up, a sheen of perspiration covering his ashen face.

  “Are you all right, uncle?” she asked.

  “Just tired, my child,” he said with a weary smile. “I’ll feel much better once we leave the Old City.”

  “Which way should we go?” she asked, showing him the compass.

  “We’ll cut through the souq here,” said Ammo Mazen, pointing to an arched doorway. “Then we’ll curve around the citadel to the Bab al-Hadid gate.”

  Nadia nodded, staring stony-faced at the charred remains of the shops facing the street. She guided Jamila through one of the main, arched doorways that led inside the souq. A sorrowful emptiness ebbed throughout the covered passageways, stone walls cracked and crumbling from mortal shells and grenades.

  They merged onto one of the main arteries that ran through the bazaar, lit by skylights embedded in the vaulted ceiling, revealing the extent of the destruction. Nothing much of the souq’s rich glory remained, except for hints of its past, strewn on the floor: turquoise shards of pottery, a muddied rug, and torn wisps of bright silk.

  Corrugated iron sheets, pockmarked with bullet holes, sealed off sections of the souq, and the majority of shops and stalls had been destroyed—shriveled husks of what they had been. But what overwhelmed her most was the silence; it burned like acid through her soul. Her breath caught in her throat. It’s all gone, she
thought. “Why?” she croaked, fists clenched. “Why does Allah hate us?”

  Tarek stared at her, horrified.

  “Nadia,” Ammo Mazen said, voice soft. “Allah does not hate us. He does not hate anyone.”

  “Then why is this happening to us?” She waved her arms at the destruction around them.

  “True believers,” said Tarek, shooting her a pained look, “know that this world is a temporary one. Every day Allah tests us with trials and tribulations, small or big, weighing our good and bad deeds.”

  “Well said, Tarek.” Ammo Mazen smiled. “We have been given free will to make choices on how we live our lives, and how we use the blessings given to us.”

  “Only by choosing good over bad will we reach the final, permanent place,” said Tarek.

  “That’s heaven, right?” whispered Basel, eyes hopeful.

  Tarek patted him on the back with a smile.

  “Nadia, my child,” said Ammo Mazen, muffling his coughs. “Despite Allah’s magnificence and majesty, the two qualities most attributed to him are compassion and mercy. And just because those around us are not merciful and compassionate, we should not turn away from following his example.”

  “And we have been promised that with every hardship there is ease, even with the most difficult trials,” added Tarek.

  Nadia frowned, chagrined by their words.

  “It’s in our hands, my dear,” said Ammo Mazen. “Always in our hands . . . to choose mercy and compassion, or be lost in a sea of inhumanity.”

  Not feeling particularly merciful, Nadia grudgingly nodded. She guided Jamila through a central passage where dozens of alleys snaked off, leading to different areas of the souq. What shops and stalls fire had not destroyed were shuttered and boarded up. As the passage curved, Jamila hesitated, ears tucked back. Tarek had fallen behind to inspect an alley that branched off to the left, but he suddenly turned, a frown marring his brow.

  “What is it?” whispered Basel, rifle raised.

  “It’s okay, girl,” Nadia whispered to the donkey. Something is spooking her, she thought, gently rubbing Jamila’s neck and looking around for a hint of what it could be.

  Tarek held his hand up as something stirred in the silence: the skitter of pebbles along a passage to their right. “We should hurry,” he whispered, eyes wide.

  “Come on, girl,” said Nadia, gritting her teeth as she tugged on Jamila’s reins.

  Ammo Mazen’s eyes flickered open. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, nothing to worry about,” said Tarek, as he and Basel hurried to the front of the cart to help Nadia.

  While the boys tried to coax the donkey forward, Nadia untied Mishmish, who sat growling, ears flat against his head. She pried his claws from the tarp and shoved him into his burlap bag. She had just slipped him under a blanket beside Ammo, when they heard gunshots.

  “We have to go now,” muttered Tarek, voice tight.

  “Which way?” gasped Basel as the sound of gunshots grew closer.

  The alley Tarek had been inspecting was half filled with rubble, making it difficult for the cart to get through. “The next one,” said Nadia, pushing at the cart from behind to nudge the donkey forward.

  Basel spoke coaxingly to Jamila, but the donkey wouldn’t budge. “Don’t be stubborn now,” grumbled Tarek as he ran to the front of the cart and pulled.

  Ammo Mazen’s eyes widened. “Jamila, my dear, please listen to the children,” he said, reaching out a shaky hand to rub her back. She turned to the old man and nuzzled his hand, then turned to go, just as a bullet whistled by, embedding itself into the wall.

  Nadia fell to the ground with a gasp, barely avoiding another shot. It missed Ammo Mazen by an inch, but grazed Jamila’s rump. Braying in pain, she took off down the main passageway, dragging Tarek and Basel along with her as they held on to her harness. Nadia lay there, frozen, as the thud of boots thundered from the lane to her right.

  Move, you silly girl! yelled a voice inside her head that sounded like Ms. Darwish. Do you want to get killed?

  “Am I crazy, or was that the sound of a donkey?” guffawed a youthful voice from around the corner, sending Nadia crawling on her hands and knees.

  “Forget that for now,” barked an authoritative voice. The footsteps thundered to a halt in the main passageway as Nadia slipped into the mouth of the first alley. “Secure this location. And you, Abu Amir, take a dozen men and head to the citadel to join the others. But be careful of those damned snipers.”

