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The soldier who collected our passports asked about our where and where and n disappeared into his guard. Two Anderedurchsuchten taxi and luggage. Everything was suspicious. We were suspicious. The words we said, air we exhaled. The soldier came back in a quarter of an hour with ID’s and called up our names. Our hearts and minds fluttered like poultry being slaughtered. The soldier was amused by fear in our eyes and interrogated us a second time: Why did you take a taxi toger, how do you know euchund how well do you know driver? What do you want in Homs? We tried to look as neutral as employees of international charities. The Minutes snuck away.
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We were allowed to continue. Like an orphan who yearns for a mor’s embrace, our car drove through streets of gentle city. Ichhoffte to see at least shadows of my acquaintances with whom I had früherzusammengelebt. But we did not find people, and shadows threw rubble now: buildings with EingestürztenDächern, piled on one anor like pies, to which a riesigesUngeheuer had entered. Cement blocks hung on iron rods, everywhere herausgerisseneFenster. The wall of a kitchen was stopped after an air raid, your mor, who might just zubereitethatte lunch for her children, left an outline on her.
We stopped and got out. Beneath layers of dust part of a doll, an arm, a hull, a part of a task booklet Onhe a textbook, history; The wind and present have tattered. On a rope hung clos, which fluttered like DieSeele of a dying man in wind, dried remnants of DenSteinen. Shops, looted and empty, remembering voices of Vontüchtigen sellers and contentious customers. But it was only dieKlagen of besieged from depths of earth that was heavily involved in disaster. In abandoned houses grass grew. War planes had turned m into graves that were pregnant with bodies of ir inhabitants.
Kelly Salem
is pseudonym of a writer who lives in Syria. For security reasons, she does not write under her real name. She is a guest author from “10 to 8”.
Yesterday y were still here. Yesterday y were flocking to streets after decades dark night to demand freedom UndGerechtigkeit, and yesterday y were made into a dough made of flesh, to delight of scorpions and snakes. The flowers of blood betrunkenenwilden and oleander shrubs tell sad stories. Sieschwärmen of spring that had come past here, and klagendarüber what has become of him.
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Soot has dyed face of Homs with a black one that makes blind. The memory keeps our eyes open. We remember DieSeelen of those who left city or country or life. echo of ir voices in our memory. Homs, gentle, Homs, Merry. Homs, a city woven out of jokes and laughter, kindness and hospitality, warmth and passion, Homs, with its spring feasts, with “Lost Thursday”, with “Nuna-Thursday”, “VerrücktenDonnerstag”, The “Thursday of Cats”, “Thursday of plants” and “Thursday of dead” to “Thursday of Sheikhs”.
These seven thunder stages from February to April are holy days when one celebrates spring and Halawa. They fall into time of great fasting of Oriental Christians. The most beautiful feast is Thursday of dead, also called “Thursday DerMysterien” in Christian-Oriental calendar. The inhabitants of Homs affectionately call him “Thursday DerSüßigkeiten”. This day is gleichermaßengefeiert by Muslims and Christians in Homs. All pray for salvation of ir deceased, LegenHolundersträuße on graves and distribute Halawa.
