Homes Page 10

  Those ten days flew by faster than we ever expected them to. We spent hours wandering the rows of covered shopping arcades that Damascus was famous for, and even I had fun. I bought new clothes for my new life in Canada. What would I need? What would other kids look like? I bought three watches even though I had never worn a watch before. It just felt like a grown-up thing to have.

  One of the best things about our time in Damascus was visiting Umayyad mosque. When we’d lived in Damascus for six months, we had not visited this magnificent place, but during those ten days, we went to Umayyad three times. It was unlike any mosque I had ever been to. It is one of the oldest and largest mosques in the world and it is sacred in Islam. The beauty of it stunned me. We attended one Friday service there, and when I entered the wide inner sanctuary, all I could do was stare. The air was cool and hushed. The carpet was a deep, rich red. Majestic marble columns and elaborate arches soared above us and stretched luxuriously down the entire width of the building. The giant chandeliers looked like they dripped with sun-dipped jewels. Usually, the sanctuaries of mosques were plain spaces because we were supposed to focus on worship, but here, standing shoulder to shoulder with so many people, in this beautiful place, I couldn’t help but think how lucky we were. As we went through the Jum’ah service, I felt blessed. I felt like God wanted me to remember the love of brotherhood, the love of community, and the rich beauty that surrounds us. Even though it was chilly in this great stone and marble building, my heart was warmed by the love I had for my religion, my God, my family, my country. I bowed in deep, reaching gratitude.

  Outside in the sunny courtyard, people milled about on the marble floor, worn smooth from the centuries of feet that had explored it. I especially loved walking along the sides of the courtyard, craning my neck until it was sore, gazing at the gigantic mosaics. It was unbelievable how much detail was made by those tiny tiles. Giant palm and date trees, fantastic houses, flowing patterns. Some gleamed with silver and gold, but mostly there were a lot of blues and greens, which made me think of lush forests and deep lakes. It reminded me of a life full of living, growing things, not of dusty, bombed-out streets. I hoped, deep inside, Canada would bring green back into our lives.

  All around me in this sacred place, little kids Abrar and Alush’s age ran about playing games and screeching. Some boys kicked a soccer ball around. A group of women in hijabs and abayas ate their lunches from plastic bags. This felt like a true Muslim’s life to me: real life soaked in the wonder of prayer and devotion.

  THREE DAYS BEFORE OUR DEPARTURE, Uncle Najim, Abdullah, Uncle Mohammed, and Aziz joined us. In his rush to catch the Damascus bus, Aziz had missed breakfast. He was starving, so he and I went to a cafe. He inhaled four sandwiches and on his last bite, I stood up. “This one’s on me, Ziz,” I said as I pulled out my new wallet. Then I looked at the bill: 1500 lira. It was nearly double the price than it was at the start of the civil war but it was worth it, just to see the look on Aziz’s face.

  My cousin looked up at me in utter shock, his mouth still full. “What?” Aziz mumbled through a mouthful of bread and swallowed hard. “You’ve never treated before! Big man, now!” He laughed, slapped the table, nodded with approval, and smiled big at me. Pride? Was that the look in his eyes? He nodded again to himself and slapped me on the back. “Thank you, brother.”

  16

  DECEMBER 12, 2014

  The Last Squeeze

  The morning of our departure was chaotic with everyone trying to move our luggage to the street, all the while dreading the last moment of goodbye. The other four families were doing exactly what we were trying to do — bring a lifetime of bags to wait on the curb using the hotel’s one tiny, slow elevator. Finally, our twenty bags were brought down and we couldn’t stall anymore. It was time.