  Without thinking twice, Nadia rose and scurried up the corridor, scrabbling over rubble, wincing as a slab of concrete scraped her shin. I have to find the others, she thought, heart hammering in her chest. At the next intersection, she paused, mentally creating a map, trying to evaluate whether this alley would connect to the one the others had taken. She strained her ears for the sound of Jamila’s muffled hooves. But instead, staccato footsteps rang up the path she’d taken. They found me!

  Up ahead she spotted a battered shop, empty except for a few boxes and remnants of ribbons and buttons littering the ground. Before she could dive in, a voice hissed behind her.

  “Nadia, where are you?”

  Her steps faltered at the familiar voice, and she turned around. A round face, pale with fear, appeared in the murky light.

  “Basel!” Nadia cried with relief, amazed at how he’d slipped past the rebels and found her.

  He smiled, though his lips were strained. “I couldn’t leave you. Tarek was taking care of Ammo, so I came.”

  Nadia pulled him in for a hug.

  “We have to go,” he wheezed, voice muffled in her coat. “There are rebels crawling through the souq.”

  “But now we’re both lost,” she said.

  “Ammo Mazen told me to meet up at the northeast gate,” he said. “Bab al-Hadid gate.”

  They fled, racing through the crisscrossed alleys of the souq, the floor littered with fragments of cord, rope, and torn fabric. Near the exit, an arched stone gate, they slowed, a familiar noise resonating from outside. . . . Rain.

  “Look,” whispered Basel, pointing past a line of sooty sheets.

  A grove of palm trees grew along the edge of a pedestrian walkway that ran along the base of a massive hilltop. According to tradition, this was where Prophet Abraham once herded his sheep. Nearly two hundred feet high, its pale limestone slope pockmarked with mortar and bomb blasts, the hill carried the citadel as its crown, the multistoried facade embedded with windows edged with white-and-black stone. Now a red, white, and black Syrian flag flew from the ramparts, evidence of government occupation. Ammo Mazen’s words rang in her head. The citadel is under Syrian army control . . . snipers posted along the top.

  Basel tugged on her arm, pointing left, toward the Carlton Citadel Hotel. She glimpsed a group of men in fatigues sheltering behind a line of burned-out cars. Heavy machine guns and rocket launchers lay stacked beside them.

  “Are they rebels?” whispered Nadia.

  Basel shrugged. “Not sure, but whoever they are, they’re about to have a fight with someone.”

  Nadia tensed. They needed to get out of there before they were caught in the middle of a battle. Fingering the silver pin, she racked her brain, staring at the open expanse of the walkway. She inched forward to get a better view in the gray light. If it’s hard for me to see, they probably can’t see much either. With a grim smile she unhooked a sooty sheet hanging from a length of rope.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  October 11, 2013 6:07 p.m.

  Hunched beneath the dirty, tattered sheet, Nadia and Basel hid themselves from potential onlookers and exited the handicraft market into the fading light of dusk. They wove through the palm trees and paused behind a tree trunk.

  “Look for snipers,” she whispered, as she focused on the entrance to the citadel. It stood two hundred feet to their right. Wide steps led up to the guard tower that provided access to the bridge. Built of sandstone blocks, the bridge spanned the moat, suppor
ted by eight soaring arches. A memory flickered in her mind, of holding her father’s hand and skipping up those same steps, eager to glimpse the stunning views of the city. Beyond the bridge rose the main gates into the citadel, the door damaged by shells when rebels launched a failed assault. And beyond the gates lay the heart of the fortress, where she’d spent hours wandering the maze of archaeological sites that had always reminded her of a cake, the different layers revealing slices of history: Greek foundations, Roman artifacts, Byzantine ruins, and a series of barracks, palaces, bathhouses, and mosques constructed by Salaheddine’s son, Mamluk Arabs, and the Ottomans.

  From under the sheet, Basel eyed the slits in the fortress wall where archers had once launched arrows at attackers below. “I don’t see any snipers up there,” he whispered.

  “Good,” Nadia muttered, hoping they were inside because of the rain. She and Basel would have to circle the base of the hill until they could melt into a side street going north toward the gate. Streets radiated outward from the hill like spokes on a wheel.

  “I can’t see anything happening back at the hotel either,” said Basel.

  Nadia breathed a sigh of relief. Just maybe, the downpour would prove to be their savior. “Let’s go,” she whispered.

  Together, they shuffled across the pedestrian walkway toward the low boundary wall that ran along the base of the hill. But as they approached, Nadia’s relief came to an abrupt end. The rat-a-tat of machine-gun fire sounded up ahead, and muffled shouts rang out from the esplanade. “The men from the souq,” she whispered. “They’ve doubled back and are heading toward us.”

  “What?” croaked Basel in disbelief.

  A ragged breath caught in Nadia’s throat as she eyed the expanse of the walkway to their right, slick with rain. Nowhere to hide . . .

  Before she could think what to do next, Basel pulled her down beside the base of the boundary wall and secured the sheet around them. “I hope we look like a big old rock,” he muttered.

  What do we do now? Nadia stared through a tear in the sheet, desperately looking for an escape. Her gaze fell on the bridge that linked the guard tower to the main gates of the citadel, a route she’d taken many times on past visits. “This way, to the citadel,” she hissed, grabbing Basel’s hand, and half running, half crawling toward the citadel steps about a hundred feet away.