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  October 1, 2014, was a day that started like any other. I had been at the bakery for two hours. The ovens were popping hot, so I decided to take my break in the shaded boulevard across from the bakery. I was leaning back against a tree and sipping my sweet tea when I heard the roll of an explosion, maybe a few blocks away. Through the tall apartment buildings, billowing smoke and distant screams. A second explosion rang out. I sat up and listened, almost sniffing the air to see if danger was near. Nothing. All I could do was sigh, shake my head, and return to my tea.

  My tea was half-finished when people started streaming past me. Kids in their blue school uniforms, covered in dust, some smeared with blood. An old woman, her face streaked with tears, clutching onto a bewildered-looking girl about Ibrahim’s age. The air was thick with fear, but also with anger, the fury clear on their faces as they ran by. A man about Naser’s age slowed down to a walk a few steps from me.

  “Excuse me, sir, what happened this time?”

  “Children,” he sputtered. “Those evil dogs. It was the elementary school, Akrama Almakhzomi school. A car bomb. Then a suicide bomber.” He stormed off, continuing to mutter to himself. Thank God, it wasn’t Abrar and Alush’s school.

  Abdil Karim was crossing the street towards me with a bottle of water in his hand. He surveyed the people running by and his eyes met mine in confusion. I told him what I’d heard and he swore under his breath.

  “Ya Allah. The death of innocents?” He trailed off, his attention turned to his cellphone. Another employee joined us under the tree, trying to reach his family on his phone. We stared blankly at the people hustling by when Naser came strolling out of the bakery looking for us. I stood up and brushed the dirt off my shorts.

  “Y’allah! Hurry up! Get back to work!” he called from across the street in mock authority. Pausing to allow people past him, he joined us under the trees as his cellphone rang in his hand. “Hello? Hold on a second.” A smile crept on his face and I snickered.

  “Hey, Naser, is that the girl I saw you with in the café yesterday?”

  “Shut up! Father just got back. He wants to talk to you, Bakr. I’m heading out for a bit.” He cracked his grin again, cuffed me on the back of my head, and walked off.

  Father approached us, practically bouncing, a broad smile on his face. He slid his arm around my shoulders for a few moments before he cleared his throat and waved the other employees away. “Come, Bakr. Let’s talk.” We turned back towards the trees. “Alhamdulillah, Bakr, this morning, I got a phone call from the UN.” My forehead furrowed in confusion.

  “So, you know that business trip we took to Damascus last week? Well, that wasn’t for business. I didn’t want to tell you or your sisters in case it turned out to be nothing, but we actually went to Damascus to visit the Canadian consulate.”

  “What? Father, I thought all the embassies were closed.”

  “There were only Syrian staff at the Canadian embassy, but the three of us had an interview with the actual Canadian consulate officer on Skype. Your mother, Naser, and I were sitting on this little couch, talking to this white man on the screen. He said he was in Lebanon. He even spoke some Arabic, son! You should’ve seen it! It was unbelievable!”

  I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “So the man interviewed us. He was especially interested in whether or not I had ever served in Suddam Hussein’s army when we lived in Iraq. Thank God, Bakr, I had that document that confirmed I paid my fee to the Iraqi government in order to bypass mandatory military service. Remember how I always tell you to have important documents on you, Bakr?”

  Father rarely missed a chance for a life lesson. I pressed him further. “Sure, sure, aiwa, Father! And?”

  “Well, at the end of that video call, he congratulated us, Bakr! He said, ‘Welcome to Canada! We’ll call you with details next week!’”

  I gasped. “What?”

  “Well, you can never be sure, so I didn’t want to tell the rest of our family until it was certain. Bakr, we are moving to Canada!” He pronounced the word, Canada, so carefully.

  My mind couldn’t quite process it.

  “Bismillah, we leave in a month…Abu Bakr?”

  A beat of silence then I was screaming and jumping around as if I’d just won the World Cup. “Ahhhh! Ya Allah! Oh! My! God!” Father started laughing, tears in his eyes.

  “Canada, Father? Really? This isn’t one of your jokes, is it? This is real?”

  He nodded, a grin lighting up his whole face, as he clapped me on the shoulder.

