Tag: English

Manhood

Life writing. Autobiography. OU assignment. 1500 words short story

‘If a man does away with his traditional way of living and throws away his good customs, he had better first make certain that he has something of value to replace them’, by Robert Ruark.

The adult males of Damascus during the nineties followed a ritual that had endured the shifts and the schisms of the ancient world for millennia. They woke up, shaved their beards, curled up their handlebar moustaches, drank the cardamom-enriched black coffee that the females in their lives meticulously made for them every day, then shat before leaving their domestic environs enforcing their hairy wills, that they inherited from their forefathers and their despots, on the rest of us.

As a first son, I was never seen as a teenager. I was the person who would inherit the will of the family, the will of the Mahassen. So when I finally had my first wet dream, I was deemed ready for the title of a man. But to be rewarded with such an honour, I had to take care of a fluffy sheep for a month before slaughtering it with the same hands that fed it, celebrating the humble festivities of Ramadan.

Thus, by the time I became a man, I had corroborated and assimilated the wills of my despots, shedding away layers of myself into the corners of the dejected and the artists, earning me a stigma that still accompanies me to this day.

It was in seventh grade when I first discovered them: the physical symptoms of manhood: a creeping wisp of hair on top of my upper lip and a voice like a radio searching for its identity, moving from one channel to another, oscillating between a shriek and a bass in confusion. Being the tallest in the class had earned me the honour of sitting at the very back seat usually reserved for the unwilling and the nasty. I sat alone in desks stacked with four and a class hoarded with sixty kids. The classes were mixed. I mean, the classrooms were allowed to have both boys and girls, as was befitting of a liberal Christian private school. We didn’t sit at the same desks, of course. The class was split into three lanes, two of which were crowded with boys.

The day I broke free was the day our Islamic studies teacher discussed with us a taboo, a forbidden and shameful topic that was excluded from our curriculum.

‘Want is human’, I remember her preaching, ‘what we do with it is what distinguishes us from animals. Soon, something will wake up in you, some sort of a rage. It is alright to feel enraged, of course, but it is uncivilised to hit other people.’ Her statement was met with utter silence that she interpreted as confusion.

‘Listen, soon you will start having happy dreams about the other gender. When that happens, you are no longer a child.’ She paused again, trying to read the room. But having experienced that already, I stood up and spouted blatantly with a confident bass:

‘It happened to me last week!’

The room, of course, exploded with laughter.

1996 was the year of a very successful debut: an advent that took hold of the ancient dry canvas of the Middle Eastern youth, burning it to cinders, dragging American culture forcibly into our dilapidated schools. 1996 was the year of the Backstreet Boys:

Clean-shaven boys who lithely swayed and twisted, satisfying the beats of the drums in response to what seemed to me to be their rage.

With their advent, I decided it was time to become my own person. I shaved my moustache, got a Walkman, and did the daringest thing I have ever done: I bought some gel and other hair products. Then I went to the barber and asked him to give me a Spiky haircut. He looked at me and said:

‘Spy what?’

‘Zero on the sides and the back. Two in the middle. Three at the front.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Never been surer.’

‘Did you ask your father?’

‘Don’t worry about that.’

‘Just trying to be thoughtful.’

‘I know. Thanks.’

And so, I spent the winter break of 1996 figuring my new self out. And figure it I did. Oh, how glorious. My younger brother, owe struck, was proud of the person I became: a modern, supple, western-looking, rebelling youth of the ancient city. But as the barber foretold it, my father sneered at me. He expressed his refusal and his indifference to the worldly subject of looks by lowering his reading glasses for a second before going back to reading his veritable books about the Crusades, Machiavelli, the Italian Renaissance, Islamic decadence, or the Baath Party influence, or a book that talked about all of that at the same time. With my despot out of the picture, all was set for my revival.

My body still vividly reverberates with the memory of the first day of the new me.

