Two hearts beat in nearby wards; connected by genes, disconnected by rhythm.
One heart belongs to a new-born girl, cradled by a midwife whilst a doctor examines the mother. The other heart belongs to Rashid, the new-born’s brother. He lies on a rusty stretcher, his body covered in bloody rags; a familiar sight amongst the groaning bodies crammed into the small room. The war had been a distant threat until a year ago, but since then Rashid had come to know the smell of cordite, blood and brick dust.
It started in the previous summer.
“Watch this!” Rashid said enthusiastically to the rabble of children in the dusty clearing that they used as a makeshift football pitch. Rashid picked up the football and started doing keepy-uppies. He passed it skillfully from foot to foot, balancing it on his head and back-heeling it, never letting the ball touch the ground. It attracted the attention of the other children and achieved Rashid’s goal; the fight that had broken out on the pitch ceased. Out of the dissipating ruckus emerged a small boy. He hurried away, limping and bruised.
“Here’s what we should do,” he said to his rapt audience whilst still showing off his skills, “we’ll have a tournament. Three teams of five.”
Abdul, a brute for his age, marched up to Rashid, grabbing the football from him. “Two teams of seven. You sit out.”
“Why? I’ll go in goal if you’re scared I’m too good.”
The moment was broken as far-off gunshots rippled through the air. The reaction amongst the children was pure curiosity. They gathered round an old tree at the edge of the pitch, squinting at the hills where the shots periodically rang out. They soon spotted trucks of soldiers emerging from clouds of dust as they headed towards the city; government troops preparing for defence.
Rashid’s city never came under a sustained assault. Instead, the rebels - knowing they were outmanned and outgunned - resorted to guerrilla tactics. Explosions regularly ripped through the city. Initially police outposts and military checkpoints were attacked but they soon focussed on easier targets; civilians accused of being government sympathisers. A veil of paranoia had gripped the city.
Two weeks before, Rashid was at the dinner table with his father and mother. The room was lit by candlelight due to the increasingly common power outages. They ate mostly in silence, with his father eyeing them both suspiciously and making occasional snide remarks;
“A month later and we welcome a new child to this cesspit.” He spat out the words. After a long pause with no response from his audience he slammed a fist on the table. Rashid focused longingly at the couch in the adjacent room whilst his father spat more vitriol.
“I don’t even blame these rebels. Damn government’s corrupt, but what can we do about it?” He fixed a stony stare at Rashid who remained purposefully oblivious.
Rashid’s father stood up, his meal half eaten, and strode towards the front door. He turned to them before he exited, “I for one am doing something about this.”
Rashid never saw or heard from his father again.
A fortnight later and Rashid found himself wandering the streets, alone and disoriented. He had woken in the morning to find his mother lying on the floor having labour pains. Without a working phone Rashid had gone outside to seek help.
The streets were quiet and armed police stood at every corner. He had heard about rebel attacks from within the police and he recoiled with apprehension at every rifle he saw. The guards watched him wander nervously out of his house and towards the market in the city’s centre but they never made contact.
Rashid passed buildings with crumbled exteriors; in some cases, they had been blown wide open. As he approached the market he could hear the hubbub of the brave few who carried on trying to live a normal life.
He passed a boy sitting outside a house, staring mournfully into space; it was Abdul. Rashid stopped and they exchanged glances, but any conflict there used to be between them had long since faded. Rashid explained his situation to Abdul but the only reply he got was a distant, fateful, “stay away from the market.”
Two hearts beat in nearby wards; connected by genes, disconnected by rhythm.
The newborn’s heart beats strong, determined but oblivious. The midwife cradles the child whilst clocking the needs of the other women, crammed like cattle into the ward; the walls themselves peeling in disgust at the sight. The doctor catches the midwife’s eyes after examining the mother and he shakes his head to confirm the mother’s passing.
In a nearby ward lies Rashid, the newborn’s would-be protector but his heart is discordant; fading and jaded.