  “Ya Allah! I can’t wait to tell everyone!” I pulled my phone out.

  He grabbed my phone. “Ai. Stop, Bakr. We cannot tell anyone except for family.” Suddenly Father was serious. “We can tell Uncle Najim and Uncle Mohammed but no one else, okay? Do you understand why, Bakr?” I shook my head. “Kidnappings and ransom, Bakr. People are desperate. Don’t forget we are living in a war. I’ve heard of people who are about to leave getting kidnapped. The kidnappers know the families will pay anything to escape. They’ll squeeze anything they can get out of us. We have to be extra careful. No one but family, until we leave.”

  My brain slowly worked it out. “Wait…what do you mean we can only tell Uncle Najim and Uncle Mohammed? Aren’t they coming too? We applied together.”

  Father sighed. “Sit, Bakr. There’s more to tell you.”

  Together, we sat under the trees and Father slowly revealed the big secret. When we lived in Damascus, my uncles and Father received the amazing news that the United States had accepted our refugee application for the entire family. When they sat my mother, aunts, and Grandmother down to talk about it, Grandmother was adamant in her refusal. For years, she had lived under American occupation back in Iraq: “I will not live in America.” For her, it was non-negotiable. Torn and anguished, Father had put his foot down, insisting that his children’s safety was above everything else. Her only retort was, “You don’t think it’s dangerous for your family in America? There are other evils in this world, other than guns, Hafedh.” Still, Father had accepted the offer while Uncle Najim and Uncle Mohammed turned it down. Uncle Mohammed didn’t even bother to go to the security-screening interview with the UN; he simply skipped it. My mother was distraught, but what choice did she have? A few weeks after, it was all a moot point anyway because the United States suddenly suspended all refugee applications. Father’s hopes for America slipped away. In the end, because of the increasing bombings in Damascus, he settled for moving back to Homs instead.

  But now we were leaving. Leaving. We were going to a place without bombs and guns and I praised Allah with all my might. My heart soared with possibilities. I suddenly understood my father’s tears. Something joyful felt like it was leaking, overflowing out of me. “When, Father? Next year?”

  “November. We leave for Damascus next month. Everyone has to do a health screening. We’ll meet our UN agent in Damascus and from there, he will give us what we need to fly to Canada.” His eyes grew serious. “But Bakr, do you understand everything I’m trying to tell you? About Uncle Najim and Uncle Mohammed?”

  “Sure, sure, Father. They didn’t get their call yet but they’ll be a few months behind us, right?”

  “No, my son. Uncle Mohammed didn’t even go to his interview. You know how stubborn he is and how devoted he was to Grandmother. He felt like going to the interview would be a betrayal of her wishes. So…no. They aren’t leaving.”

  “Yousef? Aziz? They have to stay here?”

  “Yes, son.”

  It was too much: I couldn’t make sense of anything so I just stared at my sneakers.

  “Bakr, I know this news isn’t easy, but Uncle Najim’s family shouldn’t be too far away from their call. And, bismillah, Uncle Mohammed will get out of Syria some way or other. Who’s stronger than Mohammed?” Father stood and clapped my back, “Come, son, we have much to do. We leave in a month.”

  Leaving. Canada. Those words flashed through my brain again and again. But, my cousins
. Oh my God, what about my cousins? And what would I pack? Do they play soccer in Canada? Where exactly is Canada? I had never been on a plane before. Questions whirled about in my head as Father led me back home to tell my sisters the unbelievable news.

  The next day, we had a big family lunch at our place with all my uncles and aunts and cousins. The apartment was bursting at the seams with twenty-four people, and we were a nervous ball of energy waiting for Father to break the news. It was a feeling somewhere between weighty dread and bursting excitement. Finally, Father’s chair scraped on the floor as he stood and we all turned towards him.

  “The UN called and we are moving to Canada next month,” he said simply.

  It was a mess of laughter, squeals, shouts, disbelief, and tears. Everyone was on their feet and talking at once. Aziz and Yousef had me in a tight huddle. Then they were jumping, hands over gaping mouths, slaps, high fives, bear hugs. I faced an onslaught of questions from my cousins. Questions I didn’t know the answers to or hadn’t even had enough time to come up with myself. Finally, dizzy with emotion, I looked over at Father and he, Uncle Najim, and Uncle Mohammed were locked in a tight embrace, tears silently trickling down, the relief and love in the room completely palpable. Our family was happy for us, unreservedly.

