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  I remember my first day of Grade Two. I lined up in front of my classroom with everyone else. One by one, the pock-faced teacher called our names and each child stepped up to greet him. When the teacher got to my name, I approached him and he paused and squinted hard at his clipboard. He snorted, “What kind of name is that? Abu Bakr?” and smacked me across the face. My breath caught in my chest and my cheek burned from the sting of his hand and the humiliation. Abu Bakr: a Sunni name in a Shi’a world. Gasps and giggles rippled around me. The teacher spat, “Why would your father name you that? Get inside.” My lip quivered and my vision blurred but I bit the inside of my cheek hard because I didn’t want to let a single tear fall. My father had taught me: no tears, no anger. I blinked and, without a word, stepped into my classroom. I was seven years old.

  After school, I told Father what happened and he was furious. He marched into the school and demanded an apology. Though he got a perfunctory one, the damage had been done. Because my teacher had slapped me for no other reason than having a Sunni name, the Shi’a students felt free to tease and torment me. Every time something like this happened, Father sat me down for one of his long talks and insisted that love was the answer to this problem, that I had to push past the anger and sadness and leave all judgments to Allah. Even if everyone hated me, it was my job as a good Muslim to love them anyway. And my friends still included me in their games at recess, because really, when you’re seven years old, whether you are Sunni or Shi’a doesn’t matter as much as how well you play soccer.

  But I wasn’t the only one who was teased. My sister Aiesha was three years older than me and of my brothers and sisters, she was the most outgoing and talkative. Aiesha loved school, and her wide, black eyes sparkled as she bubbled incessantly about all the things she learned. She especially loved math and was so good at it. We used to shout numbers at her to add, subtract, multiply, and divide, and she would sing them out, like songs.

  One afternoon, I came racing home for lunch and heard an angry, muffled voice. Aiesha. In hiccupping sobs, she was telling Mother that her Grade Five math teacher said she was failing and it was better that she died because she was a useless Sunni. Aiesha failing math? That didn’t seem possible. She studied all the time and my parents checked her homework. I peeked into the kitchen. My mother was biting her lip, staring blankly, as Aiesha continued to sob and clutch at Mother’s flowing abaya dress. “Why did you have to name me Aiesha? Why?”

  Mother sighed. “My dear girl, leave it to Allah. There is nothing we can do about others’ hatred. We can only keep our own hearts clean. Ignore them, Aiesha. Just don’t listen.”

  Ignore them? Didn’t Mother know how hard this was? But I suppose that’s how it is. Kids got teased over anything so we learned to live with it, on the playground and in the streets.

  It wasn’t until a year later, when I was finishing Grade Three, that the situation got really serious. It felt like danger was closing in around us. There were many whispered conversations about Mother’s nephew, Mithak. Mithak was twenty-five years old when his body was discovered by some neighbours in a dumpster. None of the adults talked to any of the kids about it, but when they shooed us out of the living room, we hid under the window and listened hard.

  “Mithak…donating blood at the hospital…the nurse taking his blood left the room. When she came back he was gone.”

  “Ya Allah, oh my God…days later…his body…dumpster…the syringe still in his arm.”

  “No wallet, no ID…”

  “Days in the morgue…family…identify him…”

  No one knew for sure, but Mithak’s parents were certain he had been abducted by some Shi’ite fanatic who had been threatening the mosque where Mithak worked as a security guard. After what happened to Mithak, I was terrified of being kidnapped or even going anywhere near a hospital.

  Father started talking about leaving Iraq, about joining the hundreds of people lined up outside the consulate offices that issued visas to leave the country. When our neighbours started to find bullets taped to their front doors, Father joined that line himself. Then, our older cousin Omar received a letter; it said his family should be beheaded because we were Sunni dogs. That’s when I overheard Father whispering the word bribe to Mother. When a death threat that mentioned me by name arrived at our own doorstep, Father announced we were leaving.

  It took months to finally get our visas, but in 2010, when I was nine, Father called us all together to announce that we were moving to a city called Homs, in Syria. My mother’s mother and two brothers, Najim and Mohammed, were already there. I couldn’t believe my luck. It was perfect! We were moving close to my favourite cousins and I was so excited that I didn’t even really mind having to leave my red bike behind.

