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  HOMES

  HOMES

  A REFUGEE STORY

  ABU BAKR AL RABEEAH WITH WINNIE YEUNG

  © Winnie Yeung 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical — including photocopying, recording, taping, or through the use of information storage and retrieval systems — without prior written permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright), One Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON, Canada, M5E 1E5.

  Published with the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Alberta Media Fund.

  Freehand Books

  515 – 815 1st Street sw Calgary, Alberta T2P 1N3

  www.freehand-books.com

  Book orders: LitDistCo

  8300 Lawson Road Milton, Ontario L9T 0A4

  Telephone: 1-800-591-6250 Fax: 1-800-591-6251

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  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication al Rabeeah, Abu Bakr, 2001–, author

  Homes: a refugee story / Abu Bakr al Rabeeah with Winnie Yeung.

  Issued in print and electronic formats. ISBN 978-1-988298-28-3 (softcover). ISBN 978-1-988298-29-0 (epub). ISBN 978-1-988298-30-6 (pdf)

  1. al Rabeeah, Abu Bakr, 2001–. 2. Refugee children — Iraq — Biography. 3. Refugee children — Alberta–Edmonton–Biography. 4. Syria — History — Civil War, 2011 – — Personal narratives, Iraqi. 5. Syria — History — Civil War, 2011 – — Refugees — Alberta — Edmonton —Biography. I. Yeung, Winnie, 1982–, author II. Title.

  HV640.5.I76A47 2018 305.9‘06914092 C2018-900161-5 C2018-900162-3

  Edited by Barbara Scott

  Book design by Natalie Olsen, Kisscut Design

  Cover photos © Pat Stornebrink (top) and OBJM (bottom) / Shutterstock

  Photo of Abu Bakr al Rabeeah by Samuel Sir

  Photo of Winnie Yeung by Heiko Ryll

  Printed on FSC® recycled paper and bound in Canada by Marquis

  For

  Abu Bakr al Rabeeah

  This is a work of creative nonfiction, written by Winnie Yeung as told to her by Abu Bakr al Rabeeah and his family. Conversations and events have been recalled as best as can be remembered by the participants. In the interest of protecting the family’s privacy and the safety of family members and friends who are still in Syria, some names and details have been changed.

  “Our childhood is at war with us.”

  HISHAM AL-JOKH

  “Eulogy for Arabism”

  Abu Bakr al Rabeeah’s family and friends:

  (pronounced “Abu ba-CAR al Rah-BEE-ah”)

  ABU BAKR our protagonist, often called Bakr

  HAFEDH AND NIHAD his father and mother

  NASER his older brother

  MARYAM, ABEER, AIESHA, ASMAA his older sisters

  ABRAR AND ALUSH his younger sister and brother

  UNCLE MOHAMMED AND AUNT ATEKA Bakr’s aunt and uncle

  YOUSEF, ABDIL AZIZ, IBRAHIM, DILAL their children, Bakr’s cousins

  UNCLE NAJIM AND AUNT MUNA Bakr’s aunt and uncle

  ABDULLAH, HANEEN, ALI, RAIYAN, ISLAM, MARAM their children, Bakr’s cousins

  GRANDMOTHER MARYAM Bakr’s grandmother

  AMRO Bakr’s best friend

  ALI a friend of Bakr and Amro’s

  Contents

  1 April 18, 2014: Where Did the Sun Go?

  2 March 12, 2001, to Fall 2010: The Sweet Life

  3 November 2010: A New Life

  4 March 2011: Wait, Wait, Little One

  5 April to June 2011: Strange Lullaby

  6 May 2012: My First Massacre

  7 August 11, 2012: And Then a Second One

  8 September 2012 to April 2013: Damascus

  9 May 2013: Oh, Father

  10 August 1, 2013: The Night of Power

  11 February 2014: Winter

  12 May 2014: Thirteen

  13 Fall 2014: The Apprentice

  14 November 2014: If God Allows It

  15 November 2014: Damascus in a Different Light

  16 December 12, 2014: The Last Squeeze

  17 December 12, 2014: Buses, Airports, and Selfies

  18 December 13, 2014: Enroute to Canada

  19 December 14, 2014: Edmonton

  20 January 2015: Back to School

  21 2015: A New Language

  Afterword

  Endnotes

  Abu Bakr’s Acknowledgments

  Winnie’s Acknowledgments

  Authors

  1

  APRIL 18, 2014

  Where Did the Sun Go?