  14

  NOVEMBER 2014

  If God Allows It

  Just as Father said, I waited until the last week before our departure to tell my friends. It wasn’t easy. I felt so guilty. I was leaving my friends and family behind in this mess. I was going to safety, but where were they going?

  I could barely stand the thought of leaving any of them behind, but our friends and family never once begrudged us our good luck. They told us how lucky we were, without a trace of jealousy. Especially in that last week, I heard inshallah a lot. If God allows it. “We will be together again, inshallah.” “We will see each other soon, in Canada! Inshallah!” “We will find safety eventually, inshallah.”

  As we frenetically tried to pack our entire lives into two bags each, I started giving away my things to my friends and cousins. One day, in front of that garden wall that was now a pile of rubble, I waited for Amro, just as I had a thousand times before. Staring down at my soccer ball, I remembered the day I got it more than three years ago. It was just after Father insisted on the nighttime curfew and, my God, I was late getting home. Amro, Aziz, Yousef, and I had been out trying new soccer tricks we had seen on YouTube. Aziz booted my brand new Adidas soccer ball, the one that Father bought me for my birthday, and it vanished. Amro thought the neon yellow ball had sailed over a tall stone wall with barbed wire coiled at the top. Yousef insisted it had rolled down an alley. We spent an hour searching the streets, and talked about sneaking into the courtyard, but the barbed wire scared us. I sulked all the way home, bracing myself for a marathon lecture about the new curfew and responsibility. The next morning, I was still stinging from the loss when those three showed up on my front step with a brand new ball they had pooled their money together to buy for me. Now, as I waited for Amro, I juggled that same soccer ball on the top of my right foot. The ball rolled off and I heard a familiar snort of laughter.

  “Ha! I can still beat you, Bakr! W’Allah!” Amro’s shouts bounced down the empty streets. He ran a few steps to catch the escaping ball.

  “Inchibb! You’ll need a decent ball to practise with if you’re going to beat me.” I nodded at the ball. “It’s yours now.”

  Amro bent over to pick the ball up and cradled it in his hands. He gulped hard. “Thank you, my brother.” Suddenly, we were in a fierce hug. Amro released me and clapped me on the shoulder. “Inshallah. There’s always WhatsApp.” We both smiled.

  The day before we left Homs, I invited Yousef to our apartment, which was dotted with suitcases, bursting full. Dozens of boxes filled with random household items we wouldn’t be taking with us: shampoo, mixing bowls, old towels. Draped in white sheets, our furniture looked like ghosts. Yousef burst in in his usual way then stopped abruptly, startled by the sight of our lives, all packed up.

  “Yousef?”

  He stared at my ratty soccer shoes sitting on the plastic mat next to the front door. He looked up at me and burst into tears. I couldn’t find the right words. What do you tell your brother when you’re leaving him behind? Wordlessly, we headed out into the little yard. The chickens were sold by then; only four budgies and two canaries remained. I walked over to those cheerful cages alive with birdsong. I whistled and the birds replied as I opened the door to one of the cages. My favourite sky-blue budgie hopped out immediately and flitted to perch on my head, as usual. This never failed to make me smile.

  “Yousef, I want you to take my birds.”

  He looked up at me, then up at my budgie nestled in my hair, and after a pause, nodded slowly. “It’s really happening, isn’t it? I still can’t believe it. That month went too fast.”

  I inhaled deeply. “I know.”

  I knew we were both thinking about his father skipping that UN interview. Things were different then, back in Damascus. No one ever thought the violence would still be going on, especially not Grandmother. Neither of us dared talk about it, though. “It’ll be okay. We’ll find a way to bring you to Canada, too. Inshallah. I have faith. Brothers forever.”

  Yousef’s eyes were brimming with love. “Brothers forever,” he whispered.

