For the 15th Time
The guns rang in my ears. The mortars rattled the windows. The tanks moved the walls, and the missiles shook my bones. What was the silence, other than fear? I hated the silence.
With steady hands, Ahmed tried to find reception. “Who are you calling?” I asked.
“My oldest son Muhammed. I always try to tell him after a close call.” He said as he stepped on the glass that was a window seconds before.
“How many children do you have?” I accidentally shouted while my ears readjusted.
“Two sons and three daughters.”
“Really? How can you do this work when you have five children? Who will look after them if you die?”
“You must not know peace.”
“Peace? How can you believe peace is possible in Syria, in Aleppo?”
Ahmed closed his eyes, took a deep breathe, then spoke, “I know peace is possible, because I’m willing to do this…”
He put his white helmet on for the fifteenth time that day, and disappeared into the smoke and dust.
The guns had rung my ears. The mortars had rattled the windows. The tanks had moved the walls, and the missiles did shake my bones, but it was the white helmets that grabbed my soul, and never let go, never fell silent.
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