  Every Friday on the way home from the noon prayer service, Salat al Jum’ah, Father stopped to buy fresh fruit from the street vendors. Our mosque was barely a block from our apartment and the walk home was always a loud, lively time, with neighbours and friends catching up at the end of the week. On the day of Father’s birthday, April 18, he bought fruit for the family as usual but rather than lingering to chat, he hurried home. All morning, the fighter jets had screamed by. In the weeks before, every mosque in our neighbourhood, Akrama, had been attacked. Father texted me to go straight home after the service.

  I always looked forward to Salat al Jum’ah. The comfort of belonging, Father in his white, ankle-length thawb tunic, the soothing prayers of peace murmured shoulder to shoulder with friends. I always went with my buddies or cousins, and on this particular afternoon, my neighbour and best friend, Amro, and I laughed as we joined the sea of people spilling out onto the packed street. “The sheikh, he lives in the mosque. W’Allah! Trust me, I know,” I boasted as we approached our usual meeting spot outside.

  “Ugh, no! You think you know everything, Bakr, but bet you he doesn’t,” insisted Amro.

  “W’Allah! I swear! Fine, loser buys sodas!”

  Our friend Ali sauntered up to us, hand out-stretched, and I clasped it firmly. “Jum’ah mubarak. Blessed Friday, my friend. Hey, settle this bet fo —”

  I was just pulling my hand away from Ali’s when the blast hit us. Time expanded and stretched; I saw and felt everything in a disjointed way that seemed too slow to be real. As I fell back, I heard the low whoooosh of the taxi full of explosives shooting straight up into the clear blue sky, blocking out the sunlight. In that moment, all I could think was, “Where did the sun go?” The car came crashing down, twice as fast. We were thrown to the ground and showered with gravel and sand. In action movies, the hero always has ringing ears after an explosion and all sound is muffled. That wasn’t true for me. The world was muffled for only a split second and then screams filled my ears and Father’s voice pierced through the mayhem. “Abu Bakr! Abu Bakr! Abu Bakr!”

  That’s the sound I still hear when I think about my first car bomb: Father screaming my name.

  I dragged myself up and spun towards his shouts.

  Father was weaving through the desperate crowds and when he reached me, he grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me this way and that, like a man inspecting a melon at the souk. Satisfied that I was okay, he steered me home.

  Moments before, the street in front of our apartment had been filled with people laughing and chatting. Now there was only chaos. Feet running, voices shouting, arms gripping wounds, cellphones frantically trying to document the destruction. The flaming shell of the taxi was only steps from our apartment building. Terrified of what we might find, we rushed through the garden and into our suite. The living room and kitchen were abandoned with lunch half laid-out on the table. Where was everyone?

  We heard noises coming from my parents’ bedroom. The r
est of my family was safe, crammed into the small room. My older brother, Naser, told us that when the bomb exploded, he’d been stretched out on the couch watching TV. Mother and my sister Abeer were cooking in the kitchen. Aiesha and Maryam were in their bedroom, Aiesha texting a friend and Maryam finishing her prayers. Thank God Maryam was kneeling far from the window, which shattered from the force of the explosion. At the sound of the blast, they all took shelter in my parents’ bedroom where Asmaa had been with the two youngest, Abrar and Alush, helping them get ready for the day. Alush was jumping around with a cotton swab still hanging out of his ear, shouting, “What happened? I wanna see!”

  Telling everyone else to stay put, Father led Naser and me out to the living room. Our shoes crunched on glass shards as we inched towards the patio doors to see what carnage lay just beyond our garden wall. Out on the street, ruined flesh. A torso without a head. And blood, trickling streams of it. Puddles soaking into the pavement.

