Al -Sammara
February 2013
Winter
7.15 a.m. Tahmin Border: I stand with my brother Ihsan among thousands of worn out and frightened Sammarans waiting to flee their native land. The once beautiful city of Al-Sammara is now a battle ground of the Middle East contested by Muslim civilians and their Israeli rivals. I recalled the events of last night, our last in Al-Sammara before we came to be standing at the border on that cold winter morning with our ID cards in hand, eagerly waiting for the gates to open... or not.
“Nima, draw the curtains quickly, the Israelis are zigzagging their way around the city tonight ... again,” my mother said to me. The Israelis had not only invaded our town but our lives and peace of mind too, I thought. My father was bolting the windows and front door shut. “They are invading houses now Nooda,” he said to my mother.We lived in a small but comfortable two bedroom house, which was a sacred sanctuary to the four of us.
I lived 19 years of my life there and any minute it would be broken down to pieces like water cascading over a child’s sandcastle.
Whatever the odds, we shall always be together, my children,” my mother said to my brother and I, clutching onto us like a lioness with her cubs. Until the fatal sound that shortly pierced my ears. The first bomb had gone off, and then another and another. For the last five weeks, this had become the norm in our town – like fireworks falling from the sky or falling stars. But stars are beautiful, they bring light to lives not take lives.
Each one of us had begun chanting our Islamic prayers out loud, in a plea for a miracle or for someone or something to make those horrifying events stop. But our prayers seemed futile at that point.
I’d like to think that there’s a special place in hell for people who take innocent lives, but I don’t think Satan wants them there.
“We will have to get out through the back door and reach the border,” my father instructed. We gathered a few of our belongings into bags and hurried out the back door. On the ground lay a silver necklace which my mother had gifted to me on my fifteenth birthday. I grabbed the necklace and out the house I went.
The situation outside was nothing less than a scene from the war films I had watched in history class in school. Tear gas, gun shots and bombs lit up the city as innocent lives were cut short. At that point we had two choices, disperse and run for our lives or be killed. With every gunshot I felt holes being drilled deeper into my ears.
I held onto my brother’s hand and we ran in any direction that seemed out of harm's way, leaving behind my parents, with the intention of meeting them at the border. Meanwhile, everywhere we ran there were gouts of flame, like a dragon spitting fire. My brother and I found ourselves gasping for air.
We covered quite a distance. It began to rain in torrents. Eventually we found a small tunnel which we used for shelter and a place to hide ourselves for the time being. We were far away from all the uproar but could still hear the bombs and the cries of our people. Hours passed; we sat motionless holding onto each other in fear of getting caught. This was an unprecented experience for me – violence, military operations, and weapons in the streets. Sammarans are simple people, not extremists, but now I could see that Sammara had truly destroyed. The conditions were completely unacceptable – at times I felt we were
fighting against ourselves to put a stop to the violence and create something better.
Staying was now impossible.
Only someone truly desperate would want to undergo such an experience. Even then it would be preferable to have died than undergo the million deaths of slow fear we were subject to every day.
Where had God been in all of this? I pondered. The Almighty, the One, the Divine, the Protector, and the Merciful. Where was God when our people needed Him, as His sky had been set alight with fire balls and bombs even as my brother and I sat there?
We were raised in a conservative but not an orthodox Muslim home, where the belief that God alone is our refuge and our sole source of help was instilled in us from childhood. There I was. Could God not see my pain? Where was God? I was wracked with anger and doubt. Perhaps it was a test of unbreakable faith, tolerance and patience – all of which seemed so foreign to me at that point.
All my life I had lived as a practising Muslim, never waving from my duties for one minute – so why was this happening? What was to become of us? Was my life in Al-Sammara over or was my life over pure and simple? Was someone listening to my plea or had my case been dismissed without appeal?
As the hours passed, we were woken by the icy wind and just a few rays of sunlight that entered the tunnel. We probably fell asleep with exhaustion, unless our bodies just gave up on us. Everything was as calm as a millpond.