  Our last few weeks in Baserah were a flurry of goodbyes to uncles and aunties. Everyone brought me candy. Our bus took twenty-four hours to wind its way from Iraq to Syria. We finally arrived at five in the morning and the sky was streaked with purple, pink, and orange. My father stepped off the bus, unfolded his long limbs, and breathed in the cool November morning. It was raining lightly and the air was fresh and clean. Father grinned down at me, black eyes shining. “The rain, Abu Bakr, it is a good sign.”

  3

  NOVEMBER 2010

  A New Life

  We soon became familiar with the winding streets of the ancient city of Homs. In the district known as the Old City, the native Syrians were suspicious of newcomers, but the New City was a buzzing hub of Syrians and immigrants: Sunnis, Shi’ites, Alawites, and Christians. Here, it seemed that people lived in relative harmony. Everyone smoked hookahs and slept late in the mornings. Every apartment had a cage of chirping budgies, canaries, and other little songbirds. The smoky, sizzling smells of the ever-spinning shawarma roasts were chased away by the clean, sweet breezes from Lebanon. The old and the new blended noisily in the streets: men and women in modern and traditional clothes, Arabic pop and folk songs blared from stores and apartments.

  My father sold everything to move to Syria, sacrificing a successful career as a landlord. What I didn’t fully understand at the time was that he gave it up so that we could have an escape route. I thought that Syria was the escape, but Father and my uncles had bigger plans.

  Twenty days after our arrival in Homs, my parents took us to a grey, boxy government building. It was early and I rubbed my eyes as we stood at the entrance of a room the size of a gymnasium. “My children, Bismillah, there is an important reason why we are here today, but I will explain later. Sit quietly while I go register us first.” Father gestured at the rows of wooden benches and plastic chairs and disappeared behind a partition near the entrance of the room. Still fuzzy from sleep, I lay down and tried to close my eyes but soon, Father nudged me awake. “My lazy son! Get up, Bakr! Here, hold on to this.” He handed me an orange ticket.

  I stared at the number on my ticket, 813. “Father? What is this? What are we doing here?”

  After making sure everyone had a ticket, Father sat down on a bench facing us. “A few months ago, your uncle Mohammed applied for refugee status and we are here to do the same. I don’t know if Syria will be any safer than Iraq. Inshallah, if God allows it, everything will be fine, but I want to make sure we have another option.”

  Mother, Maryam, Naser, and Abeer shifted uncomfortably while the rest of us sat there, confused. “What does that mean, Father? Refugee status?” Aiesha asked.

  “Today, we are here to apply to move to a safer country, somewhere far from here. Maybe Europe, America. Remember our old neighbours, the Pachachis? I heard they are moving to Australia. We are here to meet the consulate staff so do not lose that ticket, or we’re moving without you, okay?” Father’s joke didn’t quite land the way he wanted because we just kept staring at him.

  Aiesha pressed on. “Leaving? But we just got here. I don’t understand. Where are we going?”

  “That will be up to Allah, my dear girl. I honestly don’t know where or when. It could be mo
nths or even years. Think of this like insurance. What do you think, Abu Bakr?” Father turned to me.

  “Sure, sure, Father. Aiwa, yes, of course, whatever you say.” I tried hard to smile but looked away instead. I noticed then how crowded the room was. Why were we all trying to run away? “But Father, what about the rest of our family? Yousef? Uncle Najim? Grandmother?” I asked.

  At this, Mother responded, “Of course, we are leaving together.”