  Father reached for Uncle Najim and Uncle Mohammed. No words. Just tears. The three of them embraced for a long time, heads bent together, almost in prayer. Eyes closed tight. Our fathers’ tears caused us all to cry. We couldn’t help it. At last, I turned towards Abdullah and Aziz, their eyes already swimming. They both bent down slightly to me and when I felt our heads bump gently together, a wave of sadness hit me so hard, I was breathless. It was quiet, except for sniffing and the occasional choking sob. As we moved about, hug to hug, person to person, we tried hard to swallow the sadness but it stuck in our throats, in our chests. Uncle Najim held me by the shoulders to look at me for a few seconds then he pulled me close. “Soon,” he managed, “we’ll see you soon.” I nodded because I believed it.

  Uncle Mohammed. He enfolded me and his warm smell brought fresh tears. He smelled like home. I just stayed in his arms and wept because there was no holding that grief in. At least with Uncle Najim, we had “soon.” With Uncle Mohammed, I had no idea what would happen. He released me. “Be good, Bakr. You will have such a big life in Canada. Goodbye.”

  Aziz wavered in front of me. The impossibility of saying goodbye ate us both. His bear hug. That’s all we did: hugged.

  Then, as raw as we felt, it was done. The business of departing took over: our uncles and cousins left in a taxi and Father disappeared into the hotel lobby to check out. We stood on the curb, eyes focused down the street. Standing a few steps away from my family and at the edge of the sidewalk, I leaned out to see if I could spot our bus in the busy street.

  Out of nowhere, two SUVS veered in front of us. One stopped directly in front of me, nearly hitting me. The five families exchanged panicked looks. Shabiha spilled out of their cars, eyed everyone’s bags, and started circling. We all looked down and my sisters huddled together. “Hey! You! Boy! Come!” Keeping my head bowed, I raised only my eyes, hoping the voice wasn’t calling me. I met a man’s cold glare. “Documents! Passports! What’s going on here?” the man barked at me. I could see his gun. My mouth gaped open but no words came out. Something deep inside told me not to give him our passports. Where was Father? Naser was with Mother, and he held onto Alush. I looked at him and his eyes had no answers either.

  “What are you, deaf? Documents! Passports!” A few other people started slowly rooting around their bags, stalling. I pretended to rustle through my backpack…but if they had our passports, what would stop them from keeping them? That familiar voice inside me again, “run,” and my feet twitched in response. I looked up, alarmed. Was there an alley nearby I could disappear into? Would I be fast en —

  “Stop!” Father’s voice boomed through my fear. “We are waiting for the UN!” His white plastic bag was brandished before him, both hands gripping the bag. The other four fathers were behind him, a parade of IOM bags. Those plastic bags were like a magical talisman. Those five fathers wielded them like triumphant banners high over their heads, faces set in grit and determination. The thugs shrunk back.

  The man who yelled at me put his hands up in mock surrender and a big fake smile. “Just a routine document check! IDS, please,” he snorted.

  Ten minutes: that’s how long it took them to check everyone’s documents. I gripped my backpack the entire time. We had lived through shootings, raids, and massacres, and those ten minutes were the most horrifying ten minutes I had ever experienced. When the SUVS finally peeled away, I could breathe again.

  Father chuckled and looked at me. “I think that was our last shabiha squeeze, son.”

  17

  DECEMBER 12, 2014

  Buses, Airports, and Selfies

  When the UN pulled up in front of the hotel, my heart leapt. It was one of the most exciting things I had ever seen. It wasn’t just a little bus — it was a whole convoy. In front was a white SUV with UN in bold black lettering, and following it were two shiny black buses. At the back, another white UN SUV. Eight men in bright sky-blue vests. It all looked so official and safe. We had been on many buses before but somehow, this bus felt big. The IOM agent, an Arabic woman wearing oversized sunglasses, stepped out of one of the buses and welcomed us. She read off the five family names in a loud, clear voice. The fathers reached into th
eir white bags and pulled out the necessary papers. The drivers opened up the exterior storage bins on the side of the bus and started loading up the luggage. Some of the men in the blue vests came out to help us. A scramble for bags and we loaded in: Mother and my sisters first, then the boys, with Naser practically running to get on, and Father last. You could tell he was mentally counting us off, no one left behind.

