Mustafa Alismail
LiBeirut
Mustafa Alismail
T he sky was clear and the stars flickered brightly. Wind snaked through my hair and I basked in the calm. A few hours ago, things were not so. A fight between two men broke out in our café. Like most things these days, it was over the war. I wasn’ t there, and I don’ t need to ask for details. One man liked a group, the other preferred another. They argued, and like football sectarianism, punches felt needed. I arrived as Mom, bamboo stick in hand, told both men to take it elsewhere or she’ d smash their bones. My one-legged uncle mumbled insults at the two from his chair on the far end of the café, while my lanky older brother watched from behind the storeroom’ s door. They left promptly, people returned to their tea and backgammon games. Mom turned to me, producing a broom from God knows where,“ Here, Summer, clean this mess.” Coals from the kicked down hookah almost burned my palms.
Around here, at our café, showered in hookah and cigarette smoke, between sips of oversweetened black tea or bitter Turkish coffee, men argued loudly and passionately— what should be“ done,” who is at fault, which group is made up of criminals and which are righteous and saintly, is there a point to the army, and it goes on— but no one started piling up weapons, let alone organized a militia. It was, in unspoken terms, deemed unnecessary to get more involved beyond casual spectatorship. Recently, tensions are high, however, and the arguments are becoming more likely to turn physical.
Dad would’ ve probably pulled out his rifle at the sign of any disturbance. But he left for Aleppo two days ago. Said he’ s visiting a cousin. I suspect he is setting up our move. Maybe we’ ll stay in Syria for a bit, save up and leave somewhere far away and safe.
I’ m pulled back to my room, forgetting that Mom no longer has the time to check whether I’ ve gone to bed or not. And I am too old, in any case... There’ s a poster of the Eiffel tower on my bedroom wall.
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