  All I could do was stare as Father and Naser rushed past me to help. I pressed my temples to try to stop the ringing in my ears. The smoke and dust burned my lungs. Minutes later, Father returned, half-dragging a young man with blood spurting from his neck. Father shouted, and out of nowhere, a white scarf appeared. My mother and sisters helped the young man into the bathroom where they bound his neck as best they could. And as I just stood there watching, the stranger stared blankly at himself in the bathroom mirror. The white scarf bloomed red. My sisters fussed around him while my mother adjusted the scarf again to slow the flow of blood. Finally, he managed a smile and mumbled his gratitude.

  “Bakr! Come!” I snapped to at the sound of my father’s voice. Father and I helped the stranger back out onto the street and into one of the many cars waiting to help transport the wounded to the hospital. The girls followed us out and I heard one of them whisper, “He’s so handsome…” In the distance was the wail of sirens.

  That’s how it was in Syria: when we heard an explosion, we ran towards the chaos. Often the police and ambulances were late arriving, if they arrived at all, so we took care of each other. After every explosion, streets were clotted with civilians doing whatever they could do to help, binding wounds, driving the worst cases to hospital.

  Still dazed, I wandered back into our garden while Naser and Father remained out on the street. I nearly stepped on one of our chickens — I hadn’t noticed them in all the confusion but they were all there, standing stock-still. It was like someone had hit pause when the car bomb went off. Their little black eyes blinked every so often, but their bodies were rigid with terror. The blue and green budgies, surprisingly, were chirping contentedly in their cages. The old stone wall in front of our garden was still intact, even though the section next to ours now had a gaping hole in it. My father stood there examining the crumbling wall. Months later, that same wall that had withstood a bomb blast collapsed during a windstorm.

  As I refilled the water for my birds, I heard Father and Naser checking on our neighbours. Mother and my sisters were busy cleaning up all the shattered glass inside. The reporters and camera crews descended, hastily assigning blame on some rebel group or other, and behind them, the street-sweepers and the clean-up crews hurried to wash away any evidence of dissent. Eventually, the streets would be silent as everyone else hid in their homes. The chaos of the day was seeping away slowly and all I wanted to do was get back to my normal. It was Friday evening. Time to go to my cousins’.

  After telling Mother where I was headed, I scurried through the back alleys to avoid the military checkpoints that dotted my neighbourhood. It wasn’t safe to be in the main streets. After an attack, the place was always crawling with Assad’s army or, worse yet, his shabiha goons. Document checks for our safety, supposedly. People were randomly questioned or even detained for hours, sometimes days. When the grenades exploded or machine guns rattled, you never knew if the attack was coming from the government or the anti-government militias that fought to control the streets of Homs. It was a continual call and answer of mortars, guns, Grad rockets, and missiles.

  When I arrived at my Uncle Mohammed’s apartment, I felt like myself again. I’m glad I didn’t stay home that night. I’m glad I spent the night playing PlayStation with my rowdy cousins instead. On the streets outside my home, the dogs would be the final arrivals to the bloody aftermath. In the quiet of the night, strays descended onto the streets, yipping, howling, feeding.

  As I strolled home the next morning, I met Amro and a few other buddies from our building. After three years of living in civil war, we had become strangely numb to the random violence that bubbled up around us.

  “Hey Bakr, your family good? Where’d you go last night?” Amro’s voice bounced off the walls and buildings of the quiet street.

  “Yeah, everyone’s fine. I was at Yousef’s. You know, Friday night.” I shrugged.

  “FIFA 13 again? Man! Tomorrow night — my place. Rematch from Wednesday’s game.”

  “Sure, sure.” We smiled at each other and he sucked in a quick breath through his teeth. Leaning against the garden wall, we stared at the gruesome mess that remained. The corpses had been carted off but flecks of flesh and bone still stuck to the sidewalk and the walls where we hung out. The stench was overwhelming: a putrid smell that hit the back of the throat. I couldn’t breathe in without tasting it. We all had our noses tucked into our collars. Sighing, I went in search of some garbage bags. Someone else retrieved a mop and bucket from home and we mopped and poured bucket after bucket of water into the street. Of course, Amro splashed water about and made stupid jokes. We elbowed each other in the ribs while we scrubbed at the bloodstains. The street slowly filled with others joining in on the effort. After a few hours, it almost seemed normal again, even though the air felt heavy with the spirits of the dead.