A strange silence filled the air perhaps more deafening than the blasts themselves. It was a rather sinister feeling. We were still shaken by the events of the previous night and decided it would be wise to stay hidden for a few more hours. Then we saw a few civilians walk by and what looked like our local emergency vans pass through, assuming they would be able to aid those affected by the catastrophe.
Eventually, we found the courage to leave our safe haven and made our way down the streets to reach the border. The scene we discovered with each step was harrowing.
We came across lifeless bodies of innocent people; some were still alive but badly injured. I covered my brother’s eyes with my hand whilst I tried desperately to hold back my vomit; the smell was full of THICK AWFULNESS. Our walking turned into running, and soon we were sprinting away.
Ihsan asked me about my parents, if they were eagerly waiting for us at the border. I could only assume they would. Although we were running, I felt everything happen in slow motion. I wondered about the people closest to me, my friends and family; my uncle and aunt whose confectionary business I had been working at a few blocks away from home for the last two years.
A fortnight ago every business, workplace or school had been broken down to nothing. My city had collapsed.
We made our way down the nearest pathway where we saw neither person nor creature. The intruders had vanished into thin air. Most living civilians I supposed would have already fled to the border by now, and they did along with our parents – fortunately.
Some 500 Sammarans are waiting at the border this morning, along with hundreds of Israeli soldiers circling the area like red-tailed hawks hovering over their prey. On the other hand there are Muslims waiting vigorously with their identity cards in hand to be shown to the Lanarsan Embassy. We too are holding up our cards hoping to be part of the weekly quota of 30 refugees to cross the border. They clearly don’t make their selection on a first-come first-served basis, as we've been standing near the front most of the time. Has the embassy adopted Darwin's theory of Natural Selection? Are they looking for strong, able-bodied and competitive individuals to live in their country?
I’ve heard many stories of the City of Lanarsa and the Sammaran refugees that live there. Situated on the outskirts of Europe, it is said to be recognized as the “the Noble City” or the city of “Hope and Goodwill”. Some say that “Heaven falls in Lanarsa”. The beauty of the city accompanied with side orders of harmony and the budding capital add up to a scrumptious feast, which we are all jostling to have a bite of, even a crumb.
They say people live out their dreams and follow their passions there. One Sammaran man struck it lucky and began working as a dishwasher at the local coffee shop. Seven years later he now owns the shop. Another woman who worked as a teacher in Al-Sammara started tutoring a few children in her home; a few years later she runs her own school.
Two cities divided by an iron gate, one full of potential and enlightenment, the other barren, with darkness creeping in from every corner and withered dreams to remind us that we are stagnant, our feet stuck in sinking mud. But I hold close to my heart the fond remembrance of the way my city once lived.
Our treasured Islamic city radiated an aura of peace and serenity as birds chirped to their families every morning. The small handmade houses, little shops and the smell of damp wood exemplified a modest, cultured lifestyle. Trees towered over the entire town, their broad, green leaves sweeping through the streets.
Children on their way home from school played games on the dirt roads, cheerfully looking toward their future. Every man, woman and child roamed about without restraint. The only gun or weapon a child had ever seen were the plastic ones for games of “Cops & Robbers”.
Guests to passerbys alike were welcomed with a warm greeting of our native language. This was the routine of our lives, until the Israeli invasion. The war between the Muslims and the Jewish has been a recurring battle for centuries. The animosity dates back to the time of Abraham and the Prophet Muhammad. Common issues of conflict have historically been identified as theological issues like acceptance of Muhammad as a prophet and competition over holy land. These made people contradict and divide the two holy books and ultimately diverge the two religious “ideologies” when in fact there are many similarities between the two faiths. Both the Quran and the Torah promote and encourage kinship between one another –which evidently unlocks an entire new can of sardines when attempting to debate this fact.
If there’s one thing that has been a constant for as long as humankind exists, is that there are good and bad people in the world, and like millions of us who practice our respective faiths, so do they. It’s unfortunate for those religious groups, because the worse the actions of their people, the worse the religion is branded. My father often says: “Religion is not the enemy, but the individual certainly is.”
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