I wake up early, as usual, but instead of dragging myself out of bed, I jump to the bathroom and start working on my hair. I finish my rituals and leave my house at 06:30 AM. It is still dark. It was snowing during the night. I put on my school uniform: a kaki-coloured military suit possibly borrowed from the Red Army, but I skip the beret.

I notice several pigeons huddled on the fence next to the bus stop. I approach them. They ruffle a little at first, but as I get closer, they become more violent. A couple flies away, but two flaps still hysterically before falling on the asphalt. Frostbite. Their stiff claws got frozen on the fence during the night. They might live, but they will lose a leg or two. I don’t have time to pick them up because the bus has just arrived and I am unwilling to miss it.

I am the eldest, so the back seat is reserved for me. I notice the elementary-level kids looking at me and my hair. I puff up and take my time walking down towards my seat. One hour and a half later, I reach school. I know it is very far, but that is the price my parents were willing for me to pay to get a private education. 

At the main gate, I am greeted by the gatekeeper, Mansour.

‘Hey, you,’ He snarls at me. 

‘Good morning, Mr. Mansour,’ I reply, heading inside.

‘Stop!’ He announces, blocking my path.

‘Who? Me?’

‘Yes, you. You are not allowed to enter.’

‘Not allowed to enter!’ I repeat, laughing, trying to twirl around him and step inside. But to my surprise, he snaps his fist at my coat, twisting the collar firmly with his thick, anvil-looking grip. 

‘Let go of me.’

‘Where do you think you are?’

‘What is this all about, Mansour?’

‘You are not allowed to get inside looking like that!’

‘It is not up to you to decide.’

‘I am here to protect the school.’

‘From what, you brute? It seems that I need protection from you. Let go of me before I get you into trouble.’

At that moment, the deputy dean, a government-assigned official whose contribution to the school was so marginal and unnecessary that his name eludes me to this day, hears us.

‘What seems to be the problem?’ Asks the unnamed official.

‘This kid. Look at him!’

The deputy languidly looks at me with soggy eyes and waves his chubby little fingers. ‘This is not the look of a comrade. It seems your parents failed. You look like a wimp. Go back home.’

Emboldened by the mention of my parents, I retort, ‘Me? A wimp? Wait till my father hears of this. I will leave now, but you better be prepared for what will come.’

‘Wait,’ lashes the official. ‘Pray. Dear, what does your father do?’

Having felt his change in tone and reluctance, I raise my voice and spell my syllables one by one: ‘non-of-your-damn-buz-ness.’

Confrontations and shouting attract people like a moth. And huge gatherings attract the eyes of predators.

‘Assaad, come here, boy,’ a booming voice echoes through the corridor, splitting the crowds and clearing the path between me and the school’s real dean, Fouad Y.

Let me tell you a little bit about Fouad. Education and pedagogical qualifications were not enough barriers to hinder his career. His will and connections allowed him to secure the vote of the Patriarch of the Roman Orthodox church in Damascus, eliminating all competition and securing him the seat of the dean for one of the most prestigious schools. However, to compensate for his lack of educational background in running the business, he wore a white lab coat, hiding his lack of academic understanding. His manufactured liberal persona gave him room for some aesthetic divergence: His slick hair was drenched with castor oil and filled the school with a petroleum smell.

‘My name is Refaat, sir.’

‘I know, Assaad. Come here, boy.’

‘Ok, sir,’ I say, approaching him, ‘but my name…’ My sentence is interrupted by a sharp whistle that lands on my frozen ears.

‘Don’t talk back to me, boy.’

As the heat of the slap spreads into my cheeks, I feel his hand gripping the back side of my collar and dragging me towards the school’s playground. I try to resist, but both Mansour and the official help restrain my movement.

‘Take him to the sink!’ Fouad snorts.

In the middle of the schoolyard, right in the open, on a frozen morning in January, on the day I decided to become a man, my divergent persona got washed away by despots.

Next year, I dyed my hair blue.