  As we settled in, two by two, the IOM agent explained the three-hour ride to the international airport in Lebanon and the breaks we would take. The IOM agency would provide us food throughout the entire journey. At every airport, there would be someone who spoke Arabic to take us to where we needed to go and to get us our plane tickets. Her smile was warm, reassuring, confident. In my heart, I thanked God again.

  That bus ride was a long one and we were sweltering in our new Canadian clothes. As I watched the mountains roll by, I just tried to see everything, remember everything. I felt scared. What was our life going to be like? What would school be like? Every time I’d imagined my new life, I thought I would just understand everything: that somehow by being there, the language would absorb into my skin. But as I searched my brain, the only English word I could remember was thanks. Were there mosques in Canada? Where would we live? Would Father find work? Would Naser? What about internet? And my phone? The questions came, wave after wave. I tried to close my eyes to them, to sleep, to pray, to recite my favourite parts of the Q’uran, to think about the best soccer games we ever played. Nothing, only this nervous knot inside me. I think we were all flooded with fears because we all started talking, as if to keep the questions at bay. Moving between our seats and chatting constantly, we recalled old stories, old memories. Remember when…remember when…remember when…

  Finally, the airport. By now it was early evening and the sky was all pinks and deepening purples. A dark blue band grew in the sky. The airport in Lebanon was so big and people rushed around everywhere. The IOM agent deposited us in a waiting area. We were to stay there until three in the morning when a different agent would meet us, give us our tickets, and take us to our departure gate. We were given vouchers for dinner and we settled into our little makeshift camp. You could tell the day was particularly wearing on the adults because most of them stretched out on the benches to close their eyes. Father used our IOM bag as his pillow. Soon, even the kids settled down to sleep. Some my age had their earphones in, texting furiously away on their phones. Selfies. Everyone took selfie after selfie the whole day. Father especially.

  For me, sleep was impossible. This time, it wasn’t the questions. It was the people! I loved the humming sound of all those wheeled suitcases zipping by. There were so many different kinds of people. I saw my first Chinese woman. I saw a young guy with a bushy beard, just like many Muslim men had, but his was blond. I laughed. It was incredible and I loved it. Yes, of course I had seen lots of American movies and soccer games on TV but watching all these strangers walk right by me was exciting. In Syria and Iraq, you could look at a man and say, he is Saudi, she is Iranian, he is Lebanese. We could just tell because we looked slightly different, but these other differences were fascinating! Adventure and wonder bubbled up in me.

  At last, another agent approached with an open smile. It was time to fly to Italy.

  THE AIR ON THE AIRPLANE was strange: it hummed. My throat felt dry and lights were oddly bright. Lebanon to Rome. We shuffled and squeezed by, confused about where our seats were. We tried to jam our carry-on bags into those bins above the seats but they were narrow and our backpacks were bursting full. We plunked down in the tiny seats, with me next to the window, Aiesha, then Father in the aisle seat. Across the aisle, Abeer laughed at Father, who tried to arrange his long legs while peering out the tiny windows at the orange lights of the runway and murmuring “Inshallah” to himself. I looked at his hands gripping the tiny armrests and laughed. “Father! You’re okay! See? No problem!” I winked and grinned at him. How many times had I heard him tease me that way?

  But I was terrified too. When I heard the engines come to life, I pulled my seat belt even tighter. A crackly voice spoke to us over the speakers while the flight attendants pointed to the little monitors in front of us that talked about emergency procedures. Never before had I paid so much attention to a video. Masks? Flotation devices? Ya Allah. When the main cabin lights flickered out, I was glad it was nighttime so I couldn’t see the ground out the window. Where were the emergency exits again? The plane moved slowly, and then it stopped altogether. I was afraid everyone could hear my heart pounding in my throat. I snuck a peek at Aiesha to see her eyes squeezed shut, lips murmuring a quiet prayer. Father nodded once, reassuringly, at me.

