I've never been a crier. It was the morning of my father's suicide when I unveiled this buried truth. My mother clutched me to her throbbing body, as her trembling voice whispered to me three words no 9 year old child should ever hear.

“ Allah Yerham Trabo,”

    May god bless his soil.  Three words commonly used when addressing the passing of a deceased individual. We stood there, for awhile her and I. Her heart wrenching sobbing, immersing my white tee in a river of tears, my solemn face, unmoved by the news of  my father’s suicide.

    The following morning, I told my best friend, Yusuf, about it. He shed tears for me.

“ I’m so sorry, Husam. Is there anything I can do for your family?  Anything Habibi,” he pleaded.

“ No thanks, my mama and I can manage,’’ I replied casually.

    The reality of my father’s existence, inevitably, effaced off the surface of this cruel world, didn't hit home yet. I didn’t expect it to. My mother was the one who consumed all the tissues in our house, isolated herself in her room, and vibrated the walls at night with her howling cries.

    As life always did, we learned to live with the pain and we moved on. Well, my mama moved on. I was still haunted by hazy images of my dead father. How was inanimate body swung back and forth from the prickly noose, like the ceaseless movements of a pendulum. Almost every night, I found myself jolting awake from my nightmares, grasping for every wisp of air. This got me thinking. Maybe, God was trying to punish me. Punish me for my father's death, and my lack of empathy for his passing. Punish me for his 27-year short battle with depression.

    Nevertheless, I shooed away such nonsense. I was just an average, Syrian kid. Who dwelled upon playing soccer, riding bicycles, and shooting BB guns. As time permitted, I snapped out of that manic trance, and I fell back to my routine. Wake up. Eat. Play. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. Routines were a beautiful thing.

    My favorite part of my routine, was always playing outside. I'd always adhere to my best friend, Yusuf. He was a tall, muscular kid , who’s curly brown hair, intertwined, and whose mustache grew much faster than anyone else in my hara. For some reason, he liked me. He grew fond of me. He protected me. I couldn't tell if I was secretly a good person. Or his lack of education blinded his sensibility.

    Yusuf ‘s parents didn't believe in education. Deemed it  “poisonous to the mind” and “the root of all indoctrination”.  In other words, they were too poor to send Yusuf to the nearest Private School.

    Yet, I still wished my mother and I were poor too. I HATED sitting in a classroom, and memorizing useless information that I would forget 4 years later. But, I was good at it. And I still thought Yusuf was stupid.

    But, I treated him like a brother. He was the only person whose presence I didn’t loathe, and whose voice didn’t make me want to stomp barefoot on raw glass. He was better at soccer than all the other kids, and he was always the most physically capable of anything. He was a genuine person.

    It was all of the hara fights he fought for me, that truly outlined his loyalty. At times, Yusuf was pit against two kids at once. Sometimes even three. I would stay back and observe Yusuf in awe. How his dominant physique defined subjugation with every barbaric punch to the gut, kick to the head, or slapped to the face. I envied Yusuf.

    It was his ability to articulate, which I envied the most. How his defined figure slithered in between social circles, plucking smiles, admiration, and laughter, as he migrated to every individual in a vast room. I envied him. It was only then, I truly believed Ignorance was bliss.

    I continued to press Yusuf to reveal his secret ways. It was our long strolls in our hara, that presented me with the opportunity. I’d badger Yusuf with questions, pester him with compliments, and freakishly giggle at his jokes. No matter what I did, he would always reply with a warm smile , and a “ I’m not special,” before skillfully switching the topic. I did not understand such ability, warmth, and amiability. Maybe, it was that I didn’t possess any those of three traits. Maybe, it was because my family was too rich to provide any.

    It was rare, when I did manage to possess those three traits. It was rare when my somber facade conceded. It was rare when I’d indulge in conversation, pluck admiration, and laughter from social circles, and giggle as if Puberty’s colossal boot, had completely stopped right past me.