A Broken Line

Chosen Prompt: Tramlines, Fiction. 2000 words. OU (Open University)

“When I the story of the dreamful youth had found,

It had told of a place both uncouth and unbound;

A place full of the frolic swallows;

Desolate of the painful sallows.

And if you of that story eager to know,

Wallow with me in the callow realms below.”

That day was etched into my psyche and kick-started my consciousness. The sun was at its zenith, looking down at us and lulling life into an intoxicating sleepless sleep when its soliloquy was interrupted by a mirthful voice, pulsing with a static noise, emanating from a wooden box:

“1913 shall be known as a historic day! The century-long-awaited revolution is here! Damascus is walking side by side with the industrialised world. The European ingenuity was commissioned by his majesty Sultan Abdul Hamid; may god prolong his life. The Hejaz railway is finally open to the public. Rejoice, brothers and sisters, we could finally reach Mecca on the wings of revolution”.

“I was a child of four then”, my grandfather had told me.

“We didn’t manage to get rid of our agricultural gown, but the Hejaz station helped us break free from the siege of time on our cities. We felt that we could reach out our hands and grab the world.

“I remember myself”, he continued, “dragging one of my toys behind me: a handmade wooden horse attached to a cord. Leaving my house through the garden, I descend into the back street. It wasn’t a street then. It was a muddy, rocky neighbourhood brimming with wild Cactus and Jasmin. But amidst the arid environs, there lays a new, shiny, and drawn-out object that spanned across in a panoramic view. I run towards it, dragging my horse and bumping it against rocks and vegetation. But when I reach the shiny thing, I bend over with shaky legs and touch it. Its brutal coldness seeps into me, forcing my heart to pump back in resistance through my palm against the cold surface. But the metal replies by shaking the earth below my feet. The vibrations build up within me into a giggle that gets disrupted by the shouts of my mother, followed by a monstrous shriek. I instinctively look to the left, spotting the approaching juggernaut: a black-eyed beast with a steaming nostril, foaming angry smoke in hysteria. I freeze, as you might expect, not in fear but in awe. 

I survive, of course, because my father, alarmed by my mother, rushes over and grabs me by the waist. My old wooden toy gets smashed. I look up, and I see smiling faces waving at me through windows. I laugh”.

“Your great-grandfather was profoundly altered after that day”, my grandfather explained. “Change was approaching, rapid and fast, faster than our people could comprehend. The station was decommissioned in 1920 during the Great Arab Revolt, but the crescendo of developments never ceased to stop. The metaphoric train of revolution kept on going, and its force persisted. It survived through me, and I hereby attempt to kindle it in you”.

This is what I still remember of his story. My grandfather is long gone, but his house and the railway are still there. His story had so passionately altered me that in 2020, I decided, against the advice of my family, to visit the home of my ancestors.

Damascus, during that time, was a city downing in the marches of Styx. With the crescendo of catastrophes playing for a century, she was hanging between worlds in delirium. But when the stifling epidemic gave the war-torn country a breather, the lunatics and the emotionally chained saw an opportunity. I seized that chance. 

I will save you, dear reader, the logistical troubles of my journey to Damascus. But what you ought to know is that I managed to arrive safely. And that I stood right there on the spot that my grandfather spoke of, the spot where progress was rolling, steaming with passion. Below is a detailed account of what I remember:

I leave the taxi three blocks from the decommissioned station because the taxi refuses to drop me any closer, scared for his safety. It is late in the afternoon. Street lamps are off, and shadows are invading corners and alleys.

As I approach the station, I notice its modern occupants: a local militia, a group of young boys claiming to uphold the neighbourhood’s safety. I do not attempt to sneak into the passenger quarter, but I look for an opportunity to get to the courtyard and into the rails without being spotted. Waiting for the sky to put on its concealing garments, I sidestep into one of the alleyways lurking. As I squint, probing the façade, I notice a yellowish moss possessing the building, covering its blackened corners and columns: survivors of bombings and fires. The once majestic herald of progress is now a rabid mule, a burden for its owners. But then I spot a chance. The side fence is unguarded and fully draped with the night shadows. I manage to sneak in, skipping into the courtyard.

