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What Makes Me
What makes me
My mom hung up the phone; her face was red and her eyes filled with tears. I almost made it across the living room to catch her as she fainted.
“Baba! Baba! Help me please!” I yelled with a quivering voice trying to stay calmed.
“Go and pack your stuff Mahmoud, you have five minutes to be ready. I take care of mom.”
My mind was numb; I couldn’t process what was happening right now. I just did what my father told me and ran to my room to get ready for something that I knew had to happen someday but wished never to be real.
I could hear bombs exploding somewhere not so far away and aircrafts cruising the night sky above us.
“My high school diploma” I whispered for myself. I ran as fast as I could and started to look for it everywhere because it was the only thing that I had left that defined me, I felt my life depended on it. Everyday for three years I woke up to go to school with my mom begging me to stop studying and stay home. Everyday for 3 years I had to hug my family as if I were not going to see them ever again; I had to run to school dodging snipers, watching hopeless people with fear leaving their houses. Everyday for 3 years I felt how my classroom sometimes shook with the sound of bombs and shelling making a class of 50 students become a class of 10 because of fear or because they were murdered, kidnapped or had to go to refugee camps in Lebanon, Iraq and Jordan.
I grabbed my backpack and went to the living room; my mom already had woken up, she was more calmed but as she fixed my jacket and put her hand on my left cheek, I could see tears filling her eyes.
“Your aunt and her family were murdered because they refused to leave their home. It’s time for us to leave. You’ll travel hidden in the back of the car as we are going to pass many soldiers’ checkpoints. I love you Mahmoud and I need you to be strong.”
My dad opened the door and we rushed to the car. I entered the back seat and my mom and dad hid me with the backpacks and other things. When I heard the engine of the car roaring smoothly and felt we were moving, I knew nothing would be the same ever again.
Right now, I’m sitting inside the tent we live in, near the border of Lebanon and Syria. It’s been 2 years since we are on exile and the only thing I can think about is how much I miss myself, my friends, times of reading novels or writing poems, birds and tea in the morning. My room, my books, myself, and everything that was making me smile. I had so many dreams that were about to be realized.
