The air was thick with dust, the sky an endless gray curtain that blurred the edges of the world. Lina held her son’s hand tightly as they stepped over broken concrete and twisted metal, the skeletons of buildings looming like silent witnesses on either side of the ruined road.
She didn’t look back.
There was nothing left to look back to.
Behind them was their home—or what used to be their home—a crumbled memory beneath a mountain of rubble, where the laughter of her children once echoed and where she had cooked meals for a family that no longer existed whole.
Beside her, young Youssef walked quietly, his tiny steps focused, determined. At just six years old, he had witnessed more than any child ever should. He hadn’t spoken since the missile struck three nights ago. He had simply taken her hand from the debris, covered in ash and blood, and walked beside her.
Ahead, hundreds of others marched in silence. The displaced. The forgotten. The survivors.
Mothers with infants wrapped tightly against their chests. Elderly men leaning on makeshift canes. Children carrying jerry cans and plastic bags filled with what little remained of their lives. They were a river of the broken, flowing through a city shattered by war, seeking somewhere—anywhere—that promised safety.
As they moved, Lina’s mind wandered to that last morning. The sun had risen behind clouds of smoke. Her husband, Kareem, had kissed her forehead, whispering, “I’ll go find medicine for Youssef. You stay inside.” That was the last time she saw him—his back fading down the street, hope in his stride.
The explosion came an hour later.
The building across the street vanished first, and then the shockwave tore through their apartment like fire through paper. Walls folded, windows screamed, and the world turned black. When Lina woke up, her arms were bleeding and Youssef was crying beside her. Kareem never came back.
Now, she walked for him. For the future he would never see.
“Keep walking,” a voice whispered beside her. It was Mariam, a woman in her sixties, wrapped in a dark shawl, her face lined by age and grief. She had lost her entire family in a single night. But she walked with them now, a quiet source of strength.
Lina nodded.
At some point, a small boy fell near the front of the group. His mother scooped him up, murmuring words too soft to hear. No one stopped for long. There was no room for weakness in this journey. Stopping meant death—if not by the cold or the hunger, then by the bombs that still fell from time to time, like cruel reminders of the war’s reach.
Hours passed.
A man passed out from exhaustion, and two teenagers lifted him by the arms, dragging him forward. A group of children scavenged a shattered store for water bottles and found only broken glass. And always, in the distance, the sound of drones—low, constant, mechanical—never letting them forget.
As night began to fall, the group paused near a pile of rubble that offered some cover from the wind. Fires were lit in tin cans. Small circles formed. Bread was shared. Lina and Youssef sat near Mariam, who handed them a small handful of rice wrapped in cloth.
“Eat, habibti. You need your strength.”
Lina took the food, divided it with Youssef, and thanked her. They ate slowly, chewing in silence. When Youssef finished, he curled up beside her, his head on her lap. She stroked his hair gently.
Mariam looked at her across the flickering flame. “Do you have family in the north?”
Lina hesitated. “Maybe. My cousin was in Aleppo. But that was before… all this.”
“Still,” Mariam said, “the north is better. There’s a refugee camp near the border. Maybe they’ll let us in.”
“Maybe,” Lina whispered. Hope was dangerous, but it was the only thing she had.
That night, she dreamed of Kareem. He stood in the kitchen, the way he always did, cooking eggs and humming a silly tune. Youssef laughed nearby. Everything was warm and whole. But when she reached for him, he turned to ash in her hands.
She woke up crying, but did not let the tears fall. In war, even grief had its limits.
The next morning, they continued.
The road grew rougher. Some people collapsed and had to be carried. Others gave up, sitting down in silence, unwilling to move. The group grew smaller by the hour. But Lina kept going.
Youssef walked beside her again, holding her hand. Then, for the first time in days, he spoke.
“Will Baba be at the camp?”
Lina felt her heart twist.
She knelt down, eye level with him, and brushed dirt from his cheeks.
“No, habibi,” she said gently. “Baba is with the stars now. He watches us every night.”
Youssef looked up at the sky. “Can he see us walking?”
She nodded, voice shaking. “Yes. And he’s proud of you.”
Youssef didn’t cry. He just took her hand again, and they continued.
Later that afternoon, the ruins began to thin out. There were fewer broken buildings, more open space. People began to whisper about nearby towns, about the possibility of aid stations, food, shelter.
And then they saw it.
In the distance, a white flag flapped from a post. A temporary gate. A line of tents.
The camp.
Cheers broke out. People wept. Some collapsed to their knees. For the first time in weeks, Lina felt her legs weaken—not from fatigue, but from relief.
They reached the entrance and were stopped by guards. Names were recorded. Temperatures checked. Wounds noted. Then, finally, a small tent with two cots was given to Lina and Youssef.
Inside, she sat on the thin mattress, staring at the canvas walls around her. It wasn’t much—but it wasn’t rubble. It wasn’t death. It was a beginning.
That night, Youssef drew a picture in the dirt with his finger: a house, a sun, three stick figures holding hands. One had curly hair like Kareem’s.
Lina smiled through her tears.
She didn’t know what the future would bring. Whether this camp would last, whether peace would ever come. But in that moment, she had her son, a safe place to sleep, and a path forward.
Sometimes, hope wasn’t loud or triumphant.
Sometimes, it was simply walking through a wasteland, holding your child’s hand, and not letting go.