  Then, the plane roared to life and surged forward. The balls of my feet dug into the floor and I leaned far back into my seat as we raced faster and faster. The runway screamed below me, the gigantic metal wings caught the air, and the plane climbed up, up, up. Ya Allah, ya Allah, ya Allah. It wasn’t so much a prayer as it was a plea.

  18

  DECEMBER 13, 2014

  Enroute to Canada

  We arrived in Rome. More waiting, another IOM agent, another flight, but this time to Toronto on an even bigger plane. The other four families had scattered on their own journeys to other foreign countries so we were alone. On the first plane, Father had been merely nervous, but the idea of spending ten hours in the air really scared him. He prayed a lot on the long flight and so did Naser, actually. Back in Syria, Naser had been lazy with his devotions at best, but on the plane, Naser was devout in his prayers. By this time, I had slept so little that I was too exhausted to pray with my family.

  A few hours into the flight, Naser leaned forward in his seat. He had been watching a movie but he pulled his headphones out and looked like he was concentrating, really hard. I looked at my brother and pulled my headphones out.

  “What are you doing, Naser?”

  He continued to squint at the seat in front of him.

  “Naser?”

  “Shhh! I’m trying to listen!” He waved me away.

  “Listen? To what?” I sat still. I didn’t hear anything except the sounds of the plane.

  “The people in front of us.”

  I listened again. “You mean the people speaking English? You don’t understand English, stupid!” I scoffed at him. Naser was about as studious as I was.

  “No, no! W’Allah, there are a few words I can make out.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Fine, genius. What are they saying then?”

  “Inchibb,” he waved me away again, “They’re talking…about…fine, I don’t know what they’re saying…Bakr, do you think we’ll ever understand what they are saying?” He turned to me with genuine worry in his eyes.

  A snort from across the aisle. “Probably not!” Father laughed at us.

  ONE MORE MOVIE LATER, the flight attendants started to tidy up the cabin and people rustled about. We peered out the windows and saw a fury of white. Naser jumped out of his seat and started rummaging in the overhead bin. He pulled out his bag and headed for the bathroom. Weird.

  A few minutes later, the seat belt sign came on and the captain announced we were starting to descend. Naser came shuffling back with his jacket and a hat on. He looked different. Bizarre, somehow. I sat there, studying him as he shoved his backpack under the seat in front of him. He fastened his seatbelt and started loosening it. That’s it: he looked fatter.

  “Naser? Why…wait, did you put more clothes on?”

  He looked at me, dead serious, as if trying to decide whether he should tell me something or not. Father leaned across the aisle to see what we were up to. Now, my sisters looked at him too. Naser turned to Father, then back to me.

  “Did you see the snow out there?” he stuttered. “So I put all my clothes on, what’s the big deal?”

  Father practically spat and we laughed at Naser, all puffed up from the extra layers. He had on all his spare clothes from his bag. And that’s how we landed in Toronto, laughing at
my brother.

  The plane finally stopped and we were in the aisle, gathering our bags and waiting to leave the plane, Naser peering out the window. Indeed, the whole world looked white, white, white. Snow whipped furiously about outside the plane.

  “Oh my God. We are all going to die in the cold!” Naser leaned as far back away from the window as he could, shaking his head to himself the whole time.

  Father grinned and clapped Naser on the back. “Snow? No problem!” He looked at me, eyes alight. “What is snow, but frozen rain? It’s a good sign, right, Bakr?”

  19

  DECEMBER 14, 2014

  Edmonton

  The final plane. When we had landed in Toronto, it was dark and snowing so we couldn’t see much. Our flight to Edmonton was during the morning so I was able to see our new country. There was so much land. It stretched out in a canvas of whites, greys, and browns below us like a messy patchwork of prayer rugs, but it all looked empty, somehow.