I had once imagined it to be a facsimile of Eden, embellished with Arabic calligraphy, adorned with lavish Turkish gardens, and gushing with yodelling fountains. I had envisioned it full of muscled trains capable of dragging enlightenment forcibly across the continents.

The court is nothing like that. It seized to be the portal for adventure and became the bottleneck of misery. It is stacked with dilapidated tents, full of moving silent skeletons. They spot me, but their drooping, weary eyes seem unable to see me. And what is left of the dismantled trains is but the junk that is hard to sell, pilling in stacks of rusting corpses.

I walk past the tents and towards the rails. It takes a while to find them, or rather what’s left of them: continuous marks of rust marching towards darkness, towards its original destination: Hejaz.

I trudge forward, burdened with thought and anticipation for a good chunk of the night. When I finally stop and look around, I spot the Jasmin and the Cactus creeping up through cracks in the neglected asphalt. And to my right, I see a flashing sign: 

No trespassing allowed, detention centre.

I weep.

Of Morning Pages

The soft smell of the gentle morning rain tickling my eager lungs, and the clangs of joyful platters abundant in earthy gifts seeped into the elemental morning symphony. Shy French balconies peaked over my head begging for a moment of attention, begging for a pinch of contemplation. My finger tips warm with anticipation rushed over the glyphs of antiquity, out of focus, away from me and plunged into the delicious nectar of the muses. While I sat dazed and reeking of bordeaux coloured hymns drunk on words that sobered with love, channelling the revelations of the ether into the tongue of man.

Ode to a friend. Of being

A friend of mine composed this monodrama. I reacted to it with a poem: Outside the Realms of Space and Time – a Video Monodrama on Music , Art and philosophy

Amidst the perpetual entropy, a spark is lit
Fleetingly, of course, but it brightened our pit.
It borrowed, from the minds of whom we deem fit-
Thinkers of immense passion and great wit,
A capacity of thoughts to tilt.
But to oblivion to dart and not desist,
Then our lives we must decrypt.
And to leave the gloom and for the rhymes to lilt,
Listen we must to him that pitched
We, despite the temporal, exist!

Home

Write a short prose narrative that engages with the concepts of either ‘home’ or ‘homeland’ in 2000 words:

‘An Elderly Home Burnt To Cinders’, he reflected in his notebook whilst waiting for the foundation owner to show up. The reception was a dull white room with three plastic chairs that were probably planted there for convenience rather than comfort. As he gazed into the room thinking, he heard an echo of an approaching click-clack entering the reception. “The owner is still busy wrapping things up. Why don’t you have a look at our facilities whilst you wait?” said the woman stepping aside and leading him inside the facility without pausing. The corridor behind the reception was dim and cold and filled with doors with numbers and names on both sides. Its ceiling was low and yellow, stricken with a dried leakage. The lower half of its walls were covered with dark wooden planks and the other half with wallpapers that seemed to have been green once. “This was the new wing”, pointed the woman after a long silence as they reached the end of the corridor, “and that is the cafeteria”, she announced as she opened the door ushering him in and inviting a heavy smell of Chloride permeated with dampness and the odours of old food into the corridor. Despite the attack on his nostrils, he welcomed the open room and the cheap white neons reflected on the greyish tiles. “Here, our residents feel at home, recuperate, socialise and talk about ancient wars and romances…”. “Do you know when I will be able to see him, mam?” he interrupted her. She raised both eyebrows and looked at him as if noticing him for the first time. “Why don’t we go and wait for him at his office?” she ruptured mechanically and headed outside.

