BOOM!
It is that sound again. That deafening and atrocious sound. Death is not far away, collecting the souls that are rightfully his. Every night, this characteristic sound never fails to wake me up in tremor. I hear the engine’s whirl. The angel of darkness passes over us.
My mother is there, her face blemished, waking up my brother quietly. I am next on her list. She sees me, eyes open, fearful. Her reassuring hand strokes my hair and her lips kiss my forehead. Our bags are ready; I see them in the corner of the guest room. I relish the idea of the end. All will be over soon…for us…
***
It is extremely hot outside, I think to myself, but what does a Canadian know about hot weather? We are crammed in an old olive-green BMW driving on unfamiliar and over-trafficked roads. My mother, more radiant than ever, in the passenger seat, is talking to my cousins. Cousins and relatives I have never seen before, only heard of. The car stops. We enter an apartment building and are greeted with apricot sables and ice-cold over-sweetened lemonade that nevertheless quenches my thirst and cools me down. I am introduced, one by one, to the locals. We are alike in so many ways, yet very different. I, Canadian Armenian, them, Lebanese Armenian. As insignificant as it may seem, it is still a world of difference to me.
The telephone rings. My mother answers. Being extremely nosy, I approach the handset. I recognize that husky voice! My father! Could he be missing us already? The conversation abruptly becomes very serious. The sound coming from thousands of miles away is now frail. My mother’s face looks uneasy. She snatches the television remote from my brother’s hand, whose protests are waved down forthwith. The channels skip one after the other until the desired one is found. It is a news channel. Strange letters frame the anchorman, until pictures take over the screen. I know where that is, we just came from there! It’s the airport! Something next to it is burning, people are running everywhere in dismay.
I look around me. Everyone looks perturbed.
The remote falls from my mother’s hands.
The telephone is hanging from its entwined cord.
A tear is rolling down her face.
I cannot help from crying myself; the feeling is stronger than me. Will I ever get to see my father again? I try to remember our last moments together. We hugged for a long time after he told me to take care of myself and to be careful not to tire my mother excessively. I am now sobbing uncontrollably, away from everyone else, away from all the consternation. I do not want them to see me like this. I am a boy for crying out loud! Boys do not cry! I cannot help but replay those last moments in my head. What if I never see him again? All I gave him was a hug before our departure. One ridiculous hug. I want him to know how much I love him, how much he means to me, how much I look up to him. He surely knows all this?
My consciousness is not letting me rest on this plausible assumption. All I ask for from God, that night, is to be able to see him one last time if I have to relinquish life. He, the Almighty, couldn’t be that cruel, could he? He had already wrenched me from the safe haven of my natal country and thrown me, here, in this mess, from which escape seemed dubious. He would surely grant me this one consequential wish…
***
The horizon is still dark. It is not even close to dusk, and my mother, my brother, and I are already on the move. I am told that we are heading to the docks. The Canadian government has arranged for a ship to take citizens to Cyprus and, from there, a plane to Montreal. The ride is quiet, no one talks. My mother, still in disbelief, is mumbling a prayer. My older brother is sleeping, his head pressed on the tinted window. I wish I could fall asleep like him. It is not from a lack of trying, but from the thoughts that are hunting restlessly in my mind. How did this happen? Why did it? Why us? I want answers, I need them, but they are not given nor found.
The car stops. We say our adieu. The sun has not even pierced the veil of obscurity and yet the harbor is already filling up. I look around me. More than half of these people do not seem Canadian to me. Yet, some of them have Canadian passports. Others, as I suspected, do not. Those who have Canadian papers are given preferential treatment; they will board the ship first. As the sun rises, a Canadian official assigns us to a cabin. Head down, weary, but still in the midst of my recurring reflections, I follow my mother through hallways until we reach our room. We make ourselves as comfortable as possible. And the wait begins…
The ship lifts anchor. I, we, are finally leaving this war-forsaken country. I beg my mother to go on the deck, to watch the ship leave. Depleted from sleeplessness, she does not have the will to refuse this simple request. I am on my way home. Yet, as I slowly ascend towards the deck, I know that what I experienced has made me a completely different child, has modified my perception of the world and of humanity. It has made me more impatient, somehow more indifferent and intolerant towards others. It has also given place to my first racist thoughts. Thoughts cursing the perpetrators of this war.
I can now smell the salt water. As I climb the last few steps leading to the deck, a shocking scenery unravels in front of me. There is no more deck. It is entirely covered by those who did not have the privilege to be in front of the line. The rows of people laying on a cold metal surface, feeling every wave, every movement of the boat, engraves itself thoroughly in my mind.
I hate this country. I will never come back.
I despise the pilots who kept me up every night, as I feared for our lives.
I abhor the warmongers.
I am only 10.
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