  By the time we finished, it was late afternoon. I washed up and joined my family in the living room where they were eating and chatting. As I plopped down onto a couch, Mother cocked her head to one side and stared hard out the window. “What is that?” she asked, pointing at something snagged on the roof of the chicken coop.

  Of course, Father sent me to investigate, and as I hoisted myself up on the roof, I came face-to-face with a man’s jawbone. In the last year, there had been many public service announcements instructing people to bring heads or limbs that were found after attacks to the hospital or police station…but a jaw? I grabbed a white plastic grocery bag from the kitchen then climbed back onto the chicken coop. I plucked the jaw from the shingles and stared at it. The skin was clean-shaven and smooth. The teeth were perfectly straight. The only thing that seemed right was to give it a dignified burial. Clutching the garbage bag, I headed towards the park down the street. There, beneath a tree, just a month after my thirteenth birthday, I buried a man’s jawbone.

  2

  MARCH 12, 2001, TO FALL 2010

  The Sweet Life

  It wasn’t always like this. My life wasn’t always like a scene from Call of Duty or Counter-Strike.

  Actually, I was born in Iraq and we lived there until I was nine years old. When people in the West hear Iraq, they instantly think of Saddam Hussein and the Gulf War. But when I think about my home country, I remember the honey-drenched baklava my aunts gave me, the pinches on my cheeks, affectionate tickles under my chin, and coos of laughter. I was one of those unfortunate children always being pinched by aunties, my cheeks round and puffy like pita bread fresh from the oven. Even my best stone-faced scowl never dissuaded them — it only made them laugh harder. The only reason I didn’t completely hate my cheeks was that everyone said I looked exactly like Father when he was my age.

  My childhood in Iraq was a sweet one. There was laughter and joy: rich, just like the syrupy knafa cheese pastries I loved so much. And my red bike. It was the centre of my world. I was proud of my shiny bike, and I wouldn’t let anyone else touch it or ride it, not even my older brother. Every day, I raced and weaved through the snarl of side streets to school, to Father�
��s work, to the arcade, to the soccer field. We prayed five times a day, and every Friday, we went to mosque. I memorized the salah with its comforting words, and the rituals of prayer were stitched onto my very soul. I went to school and wore a blue uniform. My friends and I tore about in a pack, and we filled our time with soccer. That’s what life was: friends and soccer.

  In my family, there were ten people: my mother and father, three boys, and five girls. I was the third youngest. My family was crazy and loud and our home was filled with the constant chattering of my sisters, Maryam, Abeer, Aiesha, Asmaa, and Abrar. Naser was a full ten years older than I was and, according to him, that made him the boss of me. Even though Maryam was the oldest of us kids, Naser nagged us all relentlessly, “Respect your older brother!” The baby of the family, Ali — or as we called him, Alush — was my mother’s darling, but I was always closest with Father. You would expect Father to be the one to harp on me, but Father was my best friend, gently guiding me through life with patience and laughter. Both Father and Naser were tall, long-limbed, and goofy in their own ways, and sometimes it felt like I had two fathers. At least, that’s what my brother wanted me to think!

  Father was not like my friends’ fathers. For one thing, he rarely ever yelled at us; he took the time to explain the world. But he wasn’t always serious. Father loved nothing more than to tease and joke. He told everyone that his children were the light of his life. Even though my father’s family was Shi’a, he raised us as Sunni. In Baserah, where we lived, the divisions between the two denominations of Islam hung heavy in the air. I felt this divide between our family and the rest of our world very early on, even though Father tried his best to insulate us from the worst of the awful, violent things people did to each other. Even so, he couldn’t shield us from the whispers, the taunting, or the shunning. He couldn’t ward off the disapproving grumbles of his own family; instead, he taught us to meet those painful arrows with love and acceptance, to leave it in God’s hands.