The office was in a building separated from the residential wing by a thicket and a gated garden. It was the most significant building in the cluster, with an Elizabethan façade, a marble vestibule, and a colonnade in its main hallway. They passed by the main entrance but accessed the building from a smaller side door. “Here, make yourself comfortable”, said the woman, then left the office without waiting for a reply. He looked up and around the office in bedazzlement, wondering how and where he could make himself comfortable. Despite the dimness of the room, he spotted a chimney and a brown leather chair with an attached ottoman. As he drew closer to the chimney, he noticed a painting of a lush landscape with nymphs like figures dancing light-heartedly. “I see that you have found the pride of this foundation,” said a deep sure voice from the other side of the room. “this is Elysium, the heroes’ final home and where the name of our foundation comes from.”

“God, when did you….”

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you. Michelle told me that you were searching for me; it has been a very long night. Pray, how can I help you?”. The young man, dumb stricken, gazed towards the voice and addressed the shadow at the other side of the room. “I am from the local parish; I came here to pay my respect and to document what happened.”

“Yes, yes. I have asked that of the vicar earlier. Have you had a chance to look around?”

“Yes, I did, thanks to your assistant. It is as impressive as I have been told. May I trouble you, sir, to what do I owe today’s summon?

“As you are aware, my family is the custodian of this place. We occupied it for generations. It is our home, you see. But some time ago, we decided to share our blessings with the community and created the foundation of Elysium, but unfortunately, part of the legacy was lost today. The old wing got utterly destroyed, and a lot of people lost their homes. Have you had the chance to investigate the fire yet?

“No, sir, not yet.”

“Good, Good. There is no need. We have concluded that the fire was man-made.”

“Man-made, sir?”

“Yes. It seems that it was done on purpose: an act of vandalism, one might say.”

‘An Elderly Home, Sabotaged?’ wrote the man in his notebook.

“But we have yet to capture the culprit. What I don’t understand is why would anyone set their home ablaze? This place is heaven for them. Most of these old cynics are undeserving and delusional. We have paid our debt to the world, and this is how we get rewarded! Nobody believes in our cause anymore. Are you writing this down? I urge you please write: The Heavens, Betrayed! Yes, yes. With an exclamation mark. Good, good. That is more suitable.”

“It is indeed suitable, sir. I will share the report with you before I get back.”

“Now, that is a good lad,” the owner said when Michelle barged into the room.

“What is it now, Michelle,” asked the owner.

“Everybody from the old wing is safe and present except for Luc!” She replied.

“That old fool! It seems that our night’s toil is yet to be concluded. Dispatch everybody immediately!” He shouted hurriedly before addressing the young man, “you need not trouble yourself with this; we will find him. He is our oldest resident and not of my time. He was admitted here during the days of my father, I dare say, but one cannot be certain; no records were kept from that time. I beg your pardon, lad, but we have to adjourn our session. You know the way, I presume?”

With the session adjourned and respects paid, the young man left the main building and headed towards the old wing. Outside, the morning chill was fading, and the birds were yawning and shaking off the troubled night when the young man heard a quivering sob that filled his heart with melted passions and propelled him towards the source.

“Who goes there?” he announced as he walked by the thicket on his way back. The vegetation seemed to be old, older than the rest of the compound, and thick with ages of unmolested dust that rioted in anger as he wadded his way through the dead leaves and the dry, broken branches searching for the voice. As the bushes grew thicker and almost impossible to penetrate, the young man stumbled upon a figure covered with a filthy white robe shaking in agony with a muffled sob. He drew closer to it, moved by compassion. The ghost-like figure was a man, a very old man, with a face full of wrinkles resembling an old dry log abandoned for the elements to forsake. He had long thin limbs with a stature that seemed to have been shrunk under the weight of time and insurmountable toil.

“Sir, do you need help?” asked the young man.

With effort, the skeletal figure managed to raise his sunken head, gazing with lifeless eyes at the boy penetrating his soul and forcing a trickle of cold sweat down his neck. With that, the sob seemed to have gained energy and evolved from a hoarse moaning into a mumble and finally into an articulate speech.

