ya khalo bishir,
it’s been fourteen years and mama still calls Ali by your name instead. i watch as she
shakes her head for a split second, realizing it is not her brother sitting across the table,
but her son.
do you remember the summer we met? i can still feel the plastic of the inflatable ball
on my hands and those of your kids, my habibi cousins. the syrian sun was kind to
us on that july afternoon.
while in college, i wrote a 50 page paper about how to resolve the conflict in syria without
violence, in the hopes that my argument was so strong it could guarantee your freedom.
but how do you free someone who has disappeared?
i miss you through the pain felt in mama’s heart, and the sorrow that tinted her skin, and
the anger that surfaced between oceans as the swindlers exchanged faulty information of
where you were. where were you?
a few months ago, i watched as our beloved syria bloomed against the backdrop of
freedom, and i begged insomnia to stay with me for the night in hopes that i would see
you blooming too, out of the ground, away from the hidden prisons.
we watched and waited and prayed; could our hopes still reach the shadow of someone
who was?
the family has begun to call you a martyr, i think “missing” has outgrown itself.
i will always call you khalo.
you will always be my khalo.
ma’a al salama,
melody
Melody Cheikhali is a Syrian-American writer living in New York City. In addition to her self published book titled “Bloom For Me”, you can find her work published in various magazines including Verses, Humankind, and Art & Type. She is currently working on a book titled “Bayt | بيت”, which centers around identity, family, roots, and Syria.