    It was the Syrian Civil War, that forced me to relinquish my facade. Forced me to drop my precious, delicate facade onto the frigid ground. Allowing it to shatter into countless glossy fragments, that each reflected snippets of my sharp memory. My first BB War. My first soccer game. All the hara fights Yusuf fought for me. My father hung by a prickly noose in his closet. Syrian Soldiers dragging my frail mother out into the frigid streets by her long, glorious hair, as I watched from our balcony. When the rapid shots rang out from their AK-47’s, echoing throughout my deserted hara. Signifying I was now an orphan.

    It all changed when the Syrian Civil War exploded. Ironically, this was the time I began to love, and ceased to hate.

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“ALLAH BLESSED YOU WITH A STROKE OF LUCK,”

    Almost every UNICEF volunteer told us, when we told our story of escaping Syria. Yusuf and I. We left everything behind to make it here. To make it to a place, where countless UNICEF tents stretched amongst the dry land of Lebanon. A place that invited the recollection of Syria’s fierce sun, which penetrated my white skin. A place where the soft breeze of the afternoon winds faltered, and clans of mosquitoes would strategically disperse among the tents,  implaing all of their victims. A place where water was scarce, and one would find oneself running their bone-dry tongue, amidst the roof of their sandpaper mouth. A place Yusuf, and I would call home.

    Sooner than later, Yusuf and I became acclimated to our new home. We made friends with the other refugees, countless UNICEF workers, and all of the other soccer freaks. Our new home, reminded us of our ancient hara. It had everything we needed. Soccer, and kids to play with. Minus the BB guns, and the meatheads that would roam our hara, plucking shrimps like me to feast upon. I loved it. Just like that, I began to love again.

    I began to love the angelic gift of life bestowed upon us, selfish humans. I began to love the dynamics of  gravity, that constituted the rugged, deflated soccer ball that would role amongst the dry land, kicking up miniature dust devils. I began to love Yusuf again.

    As life always did, all the good came to an end. My rekindled fire of love, was extinguished. By envy.

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“ Subhanallah! Subhanallah! “ Yusuf rejoiced.

“ Shhhhhh, keep it down! You can’t tell the other kids,”  the chief advisor of our refugee camp, Melissa Barrington, hissed through her clenched teeth.

“ But, what about Husam?”  Yusuf pleaded, as his tone of concern surfaced.

“  Not even, Husam. No one can know,”

“  But, Mrs.Barrington-”

“No buts, Yusuf. I’m sorry but if this is happening, it’s happening secretly. You can say goodbye, but he’s not coming with you-”

“ Mrs.Barrington, there has to be another way. I can’t just leave him,”  Yusuf croaked, as tears began to cloud his eyes.

“ Yes, you can. This is the only way. Your Uncle, specifically told us he can only smuggle 1 person. That’s you. I’m sorry Yusuf,’”  she explained before embracing Yusuf in a hug.

    His muffled sobs shook the empty tent. I pried my plasterted ear from the tent. I couldn’t believe it. Would Yusuf actually go through with this? I waltzed back to my tent, casting my eyes on my filthy shoes, allowing the wind to steer me back “home”.

    I didn’t sleep that night. I lay snuggled inside my sleeping bag; casting my restless eyes on the roof of my tent. The tears didn’t come, and I pondered whether God forgave.

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    The next day, I borrowed the soccer ball from the soccer freaks, and invited Yusuf to play with me. He was ignoring me all day, so I saw this as an opportunity to confront him. I lead him past our usual playing field, as we ventured past the “Do Not Trespass”  sign, plasterted to a rickety fence. This caught his attention, as he began to sporadically ask me questions.

