A Hope More Powerful Than the Sea(20)

The operation hadn’t taken more than an hour, but in that time, fighting had broken out in the streets. No taxis were to be found to take them home, and Doaa was beginning to feel dizzy after her operation. Hanaa’s sister lived a fifteen-minute walk away, so Hanaa phoned to let her know they were coming, and they set off for her house. All Doaa wanted was to sit on the sidewalk and put her head in her arms. She felt weak and helpless and to walk had to lean heavily on her mother’s shoulder while gripping her hand. As they walked, a car full of men who looked like government officials approached them and slowed down.

“Where are you going, sweetheart?” they called to Doaa, leaning out of the car. “What happened to your beautiful eye?”

Hanaa squeezed Doaa’s hand tighter and whispered, “Don’t respond, habibti. Keep looking down.”

Doaa, her mouth dry with fear and still weak from the operation and the anesthetic, did as her mother ordered.

“Hey, speak to us when we talk to you,” one of the men shouted. “It’s rude not to reply.”

Hanaa and Doaa remained silent, terrified that any acknowledgment would simply encourage the men. Doaa’s aunt’s house was now across the street as the men began to lose patience with the two women and started to get really angry.

“Hey, bitch,” one of them shouted, “I told you, answer me when I talk to you.” At this, the rest of the men began to laugh, clearly enjoying what had become a game to them.

Doaa looked around for help, but no one else was on the street. So they kept walking as the car trailed slowly behind them. They were steps away from Hanaa’s sister’s house when they heard the car door swing open behind them. The men were getting out of the car. Their game was over and they moved in closer to Doaa and her mother.

Hanaa and Doaa realized that they had to make a break for it. They ran toward the house. “Ukhti [sister]!” Hanaa cried out as she banged on the door, “Open up, someone’s trying to kidnap Doaa!”

Within seconds, Doaa’s aunt Iman opened the door and pulled them inside. “I was praying to God you would make it,” she told them as she slammed the door behind her.

Doaa was white with fear, and Hanaa worried that she might faint. Hanaa quickly guided her to the nearest chair as Iman rushed back to the window to check if the car was still there.

“You’re safe, they’re leaving,” Iman told them.

“Rest now,” Hanaa reassured Doaa, “the curfew is about to start. We’re safe here.”

“You don’t know how lucky you are,” Iman said. “Just yesterday I saw them take some girls to that park across the street. They’re torturing people there! Every night I can hear screams coming from that place.” Hearing this, Doaa’s imagination went wild. If they had taken her, she would have used her knife to kill herself. She would never stand for the indignity of whatever those men had planned for her.

For now, Doaa was safe, although her ordeal wasn’t over.

At nightfall, Hanaa and Doaa decided to head home. It was risky to be caught out after curfew, and—more urgently—they had to fill the prescription for antibiotics for Doaa’s eye or else it could get reinfected. They decided to take a chance and walk the back roads to their home. Iman packed a small bag of food and gave Hanaa and Doaa five hundred pounds each. Cautiously, Hanaa and Doaa slipped out into the dark.

On their way back, they saw a small pharmacy with its light still on. Doaa stumbled inside after her mother, catching the pharmacist by surprise. She was shocked to see them at this hour: “It’s dangerous to be on the streets now. What are you doing?”

“We need medicine. My daughter just had an operation,” Hanaa told her.

Seeing Doaa’s eye, the pharmacist quickly filled the prescription. Doaa was feeling dizzier by the minute. She wasn’t sure she could keep standing as she fought back tears of anger and frustration.

The pharmacist handed them the medicine, saying urgently, “Go quickly. They just killed a man outside. I heard the shots, then I heard them throw his body in the Dumpster.”

Terrified by this story, Hanaa pulled out some money to pay the pharmacist and prepared to leave immediately, but the pharmacist refused it. “Allah ma’aku [God be with you],” she said instead. “Walk with your heads down and don’t look to your side where the Dumpster is.”

But once outside, they couldn’t help but look. Blood dripped from the bottom slot of the Dumpster onto the street. Doaa was sick with the realization of what had just happened, but they continued on. A little farther up the road, they heard the sound of a car approaching, so she and Hanaa quickly turned to hide in the shadows of the nearest building. There they waited and watched as a group of men got out of the car, opened the trunk, carried another body to the Dumpster, and threw it in. “Shoot him again to make sure he is dead,” they overheard one of them say, then shots rang out through the air. The men piled back into the car and it disappeared up the road.

Doaa and her mother came out of the shadows to continue their journey home. “Mama,” Doaa cried out suddenly, feeling nauseated, “I can’t walk. I’m really going to faint.”

Hanaa held on to her daughter. “Hayati, you must. We’ll go slowly, I’ll support you.”

Summoning all of her strength, Doaa followed her mother. For the next hour, they crept along the walls trying to blend in with the buildings. When they eventually saw the lights of their house, Doaa thought she might faint with relief, while Hanaa said a prayer of thanks. They had never been more afraid than they were that day.