Chapter One: The Early Phase IN PROGRESS

December 2014

“Yara,” my mother called, beckoning me from the depths of my dimmed room. I lay on my bed, feeling the weight of the world pressing against my stomach as if a heavy pillar threatened to pull me through the very mattress. Reluctantly, I switched off the music that had been my solace and propped myself up on my elbow, my gaze fixed upon the pink curtains before finally mustering the will to make my way to the living room.

In the living room, my mother sat on the left side of my father, whose frail figure seemed to sag beneath the weight of his drooping shoulders. His familiar wrinkles etched deeper lines upon his worn face, and in that moment, I realized I had never seen him appear so feeble. Unrecognized, the strength he had once possessed was slipping away.

My brother sprawled on the longer couch; his attention absorbed by his phone. I positioned myself to face him, studying our parents as they exchanged worried glances. In the past few months, I had overheard them discussing a certain topic, a subject I feared they would broach. I preferred the comfort of ignorance, and it seemed my brother shared the sentiment, as we seldom spoke of it during our rare conversations on our way to school.

To be honest, living in Lebanon wasn’t so bad, as long as I remained oblivious to the truth of our circumstances. My father’s sculpting shop stood on a bustling street, a place we would often visit during our days off.

I cherished those moments spent in the workshop, surrounded by the aroma of freshly carved wood and the rhythmic chiseling that filled the air. The sound of my father’s hands molding and shaping his creations was like a symphony of craftsmanship, a testament to his talent and dedication. I admired him as he poured his heart and soul into each piece, bringing life to the raw materials before him.

The shop became a sanctuary for me, a refuge from the uncertainties that lurked beyond its doors. Within, I could momentarily escape the weight of our reality, immersing myself in the beauty and artistry that unfolded before my eyes. My father’s creations became a source of solace, reminding me that there was still beauty to be found even amidst hardship.

But it wasn’t just the shop that provided a semblance of stability in our lives. My school played an equally important role, offering a glimmer of hope and normalcy amid chaos. I would wake up early each morning, hastily preparing myself for another day. The corridors echoed with the sounds of laughter, chatter, and the shuffle of footsteps, a symphony of youthful energy.

In those hallways, I found friends who shared my dreams and aspirations, friends who knew nothing of the trials and tribulations that plagued our existence. We would walk together, our backpacks heavy with books, sharing stories of our favorite subjects, our hopes for the future, and our innocent dreams of what lay beyond the boundaries of our small world.

But in the blessing of ignorance, there was also a curse. The weight of the truth hovered over me, even as I relished the moments of joy and camaraderie. I knew there were conversations my parents shielded me from, discussions about a future filled with uncertainty and the looming possibility of leaving everything behind.

And so, I clung to the blissful ignorance, preferring the familiar routine of school and the comforting embrace of the sculpting shop. It allowed me to escape the harsh realities that existed just beyond the surface. I buried myself in books, in the melodies of music, and in the company of friends, desperately clinging to the remnants of a childhood untainted by the hardships of displacement.

But as time passed, the walls of our small world began to crumble. Whispers reached my ears, fragments of conversations that hinted at a different path, a journey into the unknown. And with each passing day, the weight of the secret grew heavier, threatening to shatter the fragile equilibrium we had managed to maintain.

***

When I was younger, at an age when everyone asked about their parents, I felt a sense of shame. Other kids would boast about their parents, using descriptions that bore no resemblance to mine. I recall my father spinning tales of being a top-of-the-class engineer, always an exemplary student. Looking back, those stories seem almost comical, for I would later discover that my parents hadn’t even completed high school.

***

“Yasser, pay attention for once. This is serious,” my mother’s firm command broke through my thoughts, and my brother grudgingly tossed his phone to the other end of the sofa.

“Your father is planning to go to Sweden. We’ve heard stories of Syrians traveling there by boat, and within three months, their families join them,” my mother explained, her tone laced with concern.

“Sweden? Where’s that?” My brother finally showed interest, his curiosity piqued. “Isn’t it the cold place?”

“It’s a fresh start for all of us,” my mother glanced over at my father.

I turned to him as well, “How long will you be gone?”

“Just a couple of months,” he replied, a smile gracing his tired face. “Most of my friends have done this, and soon they were reunited with their families.”

“Wow! So, we’re going to Sweden?” My brother leaped off the sofa, pumping his fists in excitement.

“Um, yes,” my mother assured us, her laughter carrying a hint of awkwardness.

I was fourteen at the time, consumed by the desire to share the news of our impending journey to Sweden with everyone I knew. However, my mother was strict, valuing her privacy above all else. She constantly warned me not to divulge details about our personal lives. So, Sweden remained a secret, silently gnawing at my insides. I couldn’t keep it hidden for long—I yearned for someone to discover it, but more importantly, I longed for reassurance that everything would work out.

My mother often reminded me that I tended to latch onto ideas quickly, harboring high hopes that often led to swift disappointment. She repeatedly cautioned, “This is a 1% chance,” trying to temper my expectations. But deep down, I couldn’t help but cling to the dream of being part of that elusive one percent.

The idea of Sweden captivated me. It held the promise of a new beginning, a chance to escape the hardships and uncertainties that plagued our lives. Yet, amidst the allure, doubts and fears swirled within me. What if Sweden didn’t work out? What if it was just a fleeting fantasy that would leave us stranded in an unfamiliar land?

My mother’s cautionary words echoed in my mind; a constant reminder of the slim odds stacked against us. But even so, I couldn’t suppress the flicker of hope that burned within my heart. I yearned to believe that this daring leap into the unknown would lead us to a brighter future.

As the days wore on, the secret of our impending journey consumed me. It was like a fragile ember, burning silently beneath the surface, threatening to ignite into a blazing fire of anticipation and uncertainty. I longed to confide in someone, to share my fears and dreams with a trusted friend or a sympathetic ear. But my mother’s stern admonitions kept my lips sealed shut, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the weight of the unknown.

Each passing moment drew us closer to my father’s departure, and the atmosphere at home became charged with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. My father busied himself with preparations, planning and ensuring everything was in order. My mother appeared both anxious and hopeful, her eyes betraying the flicker of uncertainty beneath her brave façade.

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