“I started a war once. I did, yes, I did.” Said the old man with effort. “I did it for love. But I lost, I did, yes, I did. My family shattered and ruined because of me. I dared not see them again. No, I dared not.”

“Let me help you, sir. Come. Here, grab my hand.”

“I have been away for too long, for way too long. I had hoped to see them again. I wandered the land seeking support and retribution. I toiled and endured for ages hoping, no, knowing that I would one day be able to go back home. Oh, I did, I truly did.

“Do you live here, sir?”

“I lived in many places. I saw them get neglected, abandoned, and ruined, but I had never thought that this would happen to my home, for it was different. Yes, it was. It was full of love, warmth, and honied dew and bless. It was a paradise.”

“Sir, why don’t we continue this conversation somewhere else?” asked the young man politely, realising the old man’s delusional state.

“I was banished, shunned, and smitten down like a rabid dog. I was forced to stay here. Yes, I was. But I couldn’t make this place my home, so I tried to break free. I tried to return home, yes, I did, the same way I left it. I blazed my way through the gates with all the might that I had left and all the passion and anger that I brewed and simmered for ages. Oh yes, I did. You should have seen me barging in with fiery wings full of pride and glory like the old days of yore.”

Upon hearing the word fire, the young man tensed up and asked, “the owner told me that today’s fire was man-made. Have you perhaps seen the culprit?”

The mention of the owner seemed to have ignited the last remaining vigour in the old man’s chest. “Man-made? Man-made? How dareth he mistaketh I for him”, said the old man in a rising voice that broke into a series of raspy, strained coughs.

“What happened after you got there?” Asked the man in an attempt to calm the old man down.

“I was born there, and I wanted to go back home at my journey’s end to rest forever surrounded by my family. But when I got there, the colossal guarding gates were wide open, almost collapsing, and were only held together with the overgrown vegetation. And as I ventured deeper, I saw the pristine translucent lakes turned into swamps; the evergreen gardens abandoned and ruined; the sweet flowing rivers stagnant with muck; the statues of gods and angels tumbled and broken; the eternal light dimmed and flickering. I looked around, searching for my brethren, searching for anyone! I even tried calling for the sly cherubs, but my efforts were for nought! The cherubs? Who could have guessed? I was abandoned, and my home, the heavens, was abandoned. Oh, yes, it was.” As he uttered these words, the old man seemed to have parted with the last sparks in his eyes; his voice gave up with a lonely sigh; his body collapsed and crumbled with a creak into a heap of cinders that died out with a hiss and turned into ashes scattering with the morning gust. The young man, stunned at first, looked around bewildered. He noticed the sun rising and spreading its threads throughout the ether, banishing the night stars into oblivion. As he looked around gazing, he saw the celestials wane and disappear, one by one, except for the rebellious Venus, the morning star. It sparked in defiance against the supreme light for one last time before surrendering its pride and succumbing. On his way back, the young man grabbed his notebook, scrabbed all the previous notes and wrote, ‘Our home, the heavens, abandoned!’

Of Morning Pages

I have skipped a day.

I have lost a beat. 

The lost ripple ruined me.

The serenity of my monotonic symphony got disrupted.

Within the ebb, I got lost; I lived without a purpose, confused, anxious, alone. 

In the shadows between the waves of imagination, I felt cold.

But never again. Never again shall I sit idle. Never again shall I waiver. Never again shall I be eclipsed.

Arise in the name of the muses.

Arise in the name of Apollo.

Hold the sword of humanity and march: march into the unknown and conquer the oblivion of your meagre existence; march with the greats hand in hand and page by page. Write on the pages of time, write for the future, write for us.

Stand up, my child. The future will, surely, be yours shall you embrace your present. Ripple by ripple shall you create till, one day, the advent of the surge.