    The Sun’s flawless egg yolk orange glow flooded the open fields, and illuminated the straws of wheat, that Yusuf and I trudged through. The sky was swathed with various shades of bright lemon yellow, as the clouds morphed into a gloomy gray, when stricken with the rays of the sun. The cool, whistling winds commenced, as the growing momentum of the winds, slithered down our sweaty backs, and brushed past our besmirched, white faces. Yusuf had been quieter than usual. His sparse glances and occasional dialogue, didn’t address the elephant in the room. I felt this spine-chilling tension between us. As if a monstrous boulder resided on our chests, prohibiting us from speech.

    Nevertheless, we still played soccer. We sheepishly kicked the ball, back and forth, Before my facade had once again consumed to me.

    Yusuf kicked the ball to me, I stopped it before aligning it with his head, and kicking it with all my might. Thud. He froze before erupting into laughter, as he kicked the ball back at my head. He struck my tiny head, which made me even more mad. I kicked the ball harder, but he dodged it. I missed. The ball brushed past Yousef, and rolled through an army of straw wheat. Yusuf’s manic laughter bellowed across the empty field, as he lept after the ball.

    I pursued him through the army of straw wheat, plowing through the endless maze. His howling laughter grew distant, which fueled the burning fire inside of me. The fire surfaced slashes of sweat amongst my dirt smeared brow. It dilated my pupils and mutated my deep blue iris, to a hateful shade of red. My panting grew thick, and heavy, as my amocking arms and legs wrangled through the passing army of straw wheat. Light. I darted out of the maze. I was met with a whiff of fresh air, and Yusuf clutching the rugged soccer ball.

    My broken facade, simultaneously assembled back together. Every broken fragment pasted itself into its designated spot, fabricating a mask. My mask. My mask molded back onto my small face. I did not recognize Husam Amari.

    I shoved Yusuf with all my might. His body freakishly tumbled backwards, as his arms and legs flailed wildly. His startled green eyes held mine. It was too late.

     In the midst of my outbreak, my eyes caught the glimpse of a faint orange light, glued to a circular disc. A land mine. It was too late.

    Yusuf’s sturdy physique landed on the destroyer of lives. I was drenched in a shower of blood, as his disfigured limbs soared past me. Unrelenting waves of combustion incinerated me, as the explosion of gunpowder blinded me. It was too late.

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    I woke up in a confined UNICEF tent. My wobbly eye couldn't focus on anything. I felt like the restless teenager I was, dozing in and out of reality. I could only see out of my left eye, as I was oblivious to the fact that I was  partly blind.

   My eye fell upon three distant silhouettes hovering above me. They slurred words I didn’t hear. Wore faces I couldn't see. Bismillah Al Rahman Al Rahem. It was all a hazy mirage. Just another nightmare I would soon awake from. So I thought.

    The silhouettes tersely glanced one more time at me, before hastily retreating from my bed. I felt as if I was the passenger of my own body. My facade had been the driver, my entire life. Not anymore.

    My left eye regained its composure. I forced myself to glance down at my torso. My right arm was wrapped in a bundle of bandages. Amputated. My left arm pulled the thermal UNICEF blanket off my body. My right leg was sliced past my kneecap. Amputated. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw I surgeon run to a bed in front of me.

    My left eye locked onto the bed. Amid the clustered surgeons, a burnt carcass lay lifeless. The cluster of surgeons rushed to revive the burnt carcass. Yusuf. I leapt from my bed, and crashed onto the dirt floor. I felt the dirt compress beneath my weight, as flakes of my charcoal skin peeled off. I felt every grain of dirt strip my charcoal skin, and taint it with blotches of dirt. I fought. I crawled and I crawled, leaving behind a trail of sparsely scattered, patches of my charcoal skin.

    I escaped the tent, as I crawled past the inattentive surgeons. I made it out, as a wave of humidity greeted my face, blowing off scales of my charcoal skin. My left eye, left palm, and right stump pointed to the sky. I began to mumble salvaged prayers to Allah. I prayed for Yusuf’s recovery. Allah’s mercy. Allah’s forgiveness. It was only then, the tears finally came.