The Fate of Fractured Lives

01 Rebirth

We were catching our breath in a narrow alley when the building next to us was hit by something and exploded. It was a miracle that it didn't collapse on us. My ears were ringing, my eyes were red and burning from the grit in the air, and I tasted dust. I was scared. We were all scared. My parents ran, dragging me by my arms. Nowhere was safe and we ran to the only place we could reach. The open street. I don't remember hearing the gunfire. My world suddenly went black. My name is Sarah Assad. I was twelve years old when I died.

You might be asking, "How are you talking to me if you're dead?"

It's a fair question. Well, my story is a little... complicated. I should probably start from the beginning. I wish I could remember everything from my first life but it was a very long time ago. I do remember being happy for most of it. I was an only child and my parents loved me. All my mother and father had ever wanted for me was to find a dream and to live life as best as I could. I was lucky. Many girls didn't get much of a voice in their lives.

My father's name was Khasim. It's hard now to remember him when he wasn't worried. But I do have these images from when I was really young, when things were peaceful. I can see him sitting for breakfast, reading his newspaper. The morning sunlight would sometimes glint off of his glasses. I can hear him laugh at one of my mother's jokes and I can smell his coffee. I want to say he taught biology at a university. He wanted me to be educated. He had wanted me to go to university in Europe or America. That is why they named me Sarah. Some people did not look too kindly on those from my background so a name that was common to many circles seemed like a good option. He wanted me to have every advantage. My father was also a little hard on me with my studies and could come off as stern and cold. Dad wasn't much for affection. I think it had something to do with his upbringing. He never spoke about it. My mother said his father was rough on him. I sometimes wondered if my father had wanted a son instead. Some men are like that.

One day I heard him tell one of my uncles, "I don't care if I never have a son. My Sarah is strong and smart. She is my legacy."

I never wondered again. I knew he loved me and was proud of me. My mother's name was Nabila. She was our light in the dark times. She always had a brave face, but I could tell the decaying world around us was weighing on her. She was more affectionate than my father. I remember her laugh, her voice, and her smile. She lit up every room she walked into. She could diffuse tension with a few words or create it with just a look when it suited her. Maybe it's just remembering her fondly, but I swear her clothes were always brighter and more colorful than what everyone else wore. Mom was really smart too. She taught chemistry, I think. Sorry, some of my memories are fuzzy now. Dad said I reminded him of her. I wasn't so sure. I was never as brave as she was. Anyway, she was amazing. There was a story about mom getting in the face of some Imam about something. I don't remember what it was. But apparently dad was hooked. He "fell in love with her fire." He gave her affection. A lot. Sometimes it could be a bit much. But I think every kid gets like that about their parents. He loved her a lot. She loved him a lot. They loved me and I loved them.

It was going to be a nice, normal, happy life. I figured I'd find a good man to marry and have children. My husband was going to be handsome and educated. We'd have exactly one boy and one girl. Maybe a pet? But children and all that would come after university, obviously. Give me a break; I was young. In spite of the liberalness of my parents, I thought that's what you do when you grow up. I'm not sure what I would have studied and I don't know what I would have done for a career. I know for sure that I wouldn't have been a stay-at-home mother. Not that there is anything wrong with that. But whatever path I took, it was going to be a good life. Best laid plans, right?

We were living in Syria. My parents were from Iraq originally. They left before I was born. I never knew exactly why they had moved, but I knew there was a war going on. I remembered on the TV and radio there was always talk about the Americans and their war. But that was over there. My parents didn't speak about it much and it didn't seem like it bothered them. That changed as I got older. They didn't act like it, but I could tell worry was growing inside them. At school it was the same. Everyone talked about rumors that the war was "going to come here." I didn't believe them. Eventually our TV was never on and the radio was put away. Mom and dad would talk late into the night. Those talks became arguments. I could hear my mom begging my dad to take us somewhere in Europe. But their work and their life was in Syria. They would have to start over again from nothing.