  For our final dinner in Homs, twenty-six of us were packed in our empty apartment: all of Uncle Mohammed’s and Uncle Najim’s family, plus two of Father’s closest friends. Later that night, after my uncles, aunts, and girl cousins had returned to their homes, the boys hung around even though my whole family was exhausted. Friends had been dropping by all week to say their goodbyes and we felt drained of tears. My parents and sisters were doing last minute preparations inside the apartment.

  The night was unusually warm, considering it was November. It was nearly pitch-black, except for some light from surrounding apartments. The streetlights on our street had been shot out long ago, but the stars were bright above us and the moon glowed. Yousef, Aziz, Abdullah, Ali, Naser, and I leaned against our crumbled garden wall, as we had done a thousand times before. We just talked, sharing stories, remembering stupid things, teasing each other, wondering about the future. Everyone took turns guessing what Canada would be like, how our lives would change there.

  “Ya Allah! You’re both gonna end up with Canadian girlfriends!” Aziz clapped his hands with glee and we doubled up in snorting laughter.

  “Don’t be stupid, Ziz!” I laughed at him.

  “Aiiiii! Who’s getting a blond girlfriend?” That distinctive, whooping yell could only be Amro, strutting towards us with a bunch of other friends. He jumped and danced towards us and we all shouted greetings and shook hands. More jokes, more teasing, more old soccer stories.

  “Hey, are you going to make Team Canada, Bakr?” Yousef teased.

  Eventually, we all fell quiet with our own versions of what this fantasy of Canada could possibly be like. Softly, Aziz broke the silence. “You know what I wish? What I pray to Allah for? I want us all,” he gestured at the whole circle, “to be safe in Canada. I don’t care how cold it is. We’ll freeze our butts off together. I want everything as it is…us, together, hanging out…but in Canada.”

  “Yeah,” Amro chimed in. “And if we can’t be together, then you can’t forget us. Never forget us. Never forget Syria. Or Iraq, for that matter.”

  Everyone nodded in agreement. It seemed impossible to me, to forget them.

  “Yeah, and don’t forget Islam, it is your heart. And Bakr, do something good for Syria. Show them our suffering. Tell your story,” Yousef said.

  Tell my story? That seemed like an even crazier, far-fetched idea than forgetting my cousins and friends. How? It seemed like an impossibly big task. I turned towards Yousef. “Inshallah.”

  15

  NOVEMBER 2014

  Damascus in a Different Light

  Packing up the van on that November morning
, I couldn’t help but think about our move from Iraq four years ago, or even our move to Damascus just last year. Except this time, it was only the ten of us. A second van, jammed full with our twenty pieces of luggage, followed behind. We were silent, lost in our own thoughts. I sat in the back staring out the window, watching the streets of Homs slip by, possibly for the very last time. I tried hard to memorize every last detail. The way the crowded souk smelled, all the stalls selling vegetables, halal meat, fruit, tea, spices, and sweets. My mother’s favourite store to buy scarves and fabric. I pretended to hate going there because it always took such a long time, but I secretly loved walking amongst all the bolts of vibrant silks and cottons and running my hands through this soft world. I never really realized how bright, crowded, and colourful my world was until I had to leave it.

  Once we reached Damascus, the reality was really setting in. The vans dropped us off at a rundown hotel. Four other refugee families were arriving, overloaded with bags. As we all worked at unloading our luggage and getting to our hotel rooms, Father went to meet with the International Organization for Migration agent. He returned to our rooms clutching a thick white plastic bag with the dark blue IOM logo on it. I stared at that picture for a long time: a globe partially split in half, with a family holding hands in the middle. Our last name, al Rabeeah, was written on the front in thick black marker. Father clasped this bag as a fiercely protective mother does her newborn baby. Gathering us around him, he emphasized how important the bag was, how it must be with him at all times: it had all our documents and tickets, as well as instructions and contacts for emergencies. Father explained that we would fly in ten days. Before we left, Uncle Najim, Abdullah, Uncle Mohammed, and Aziz would join us to see us off. “In the meantime, buy whatever you think you need, but remember we only have two bags each. I don’t know if we will return, so enjoy the city.” He reminded us all that my mother and sisters could not go out unless he, Naser, or I was with them. “Documents all the time and watch for the shabiha. No mistakes now. We’re very close.”