I'm Not the Only One
A family refuses to leave their village during a regime incursion.
I'm Not the Only One
A family refuses to leave their village during a regime incursion.
I sat contemplating our flowers while sipping coffee with my mother and listening to the singer Fairuz, as I did every morning.
Suddenly, a knock on the door interrupted us. I rushed to answer it. During these few seconds, a thousand thoughts rushed into my head.
Fearing bad news, the trip there felt like it took an eternity although it was no more than a few metres.
The door stubbornly refused to open and it was only after a struggle with the lock that our neighbour Mustafa’s mother appeared.
I welcomed her, but my scared face only became paler when I heard her own fearful voice.
She said, “Good morning dear.”
I replied, “Good morning, come in.”
We clasped our cold hands together briefly. Was it fear which made us feel cold? I took her to over to where we were sitting and, with shaking hands, offered her a cup of coffee.
But before any further formalities, without even sitting down and drinking her coffee, our neighbour said, “The army will invade our village tonight and people are willing to flee in order to save themselves and their children, what are you going to do?”
She then excused herself and left without even hearing our answer, leaving us confused.
I have always loved black coffee, but maybe the bad news I heard that morning made it even more bitter.
Filled with fear, I turned to gaze at my mother’s shocked face. She told me in a low, pain-filled voice, “Go tell your father and siblings, they are in the sitting room.”
The voices of my nieces and nephews made me hesitate before ruining their beautiful morning, so instead I called my eldest brother outside and told him what happened, away from the poor children who have nothing to do with this war.
My brother tried to calm me down by saying that only God knew what was going to happen.
“Yes, brother, I believe in God’s will,” I replied, “but at least we have to take into consideration the children and what will happen to them amid shells, missiles and bullets”.
I sat on the swing with the grandchildren to let my father and brothers discuss whether we were going to leave the village or not before the invasion.
They decided that we would stay put, relying on God and the basement refuge we had prepared for such an eventuality.
We had stocked this dark place with goods to help us survive and feed us for a few days, although there was only space for ten people and we were a family of 20.
The night came and a frightening silence surrounded the place. We struggled to hide our fear from the children but they couldn’t hide theirs.
Then the sounds of shells and bullets began to rumble through the desolate village, and the screams of the children and the prayers of my parents began.
How can I describe those few seconds of terror between the sound of the shell and hearing its impact? We feared for our lives but most of all we feared for our children. I cannot express how hard those few seconds were, as a missile passed above our home and screams and tears blended with prayers in our basement.
We didn’t sleep at all that night, we just kept praying and praying. At one point, a piece of shrapnel penetrated the closed window to land near my younger sister’s shand. If it not for God’s mercy, my sister’s hand would have been amputated. This close shave reinforced our faith in God and convinced us even more to stay in this village despite all the risks and fears.
Eventually, the army was able to enter the village. Some regime soldiers went into houses and robbed them, as we later learned, and they arrested whatever young men they found.
However, the soldiers did not break into our home even though they broke into many others including our neighbours’.
All through that long night, our neighbour Mustafa’s mother was proud of her son who was distributing bread to those in the village.
The siege wasn’t yet over when we heard that a piece of shrapnel had hit Mustafa and killed him. His mother only got the news when she left with the others to seek help from neighbouring farms.
How great mothers are in these circumstances. Mustafa’s mother was like all those brave women who offered all they have to reach freedom.
I remember Mustafa’s mother hugging her grandchildren to ease her pain, all the time repeating, “To Allah we belong and to him we return.”
As for his widow, a young woman barely 23 years old, she was silent until she said, “I’m not the only one, nor the first one, nor the last one and I’m not better than other Syrian women. We would all die for this country, we are all martyrs in this land which deserves freedom and everything we could ever offer.”
How great Syrian women are. They are heroes.
Radina Abedel Karim, 29, holds a postgraduate degree in rehabilitation. She is a displaced woman who works in the field of rehabilitation in Idlib’s countryside.
