Rahaf and Maher were at the guesthouse for over a month. When they first arrived with their children, Ahmed and Boshra, 7 and 6 respectively, I was a little annoyed. Ahmed and Boshra were always around, occasionally loud and insistent and the patio-style windows in my room were anything but sound proof. I couldn't help but wonder how soon they would be leaving.
After the first week, I discovered that they were from Syria, and in my first conversation with Rahaf, she told me that her children had already seen a myriad of things that children should never see: bodies and death and bombs and blood in the streets. You'd never know it to hear them running around every floor of the guesthouse, laughing and giggling and generally making the entire premises their personal playground. But Rahaf told me that Ahmed would always watch the news. And he was old enough to understand and ask questions about why the things on television were happening. A seven year old should never need to discuss politics and war, but in countries like Syria, it's part of the landscape. If that's what the world outside your door looks like, your children are bound to ask questions.
They were here while waiting on their visa applications to Malta. They were married there, both children were born there, and Maher had a guarantee of a welding job as soon as they arrived. They needed my help as a native English speaker to write an email to the embassy during their time of waiting. Rahaf wanted me to tell them their story, and she knew I would be able to write it in English much better than she could. Her plea was simply that they understand how much she and her husband wanted a safe place for their kids to grow up. Her memories of Malta were as soft and phosphorescent as a morning sunrise over a hazy ocean. But their first visa attempt was denied. They would be trying again, but my heart ached for her. After a few days with her kids, they all felt like family, and I was wondering how different and unbearably silent this place would feel without them.
For the following two weeks, when I wasn't working, I was constantly with Rahaf: sending emails, being forced to have my emotional breakdowns in Arabic, contacting embassies, and eating copious amounts of fluffy bread with cream cheese and jam. I'm not sure when or how that combination started happening, but soon we could rarely hang out at night without those things appearing on the coffee table. Other nights, we would sit out on the patio by the entrance in two wooden, old-fashioned school desks and talk and drink tea and eat junk food on Fridays. She and Maher both smoked like chimneys and between the two of them and the three guys who work at the guesthouse, Adeeb, Peter, and Nasr, I'm sure I've inhaled enough second hand smoke to make my lungs look like I've been smoking for a year. And incidentally, after all these late night hang out sessions, I also have a random mix of Syrian and Egyptian Arabic in my head. There is now a whole host of people who can sort of understand me.
Early last week, Rahaf told me that Maher had found work in a factory in Saddat City and that they would be renting a long-term flat there. Saddat City is out in the desert and two hours away by bus. All of the sudden, what had become my status quo at "home" was about to change.
Yesterday, Adeeb, Peter, and I helped Rahaf, Ahmed, and Boshra move to their new flat out in Saddat. It's in the middle of nowhere. Nothing for miles, and then a few streets lined with concrete apartment buildings and a new mall across the adjacent field. Their apartment is sparsely furnished but has three bedrooms, a kitchen and bath, and a living room with a TV. Ahmed and Boshra even have their own private balcony. But people to be with? There are none. I am thankful at least that Rahaf could make friends with a brick wall and her daughter, even at 6, has inherited the same ability.
After taking the tour and drinking the obligatory welcome glass of tea, we exited the building onto the dark, deserted street and began the long walk away from our friends. Ahmed and Boshra were hanging over the balcony, waving and yelling good-bye. I blew them both kisses, turned around and thought, I can do this. No problem. Then Adeeb sniffled a little in front of me. I stared at the back of his head. Then he moved his hands over his eyes and sniffed again, and my eyes grew wide and started to water. Peter glanced at me quickly, I looked away, and Adeeb wouldn't look at either of us. The bus ride home was heavy and silent with sadness. We were all missing something vital and important and loud.
I'm well versed in saying good-bye. My bounce back time is becoming shorter, not because I miss the new friends any less or because they are any less special, but I've learned to put them in a safe, warm and fuzzy place. The worst is that initial shock of 'missing,' when you've only just left the people who have crawled into your heart and finger-painted on it, and it feels like someone has torn off a limb. You know you'll survive, but it's hard to imagine how ok you were 'before.' Eventually the dust settles and the paint fades. Experience has taught me this. But sometimes I want to tell experience to shove it.