  And so the ten of us waited together. The boredom was numbing as hour after hour passed and the morning melted into the afternoon. A large TV bolted into the upper corner of the room continuously flipped through pictures of Syria’s famous ruins, and traditional Syrian music played softly on its speakers. Wandering throughout the room, I heard many Iraqi accents, but also some Somali ones. Aiesha and Asmaa went out to buy sandwiches and drinks, and I wandered the halls listlessly. Everyone who was over eighteen had to complete an intake interview, and my parents, Maryam, Naser, and Abeer practised their answers in hushed voices. Father had heard that it was important that everyone gave the same answers and he stressed that being honest was absolutely necessary. “We have nothing to hide,” he kept reassuring us. One by one, the five adults went to their interviews in a separate room down the hall. I tried to follow Father into his, but the agent interviewing him paused. “I’m sorry, you cannot come in with your father,” she smiled down at me, “but you can wait here.” With that, she led Father into one of the many cubicles set up in the small room. I sat at the doorway and strained to hear what people were saying above the brisk clacking of keyboards.

  An hour dragged by and I was numb and chilled from the linoleum floor. My mind drifted from the distant voices, to daydreams, and finally to sleep when Father gently shook me awake. He looked worn-out and relieved. “Bakr, go get everyone and bring them back here.”

  “Aiwa, Father,” and I scrambled back down the hall towards the stuffy waiting room. Minutes later, all ten of us squeezed into an even smaller room with the woman who had interviewed Father. As she took our tickets from us, she asked us our names and ages. Alush was too shy to answer but I jumped at the chance to answer for him. Our family interview was short. The woman went on and on about the United Nations, visas, something like that. While my parents nodded intently, I daydreamed about the possibilities. What if we moved to Madrid? Then I could see my soccer hero, Ronaldo!

  In the weeks following the application, my sisters and I wondered aloud about all the different countries we might end up in. We began to settle into our new home in Syria. Through December, Father and Naser struggled to find jobs and pondered possible business ideas. Maryam, who was twenty-four, blossomed. In Iraq, she led a constrained life, but here, she shed her old life as quickly as she shed her niqab. She began to work and train in a hair salon twice a week while the rest of us were back in school. But never mind Grade Four — my cousins were my life! Yousef, Abdil Aziz, Ali, Ibrahim, and I were always together. We were close in age — with Yousef at thirteen and Ibrahim at seven — and we played together like brothers. When we weren’t kicking a ball around, we played foosball or barricaded ourselves in our rooms with our video games. We had to go to school from Sunday to Thursday, but the weekends belonged to us. We quickly developed our Friday night ritual of sleeping over at each other’s houses and playing games late into the night.

  Eventually, Father, Naser, and my uncles settled on opening a business of their own. Father convinced Mother to teach him how to make her chewy, soft bread. Then the men searched for the right place to open up an Iraqi bakery and I watched my older brother with envy. He had been working with Father for years ever since he refused to go back to school after he finished Grade Six.

  Naser, who was chatty, charming, and bossy, became the manager of the new bakery in Homs. Just as the sun was rising, Father opened the bakery and fired up the ovens, and then Naser took over the busy morning shift. Depending on whether or not he had stayed out late with his friends the previous evening, Naser was either a brisk taskmaster or the guy lazily leaning against the refrigerator, sneaking cigarettes and joking with the employees. Once, Father caught him smoking in the bakery. He swatted the dangling cigarette out of Naser’s mouth, cuffed him up the back of the head, and lectured him about bad habits while the other employees chuckled. It wasn’t just the air of the bakery that was warm: the men Father hired were like family and they teased and laughed at each other. The family business started out small, but slowly, customers lined up for our bread.

  I loved being at the bakery. After school ended at noon, I would eat lunch, play with my friends a little, and then head over there to help. Mostly, I did simple things like assist the customers or fetch things for the other employees, but the whole process of making bread fascinated me. It was so simple — flour, water, yeast, salt — but when you felt the dough in your hands, it came to life. It sprang back with joy and fought while you kneaded it. I would watch the bakers pull and stretch the dough, tossing it back and forth, hand to hand, not a movement wasted. The pale disc of dough would be slapped onto the sides of the searing hot tabun oven, and just as the bread started to bubble, the baker would deftly flip it with the trusty paddle. I loved breathing in that tangy sweetness with a hint of smoke. Our life in Syria was much like our bread. Crammed into our small ground-floor apartment, we kneaded ourselves into our new life in Homs. It was hot, hard work, but we shaped a simple, hearty existence.

