Lessons of Tragedy

I had become used to the bouquets of flowers Hasan honoured me with every time he attended my classes.

Hasan, that well-mannered, cheerful boy. God compensated him for his lack of height by granting him a lovely open-minded spirit. His friends adored him; he had endearing nicknames and kind words for them all.  

I wish I had known that the white flowers Hasan gave me on that sad Saturday morning were the last I would receive from him. Had I known, I would probably have chatted with him and the group of friends that always surrounded him for much longer.

I am Rudaynah, a proud girl whose beautiful, baby face is beset by deep scars – marks caused by this unjust war. I am only in my late 20s.

The conflict has forced me to move from place to place in my beloved Syria. But travelling up and down the country has given me the opportunity to gain insight into many people’s lives. Their stories live with me, and I carry their faces with me wherever I go.

But I wish I could erase that miserable day from my young memory.      

On that Sunday, I walked into the classroom happy and looking forward to Hasan’s cheeky banter.

I was horrified by his absence and the silence, although the room was full. In a trembling voice I asked my students, “What is wrong? Where is Hasan?”

Their tears were their response.

I realised that the barbaric fighter jet which had woken me up early that morning had also taken away one of my dearest people.

Tell me, how can a mere machine be capable of ripping apart a body that is so full of energy and purity?

Shocked and distraught, I fell on the floor; my feet could no longer support me. The entire universe me disappeared for a second. But that fraction of time was filled with all my happy and sad memories of Hasan.

Soon I pulled myself together and addressed my students in a shaking voice, trying to wipe away my tears.     

“My dears, your classmate Hasan beat you to martyrdom,” I told them. “It is eternal martyrdom for God, for freedom, for the dignity of the homeland we always live for. If we really love Hasan we have to pursue our education and earn our school certificate. Let us start our grammar lesson.”

I had delivered this lesson numerous times. But this time I found it so hard, as if I had never studied the textbooks or answered any of the relevant questions.

With all the knowledge I had about the subject I could not decipher the words of the lesson. It felt like a very long session, although it was the usual 45 minutes.   

Towards the end of the lesson, one of Hasan’s friends broke down in tears. He could not hold them back.

Trying to comfort his classmate another student said, “Do not cry over Hasan. Be happy for him. God chose to have Hasan next to him; to have him happy, comfortable and immortal.”

His words touched all our hearts.

Later, when I visited Hasan’s bereaved mother and she welcomed me into the warmth of her home it felt like the whole world was crashing in on me. She had a smile on her face despite her tears. In her overpowering presence my words were as broken as my heart. But the trembling kiss I placed on her forehead conveyed all my feelings, overwhelmed by faith, reverence and dread.     

“Thank Allah. Thank Allah. There is no God but Allah. Allahu Akbar.” Those words uttered by that wonderful mother lit up the place and refreshed our thirsty souls.

I wished I could obtain some of that inner peace and certainty with which she summed up our cause.

At that sublime moment I said something I was not planning to say.

“Congratulations on Hasan’s martyrdom, my great mother,” I said.

Her eyes wet with tears, she answered, “Thank Allah. Thank Allah. Allah had a plan and Allah carried out what he had planned.”

Those few moments in which I was blessed by being in the presence of that fine woman were enough to teach me a huge lesson full of many details, which captured the heroism of mothers in the face of their children’s martyrdom.

On the way home, I was nearly hit by a passing car. The driver slammed on his brakes at the last minute.  My mind was completely preoccupied with thoughts about that heroine.

“God, where does she get all this patience from?” I asked myself. “And how can her broken heart accommodate all this faith?”

Tearful, I could not sleep that night. I was completely distraught.

Everything in my country has been ripped apart. As I was agonizing one thing became certain. In five years I have never been as certain as I am now. Only today am I confident that Syria’s future is safe. The future of Syria is in safekeeping because of the women who produces such heroes. Long live a country in which women continue to give birth to heroes and in which girls are as strong as men.        

Rudaynah Abd-al-Karim, 29, holds a postgraduate degree in social work. She is an Internally Displaced Person (IDP), and works as a social worker in Idlib countryside.