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“What are you writing?” Victoria asked as she set a mug of coffee down on my desk. Over the past weeks and months, she’d become pretty familiar with my daily routine as well as my likes and dislikes. I guess she saw coffee is one of my likes and, since she had become pretty good at using my coffee press, I wasn’t going to tell her to stop.
“I’m working on this week’s blog post. It’s about the price children pay in a war zone. I call it 'The Children of War’.”
“Do they allow children to fight wars on your planet?”
“Not legally, but there are plenty of children who have to fight in a war because they have no other choice.”
“Why did they have no choice?”
“Because they are the weakest of the weak. They have no rights and, in most cases, they lack the ability to get even the basics of life such as food and shelter. They are exploited for slave labor and even sexual servitude.”
Victoria took a moment to mull this over before asking me an extremely obvious but disturbing question. “Why is your species so violent?”
I had become used to her asking very basic questions. She was incredibly intelligent but lacked the ability to mesh her factual intelligence with emotional or philosophical beliefs. The things that are ingrained in every human being were as alien to her as she was to me.
“I’m afraid that there’s no clear answer to that question.”
“Violence seems to have existed since the first appearance of your species.” “Animals can also be violent,” I countered.
“Correct, but animals are violent due to inherent basic instincts. Animals exhibit violent tendencies over a need for food or out of fear.”
“As do humans,” I said, in a feeble attempt to portray my species in a kinder light.
“Again, you are correct. But humans use violence for many other reasons.”
“As we have discussed, I have noticed a consistent pattern inherent to your species. Human beings seem to attack other human beings for no other reason than exhibiting traits different from their own.”
“We can’t be the only species that does this.”
“You are not, but most other species that exhibit this behavior do not survive.”
“And the ones that do survive?”
“In my research, I have found that species avoid extinction by following one of two paths. Those two paths are total group integration or total group isolation. Based on your species’ history, I do not see either of these paths as viable outcomes.”
"Don't you have conflicts between different energisms?"
"We are all one. We have no need for conflict."
‘Is that something you're born into?”
“We are not born in the cloud. We arrive and exist.”
“But where do you arrive from?”
“From everywhere there is to be.”
“Are you all immigrants?”
“That is a correct, if not simplistic, analogy.”
“What about your ancestors? They had to come from somewhere.”
“There are no ancestors. There is no past. There is no future. There is only now.”
“I don't understand. The present is only an instant. This conversation started in the past.”
“Time is something that was created by your species in order to explain their existence and evolutionary process. In the cloud, that is unnecessary because there is no evolutionary process and existence is a constant.”
“I think that's enough for today, teacher. My head is about to explode,” I said, cradling the top of my head with both hands.
“Does your head explode often?” she asked as if she was expecting something to happen.
“Only when I talk to you.”
“Then we shall not talk and that will keep your head from exploding.”
“It's only an expression. My head doesn't physically explode.”
“I do not understand. Why would you say that your head explodes if it does not explode?”
“Someday, you and I should have a long talk about taking everything I say literally.”
“I enjoy having long talks with you,” she said, smiling. “And I will not allow your head to explode.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “Anyway, why this interest in conflict?”
“It is so I understand what you see when you go to a place that I have been reading about.”
“And what place have you been reading about?” I said slowly and deliberately.
“It is called Syria. Are you familiar with it?”
“Familiar with it? It's not a Starbucks. It's a freakin’ war zone! People have been dying there for the last seven years. It's in the news every day.”
“Then you know of its existence. That is good. You will feel more comfortable when you go there.”
“I will feel anything but comfortable. You’re planning to send me into a war zone.
Are you out of your electric mind?”
“I will keep you safe.”
“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m not exactly physically fit.”
“Neither are most of the other humans that you will meet. Some will be in worse shape than you. They have had little food or medical care.”
“And you still think I’ll be safe?”
“You should not be in any danger. There has not been any violence there in twelve hours.”
“Maybe they’re just reloading,” I said sarcastically. “I don’t know the culture and I definitely don't speak the language.”
“You will not be there long enough for culture to be a factor. When you speak, your words will automatically translate into Arabic. You will hear English.”
“And how would you suggest I dress, basic Bedouin or Lawrence of Arabia?”
“Your jeans and t-shirt will blend in with the surroundings.”
“Sorry, I make jokes when I’m nervous.”
“I did not notice.”
“Thanks. You’ve been a great audience. I’m here all week.”
“You are correct. There is a 99 percent probability that you will be here all week,” she said without cracking so much as a smile.
“Why not 100 percent?”
