Abu Bakr al Rabeeah - Homes: A Refugee Story

ABU BAKR AL RABEEAH WITH WINNIE YEUNG

Winnie Yeung 2018

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Published with the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Alberta Media Fund.

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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication al Rabeeah, Abu Bakr, 2001, author

Homes: a refugee story / Abu Bakr al Rabeeah with Winnie Yeung.

Issued in print and electronic formats. ISBN 978-1-988298-28-3 (softcover). ISBN 978-1-988298-29-0 (epub). ISBN 978-1-988298-30-6 (pdf)

1. al Rabeeah, Abu Bakr, 2001. 2. Refugee children Iraq Biography. 3. Refugee children AlbertaEdmontonBiography. 4. Syria History Civil War, 2011 Personal narratives, Iraqi. 5. Syria History Civil War, 2011 Refugees Alberta Edmonton Biography. I. Yeung, Winnie, 1982, author II . Title.

HV640.5.I76A47 2018 305.906914092 C2018-900161-5 C2018-900162-3

Edited by Barbara Scott

Book design by Natalie Olsen, Kisscut Design

Cover photos Pat Stornebrink (top) and OBJM (bottom) / Shutterstock

Photo of Abu Bakr al Rabeeah by Samuel Sir

Photo of Winnie Yeung by Heiko Ryll

Printed on FSC recycled paper and bound in Canada by Marquis

For

Abu Bakr al Rabeeah

This is a work of creative nonfiction, written by Winnie Yeung as told to her by Abu Bakr al Rabeeah and his family. Conversations and events have been recalled as best as can be remembered by the participants. In the interest of protecting the familys privacy and the safety of family members and friends who are still in Syria, some names and details have been changed.

Eulogy for Arabism

(pronounced Abu ba-CAR al Rah-BEE-ah)

ABU BAKRour protagonist, often called Bakr

HAFEDH AND NIHADhis father and mother

NASERhis older brother

MARYAM, ABEER, AIESHA, ASMAAhis older sisters

ABRAR AND ALUSHhis younger sister and brother

UNCLE MOHAMMED AND AUNT ATEKABakrs aunt and uncle

YOUSEF, ABDIL AZIZ, IBRAHIM, DILALtheir children, Bakrs cousins

UNCLE NAJIM AND AUNT MUNABakrs aunt and uncle

ABDULLAH, HANEEN, ALI, RAIYAN, ISLAM, MARAMtheir children, Bakrs cousins

GRANDMOTHER MARYAMBakrs grandmother

AMROBakrs best friend

ALIa friend of Bakr and Amros

Every Friday on the way home from the noon prayer service, Salat al Jumah, Father stopped to buy fresh fruit from the street vendors. Our mosque was barely a block from our apartment and the walk home was always a loud, lively time, with neighbours and friends catching up at the end of the week. On the day of Fathers birthday, April 18, he bought fruit for the family as usual but rather than lingering to chat, he hurried home. All morning, the fighter jets had screamed by. In the weeks before, every mosque in our neighbourhood, Akrama, had been attacked. Father texted me to go straight home after the service.

I always looked forward to Salat al Jumah. The comfort of belonging, Father in his white, ankle-length thawb tunic, the soothing prayers of peace murmured shoulder to shoulder with friends. I always went with my buddies or cousins, and on this particular afternoon, my neighbour and best friend, Amro, and I laughed as we joined the sea of people spilling out onto the packed street. The sheikh, he lives in the mosque. WAllah! Trust me, I know, I boasted as we approached our usual meeting spot outside.

Ugh, no! You think you know everything, Bakr, but bet you he doesnt, insisted Amro.

WAllah! I swear! Fine, loser buys sodas!

Our friend Ali sauntered up to us, hand out-stretched, and I clasped it firmly. Jumah mubarak. Blessed Friday, my friend. Hey, settle this bet fo

I was just pulling my hand away from Alis when the blast hit us. Time expanded and stretched; I saw and felt everything in a disjointed way that seemed too slow to be real. As I fell back, I heard the low whoooosh of the taxi full of explosives shooting straight up into the clear blue sky, blocking out the sunlight. In that moment, all I could think was, Where did the sun go? The car came crashing down, twice as fast. We were thrown to the ground and showered with gravel and sand. In action movies, the hero always has ringing ears after an explosion and all sound is muffled. That wasnt true for me. The world was muffled for only a split second and then screams filled my ears and Fathers voice pierced through the mayhem. Abu Bakr! Abu Bakr! Abu Bakr!

Thats the sound I still hear when I think about my first car bomb: Father screaming my name.

I dragged myself up and spun towards his shouts.

Father was weaving through the desperate crowds and when he reached me, he grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me this way and that, like a man inspecting a melon at the souk. Satisfied that I was okay, he steered me home.

Moments before, the street in front of our apartment had been filled with people laughing and chatting. Now there was only chaos. Feet running, voices shouting, arms gripping wounds, cellphones frantically trying to document the destruction. The flaming shell of the taxi was only steps from our apartment building. Terrified of what we might find, we rushed through the garden and into our suite. The living room and kitchen were abandoned with lunch half laid-out on the table. Where was everyone?

We heard noises coming from my parents bedroom. The rest of my family was safe, crammed into the small room. My older brother, Naser, told us that when the bomb exploded, hed been stretched out on the couch watching TV . Mother and my sister Abeer were cooking in the kitchen. Aiesha and Maryam were in their bedroom, Aiesha texting a friend and Maryam finishing her prayers. Thank God Maryam was kneeling far from the window, which shattered from the force of the explosion. At the sound of the blast, they all took shelter in my parents bedroom where Asmaa had been with the two youngest, Abrar and Alush, helping them get ready for the day. Alush was jumping around with a cotton swab still hanging out of his ear, shouting, What happened? I wanna see!