A Hope More Powerful Than the Sea(8)
That Mother’s Day, Doaa’s world was changed forever. Every year, as a family tradition, she, her mother, sisters, and little brother would visit their grandfather for lunch and visit the cemetery to read the al-Fatiha, the first chapter of the Quran, over her grandmother’s grave, an important ritual for Doaa. After reading the al-Fatiha, the children would hand out ma’amoul cookies filled with dates, and single flowers from their bouquet, to the other cemetery visitors, receiving similar small gifts in return.
On that particular day Hanaa’s instinct was to stay home. Outside the door of their home, the street that was usually bustling with passersby and shoppers was eerily silent. There was talk of snipers, checkpoints, and clashes between demonstrators and government forces. To get to her father’s house, Hanaa and her children would have to venture into the city center, where the clashes were at their fiercest. On top of all this, Shokri was at work and could not accompany them until much later in the day.
However, Doaa wouldn’t hear of staying at home. She loved visiting her grandfather’s old house with its budding garden where she would play with her younger cousins. At least thirty of her family members were expected to be there, an occasion she did not want to miss.
“Mama,” she insisted, “we go every year. We can’t stop doing what we love.”
Hanaa eventually gave in, knowing that if she didn’t take her, Doaa would probably attempt to go on her own, leaving her at home worrying. Throughout the unrest in Syria, Hanaa wanted to give her daughters and Hamudi a sense of normalcy. However, nothing about the journey that awaited them would be normal.
Hanaa decided that the safest way to get to her father’s was to go by taxi. Dressed in their best clothes, and carefully carrying boxes that held chocolate cake and assorted cookies, they set out.
At first, Hanaa’s fears seemed unfounded. She walked out the door with Doaa, Saja, Nawara, and Hamudi and looked out to their street in El-Kashef. Fewer people than usual were out, but the shops were still serving customers and people were going about their business. Doaa spotted the usual gathering of neighbors in the shady square; the popular Abu Youssef falafel shop had its regular line of people waiting to order and the corner store where Doaa and her sisters bought sweets and chips had its door wide-open. For a moment the family forgot the violence that was sweeping through their city and upsetting the peace of their lives. Doaa strolled down the street smiling at the thought of visiting her grandmother’s grave and spending a day with her family.
It was only a fifteen-minute ride to Doaa’s grandfather’s house. Normally, taxis were abundant and cheap: thirty-five Syrian pounds for the ride to the city center. But that day, the few cars that drove by had their windows up and wouldn’t slow to Hanaa’s waving arm. Finally, a taxi stopped and the driver rolled down his window to tell them his price—250 pounds, a 600 percent markup. He said this was his “risk fee.” Doaa was appalled that the driver would charge so much, but if they wanted to get to her grandfather’s, they had no choice but to pay the driver’s price.
They piled into the taxi, careful to not crush the cake or wrinkle their good clothes. Doaa caught sight of herself in the side mirror and smoothed her brightly patterned veil, wanting to look her best for the celebration.
The young driver was extremely nervous, breathing hard and constantly looking over his shoulders. As they made their way through the militarized zones in Daraa, they heard gunshots, making the driver jerk in his seat and Doaa think that perhaps her mother’s fears were not unfounded. At every turn, they were stopped at a military roadblock. The driver tried to get around them by taking back roads and promised to take the family as close as he could to their destination.
As they neared the city center, Doaa spotted dark gray smoke rising a block away. They turned a corner and saw a police station on fire. Flames bloomed over its roof and shot violently out of its windows, and the smell of smoke began to fill the taxi, burning Doaa’s throat. Police officers ran from the building to escape the flames, and the driver slammed on the brakes. “The protesters set it on fire,” he shouted as the car screeched to a halt. But Doaa could barely hear him over the roaring of the fire and the shouts of people on the street. Scanning the scene through the windshield, she suddenly saw through the smoke protesters throwing rocks and shouting at the fleeing police. She pressed against the window, trying to get a clear view of what was happening.
“All hell is going to break loose now.” The fear in the driver’s voice terrified Doaa. “I’m sorry, but you have to get out. Keep close to the walls or they will shoot you.” Doaa couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This driver was going to leave them in the middle of this chaos? And why would her own government shoot her just for being on the street? Reluctantly, Hanaa paid the driver and the family got out. Hanaa kept Hamudi close, while the girls clustered together. The heat from the fire pressed against them as they began to walk as fast as they could away from it, looking around warily. Doaa’s heart raced as she realized that her mother had been right. Things were unraveling. The demonstrators they saw were no longer carrying olive branches and throwing stones, now they were setting fires, and the security forces were fighting back with water cannons, tear gas, and live artillery, and Doaa’s family was right in the middle of it. She was the one who had insisted they go. She was the reason her family was in danger.
With the crackling sound of gunfire erupting nearby, Hanaa grabbed Hamudi’s hand and they all ran, heads down, to the closest building. Feeling exposed, they pressed against the wall as bullets ricocheted above their heads. They couldn’t see where the bullets were coming from and weren’t sure how to avoid them. Doaa’s mind couldn’t process that people were shooting at her. Part of her couldn’t believe what was happening around her, how her quiet, normal life had so turned in an instant that her family were now huddled together in fear as bullets flew through the air and fires raged through the street. Another part of her was coolly thinking up a plan for how to protect her family. She knew that they had to keep moving. Going back home was just as dangerous as going forward, so they decided to press on toward their grandfather’s house. At one point they dropped to their hands and knees and crawled through the streets. “Keep close to the wall!” Doaa called to her siblings ahead of her. Hamudi and Nawara started crying. Doaa ignored the sour taste of fear in her mouth as she tried to comfort them: “Don’t be afraid. Get up now and run!” She knew that if they panicked, they were more likely to be killed. The family ditched the cake, stood up, and moved carefully along the walls, retreating to alleyways before moving farther up the road again. A walk that should have taken ten minutes took them an hour.