Odyssey of Innocents

Prologue Damascus, Syria Summer 2013 “God is not Allah, God is Love,” whispered my mother as she pulled the blanket up about my shoulders, warm and secure, with the tightest tuck and tug of the sheets, then added in her mysterious and gentle wisdom… “Do not tell your father this, he will only scold you, Tania. He doesn’t see clearly sometimes. Love is what I know, I feel for you and your brothers and sister. Love keeps me alive, not Allah.” She gives me a quick, sweet kiss…suddenly the evening sky flashed of unnatural brilliance, a violent explosion from the streets below, all too familiar now, sent shock waves through their two-story building. “Hush, there could be another one.” We waited, not moving. The wailing of sirens filled the silence. E X O D U S F R O M S Y R I A A violent civil war in Syria has thrown the nation into chaos ravaged by atrocities and the horrors of a ruthless regime. The besieged people of Damascus were forced to flee for the borders of Lebanon where refugee camps are strung along the western boundary. The Abu Ali family and their relatives quickly gathered what they could carry. They packed dry goods and water stocked from their small successful restaurant located below their living quarters. Khaled and his wife, Rama, their four children; Jadeen 13, Fareed 12, Tania 11, and Davi 10. Rama’s sister Sonia and her husband, Rashad, have joined the family exodus. From a once-thriving suburb of Damascus, they joined millions of refugees as they trudged for three days to safety over the border. Arriving at the Lebanese refugee camp, they set up what resembles a campout among the throng of homeless. Immediately the tension increases. My mother, Rama, the story of her life reflected in soft iridescent hazel eyes, now too weary to complain, depends more than ever on her sharp-edged independent sister. Aunt Sonia motions us to be silent. Expectant and fearful we watched the drama unfold among our family. Rumors spread of attacks from our own Assad government against us. Insurgents are beginning to counter-attack. Syria is worldwide news. Khaled, becoming more incensed by the news, speaks quietly to his brother-in-law, Rashad, about returning to Damascus, joining the Free Syrian Army rebel’s opposition against the Assad Regime. How they hated to be driven and displaced by their own government. “That little rat of a tyrant’s days are numbered. I want to be there to storm his palace, to see him dead the way he has murdered us.” They become rabid in their convictions feeding on each other’s bitterness and thirst for revenge. Both men, as most Muslims, raised in the traditional Islamic beliefs are required to serve in the military at age 18. Their culture promotes brotherhood which entails hours together. Male bonding is absolute! They prayed on their knees in unison, chanted in protest and demonstrate en masse. But their primary bonding occurs in intimate circles while sipping fruit tea as they “iron the heads” of kindred brothers endlessly expounding on personal opinions until interrupted by another who takes his turn with robust and exhausting swagger chatter! When the discourse turned to earnest anger of mass murders in Syria, someone would relieve the frustration, slap his knee, laugh and recount the old joke “and there are 72 virgins waiting for brave martyrs in heaven.” Khaled and Rashad devised a story as not to alarm the women and children. They agreed this would soften their intent of returning to Damascus. --- My father wasn’t so much domineering, but displayed proud unrestrained vigor. He filled a room with his humor and presence. He was gentle and patient with us, filling our needs, mainly our stomachs. He was the best cook, he could make lamb stew in a single pot that tasted like a feast with peppers, onions and beets. It delighted our senses and nourished us for an entire day. However, he had a temper that could shock us into silent angst. After a few days, he became agitated and restless and cooking lentil beans and lamb stew at noon in the tent had become unbearable for him. I noticed he and my uncle would slip away and huddle with the surrounding men. One night everything erupted! I had never seen my parents argue or raise their voices to one another, let alone what happened that night. “Rashad and I are going back to our country, not to join the rebels as many men here, but to save our restaurant and our home” Khaled announced to Rama. Shocked, she pleads, “But you cannot go…your family…” “You and Sonia can care for them, but we are taking Fareed with us.” The heavy air became toxic in our tiny tent. Rama looked pleadingly about her, Sonia remained silent, the children stricken, huddled in a corner, eyes wide with apprehension. Rama stiffens, “You go, but Fareed stays here. I forbid you take a boy into that…” Khaled’s eyes red with anger, “You defy me?” Rama, fearless and unashamed answered with a hiss, “Yes.” A bitter family quarrel broke out, the men insisted the oldest boy, Fareed, join them back to Damascus. Fareed stood in opposition, “I won’t go, Papa. To leave them here would be dishonorable.” Enraged, Khaled shouted at Rama, “See what you have done?” Rama, encumbered by her robes, spun away, reeled backward and fell. She landed, dazed, on the ground, her robe and head scarf resembling unfolded laundry. Sonia quickly pulled open the door flap of the tent. In defiance she gestured for the men to leave. Khaled and Rashad gathered their belongings, diverted their eyes from the silent and horrified group among them. The brothers-in-kind exited without looking back, rebellious and unable to mask their male pride. Tania’s bewilderment quickly turned to anger. She dare not speak but vowed, I wouldn’t care to ever see them again. Alone now, Sonia comforts Rama, shaken and bruised and unable to stand upright. Sonia, still kneeling, whispered to her sister. “The children must go, it’s dangerous here, food is scarce. Together they can help each other, the older ones are competent and smart.” Rama uttered “Tell them where to go, to Jerusalem.” Sonia “I know.” Sonia skillfully assures the children she will care for Rama, “but you must leave, the four of you together—to a safer place.” She pauses, letting this news sink in. “And remember this”…Sonia, a woman wise in the ways of nature tells us to “go west in search of the great sea, called the Mediterranean Sea.” “Why?” I wondered aloud. “Because, Tania, we come from the sea, it’s our Source; do our tears not taste of salt? Can the palm exist in a desert of sand without water?” Aunt Sonia, the invariable teacher, educated in Jerusalem where she taught English and history, never let an opportunity pass without a lesson. She continues, “If you lose your cell phone, you can follow the sun. Our ancestors would have… When the sun sets at night, draw a circle in the sand with an arrow pointing where the sun sets, which is always in the west. Follow the arrow! Do not be confused when you awaken at dawn when the sun is rising in the east at your back for it will change at high noon, right above you. Then follow the sun always in your face. Make sure your shadow is then behind you. The sun will lead you west.” She has more, doesn’t stop— Her teacher instincts take over. Looking every bit as fierce as a tiger, with her short permed hair, she had liberated years ago when she discarded the traditional hijab. As the firm, clear words erupt from her mouth, we are held captivated by her instructions. I hope the other kids are getting this, each are thinking. “If you must detour, go south. Find the Jordan River, follow it to Jericho. Then west to Jerusalem, where I have friends. Go to the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, find Anna Gold, she will tell you how to reach my friends. Now, stay together! And watch out for one