“Mathematical probability can never be 100 percent.”
“That makes me feel better. So, what time do I transport, captain?”
“11:00 pm. It will be ten hours later in Syria.”
“I guess that means I have some homework to do before my flight leaves.”
I spent the next five hours researching the Internet for any information that would help me blend in with my destination. My fear was that I might be suspected of spying for the Assad regime. I was going in blind and really didn’t know what to expect. It was frightening and exhilarating at the same time.
At 10:59 pm, I was lying on my bed.
“By the way, will I just lie here like a zombie until my dream is over?”
“No. Your physical body will not be visible until your journey ends with your return.”
“You’re telling me that I’m about to become the Invisible Man?”
“I am unfamiliar with the person of whom you speak.”
“Moving on. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Alien Airlines flight 1, bound for the bowels of hell. Please fasten your seat belts. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”
“It will not be bumpy. You will not feel any discomfort.” Victoria said.
“Couldn’t we do a test flight, like to Disney World?”
“I do not understand.”
“Never mind. Like I said, I joke when I’m nervous.”
“Do not be nervous. I will keep you safe.”
“I was thinking about that one percent,” I said.
And with that, Victoria touched my forehead and I was on my way to Syria.
There are a lot of ways to tell a story. As a young writer, I learned that two people, given identical facts, can write dramatically different stories based solely on which facts are included and which facts are left out. Although she was watching it unfold through my eyes, Victoria saw my “dream journey” in a very matter-of-fact way. In her version, I arrived in the war zone and began taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of my surroundings. The city came under attack as barrel bombs began to fall. The child I was talking with, suddenly went into cardiac arrest and I tried using cardiopulmonary resuscitation to save her. That was her story. It was black and white.
But life always seems to have a pesky shade of gray and that was the way I saw things. In my version of the story, I walked down a street that I’d dubbed “lawsuit alley.” because the buildings that were still standing were no longer fit for human occupancy, although leaving them would have been far worse. In the states, this city would have been a law firm’s wet dream. Here, it was a perpetual nightmare. Tears streaming from their eyes, dazed relatives searched for loved ones who had disappeared. Stray dogs, once family pets, scavenged for food. Small groups of children did the same as they came to the stark realization that they were now a surrogate family to each other.
In 1969, I stayed up all night to watch men walk on the moon. There are still those who believe the whole thing was faked, that it was shot on a movie sound stage or in a desolate desert. It could have been shot here. Buildings had been reduced to rubble. Without heavy equipment to remove them, the boulder sized rocks claimed the street for their final resting place, as did the bodies that laid beneath them. The dust particles hung in the air along with the smell of death and the survivors inhaled it all.
Here, people walking with the aid of crutches weren’t given a second look. It was a surreal normality for a city where life was anything but normal. I stopped to speak with a small girl who appeared to be no more than five or six years of age. She had chestnut brown hair curling down the sides of her face and deep blue eyes that reflected an innocence she’d never had an opportunity to experience. She was a child of war and deadly conflict was all that she had ever known. I said hello and told her that my name was Nedal, a name that I had heard on a television news program. She had no fear of strangers because she was surrounded by a world full of strangers. I asked her name and she whispered “Mariam” in a voice weakened by hours of calling out for a family that would probably never reply.
“Where is your house?” I asked.
“Over there,” was her tearful reply as she pointed an outstretched arm and finger in the direction of a massive pile of debris. The White Helmets, a ragtag band of volunteer rescuers, were helping to administer basic first aid to blast victims who had managed to avoid exiting what was, by any human standard, hell on Earth.
At that moment, the realization hit me that this beautiful little girl was probably an orphan. It was also the moment that I heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter rotor behind us. I let go of my crutches and dove on top of Mariam, knocking her to the ground. There was a loud boom followed by a shower of small rocks. I looked up to see that a barrel bomb had landed on a building about the length of a football field away. It had burrowed its way down a few floors and blown out the opposite wall, but collateral debris had found its way in our direction.
I looked down at Mariam. She was laying prone and lifeless on the ground. I pressed two fingers to her neck in an effort to feel her carotid artery pulse but felt none. I started administering CPR, alternating between chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth. The Bee Gees song ‘Stayin’ Alive’ played in my head as I used the beat to time the thirty chest compressions and rescue breaths. I was about to administer another round of chest compressions when her body began to get pelted with grayish white rocks. Small rocks hit my side and back as I felt my body began to tingle.
Victoria, no! I need a few more minutes.
I cannot allow you to cease to exist.
It was time to wake up.