  4

  MARCH 2011

  Wait, Wait, Little One

  When I turned ten on March 12, 2011, we had been living in Homs for about four months. The atmosphere was shifting in Syria. It seemed that just as we began settling into our new life, everything else around us was stirring up. News reports were filled with words like revolution, Egypt, oust, Arab Spring, the people.

  One Friday afternoon, I was at the prayer service at Zawiya mosque with Uncle Mohammed and Yousef. As the imam gave his sermon, everyone stood shoulder to shoulder, row by row in the main sanctuary. Eyes closed, hands folded, feet bare, hearts open. The incantations of the final prayers were rolling over the congregation in soothing, melodic waves when there was a shiver in the air. Several distinct pings and something flew by, far overhead. My eyes flew open. I knew that sound from my video games…bullets? My heart froze.

  As I frantically craned my neck to see what was happening, glass rained down on the congregation. A voice deep inside me cried “run” but all I could do was stare in absolute disbelief at the rows of men around me, who kept praying as if nothing was happening. Was I imagining this? Why was no one moving? The prayer continued on.

  My brain couldn’t bear it. My heart pounded in my ears but even though I wanted nothing more than to run home to Father, I stayed in my place. The voices all around me kept the sanctity of the final prayer, as worshippers had done for centuries. Not a single soul broke concentration, their prayers even more intense and fervent as the bullets sung high above our heads. A quiet whimper escaped my tight throat and Yousef’s eyes found mine. I clutched his arm in panic. His hand flew to clamp his mouth shut as he stifled a laugh. He stifled a laugh? We were being shot at and he was laughing? My mouth gaped open as Yousef turned bright red with the effort of holding his snickers in.

  Only when the final words of the prayer were murmured — “Assalamu alaykum wa rahmatu-Allah” — did anyone move. Some brushed glass shards off themselves while others sputtered in disbelief.

  “What is happening?”

  “Who’s shooting at us?”

  Shouts of “Allah akbar!” filled the mosque. “God is greater, God have mercy!”

  “Is this some sort of accident?”

  “What do we do?”

  Uncle Mohammed gathered Yousef and me in his arms. “Our shoes, boys, let’s go,” he murmured. Out. Thank God. My whole body trembled for flight. We fumbled for our shoes and I broke into a run as soon as I slapped mine on. I was yanked back with great force. Uncle held me fast by the back of my shirt. “No
! Bakr! Wait!”

  “No, Uncle, no!” I gasped. Wait? There was no waiting. My mind screamed, my stomach ached, and all I wanted was home. Uncle scooped me up off my feet with one arm, like a bundle of sticks, and held me tight to his side.

  “Not like that, Abu Bakr. Wait…wait…” His voice was clenched but quiet. Along with many others, we stood just outside the mosque, huddled in the cove of the front entrance. A man raced past us and I heard a gun cry out once, twice, and then a rain of shots. The man crumpled into a heap on the open street. The sky was a startling blue and the sun was unbearably bright. The entire street held its breath. Even the birds went silent. Suddenly, more people rushed out, taking their chances. Again, once, twice, and a rattle of bullets. Uncle Mohammed taught me to listen for the rhythm. Two slow, deliberate bullets. Then, a rapid volley of shots. After that, a pause as the shooter contemplated his work.

  But my feet had no ears, no sense, no logic. I wriggled free, tears clouding my vision, as something wild coursed through all my veins. Two steps, and again I was choked by my collar. “Wait, wait, little one. We will do this together.” I couldn’t catch my breath as I stared at the man lying out in the street.

  “Abu Bakr?”

  I glanced up into Uncle’s steady eyes and then to Yousef, whom he clutched with his other arm. My cousin nodded at me vigorously. Together, yes. We could do this together.

  Uncle listened intently, head down. He gripped our hands tightly. “There,” he murmured and nodded at an alley across from us. Two, three tentative steps and we were all dashing across the open street towards the cover of the building opposite the mosque. I saw nothing except the shadow of that building and, suddenly, we were in that shadow. No pause. Hands locked together, legs pumping, we followed as Uncle Mohammed led us through a labyrinth of side streets and alleys. Ronaldo or Messi couldn’t have outrun us on that March afternoon.