Metamorphosis

A free writing exercise:

You could say I was thinking of other things when I shampooed my hair blue, and two glasses of red wine didn’t help my concentration. “It ain’t half bad! I just need to lift my hair. Voila! I might be able to blend in! But can I do it? Should I do it?” I stepped away from the mirror, mumbling to myself, thinking that I needed to pour myself more of the wine I kept hidden behind the mirror. “God, give me courage”, I told the transformed girl in the reflection as I reached for the wine bottle.

“Rasha, hurry up; we can’t stay here any longer.”

I ignored the calling, not because I didn’t understand the severity of the situation but because I hadn’t mustered the courage to do what needed to be done yet. I grabbed the bottle by the neck, bit and spat the cork, and chugged the rest of the wine. “Hurry up, wine, I don’t have time for you either,” I told myself as my father pushed the bathroom door violently and hit me in the back, spoiling my gulps, my mood, and my clothes.

“Rasha, what in the name of God are you doing?”

“What do you think I was doing?”

“What have you done to your hair? And where is your scarf?”

“Do I have to explain that now? I changed its colour.”

“I can see that, but why have you done that? Why now? We don’t have time for your… for such silly things.”

“…”

“God! Have you been drinking? This is not how I raised you. We have had this discussion before. This is the worst time to be drunk.”

“I thought that the wine could help.”

“Help with what? Have you lost your mind? We must leave RIGHT NOW!”

“I know! Why do you think so little of me? I have done it before. I know exactly what needs to be done.”

“The only thing that you need to do is pack your stuff and listen to me, like always.”

“No.”

“What do you mean? didn’t you pack?”

“This is not what I meant.”

“For god’s sake, not now, Rasha. I don’t have time to deal with you.”

“I mean, no, I am not following your lead this time. I am old enough to make my own decisions.”

“You are only eighteen, drunk and with blue hair. You obviously don’t know what you are talking about. I am not going to repeat myself, Rasha. Be a good girl and follow me. We must leave the city before dawn.”

“I told you I am not doing this. I will stay here this time. I will not leave my friends and home again. I am sick of all this travelling. I am sick of running away.”

“Rasha, let us go to a safe place first, then we can discuss your plans. I must ensure that your brother and sister are away and safe. I must protect them. I must protect you.”

“This is why I have done all of that: the drinking, the hair. I have changed. I don’t need your protection anymore. I have had enough of it.”

I didn’t want to give my newly found drunk resolution a chance to waiver, so I pushed my dad and left the bathroom, put on my khaki jacket, picked up my backpack, then bumped into my mom down on the stairs towards the living room.

“Mom! I am leaving. I am not going to follow father anymore.”

“I know.”

“How could you…?”

“You are my daughter.”

“Sorry, mom.”

“You don’t have to apologise. I would have done the same.”

“I can’t do it all over again. I want to protect you…like my father always says but not in that way. Not in his way.”

“I know, sweetie.”

“Ten years ago, we were forced to leave Aleppo, our home. I will not go through that pain again. This time I refuse to run away, and I refuse to stand idle. This time I can resist. I have grown stronger. Kharkiv is my new home, and I am not giving up on it. I am old enough to volunteer. If it comes to fighting, I will fight. And if it comes to bleeding, I will bleed. I belong here, mom. I have learned their language, and I have changed my looks. They will accept me now. They have to. They need me. They need to know that they shouldn’t run away. They have to take charge of their own destiny. That’s why I can no longer remain hidden. And I can no longer keep the veil”.

“I am proud of you, Rasha”. I reached for her hand, as she uttered these words, and kissed it, then darted towards the door ignoring the shouts of my father.

I ran away, leaving my past behind me. I left it sobbing and choking by a heavy air of uncertainty in my throat and an abyss of murky dread in my limbs that the gulps of wine didn’t manage to wash away. I went out into the dark, heading towards the unknown, unguarded and unveiled, deep into Shevchenkivskyi district when the sirens broke away the silence of the cold dawn. It is war!