This story was inspired by true events of loved ones close to me.

Comments are always appreciated.

Mum had told me how much time I had. In the same way as when we were preparing to go on holiday, or taking me back to University, or going to see my grandparents. I was given a specific time period to work on.

Only this time, it wasn’t just a time period. It was a countdown.

I looked around the room; a sense of dismay seemed ingrained in every object there. What could I take? What could I leave? My clothes were essential, but I wanted more than just essential. My photo albums; 21 years of life wrapped up glossy transparency; my CD’s (I still listen despite the MP3 craze) depicting my progression from adolescent to adult in rumbling guitar riffs and solemn, soulful solos; my books, an array of subjects and genres that kept eyes bloodshot and mind ticking tirelessly as a torrent of questions and what ifs mounted in response to new information learned.

“Hurry up, choose what you need, then we must go. We mustn’t be here when they come.”

Standing in the doorway, giving orders, just like normal was Mum. But nothing about this was normal.

“You know what happened to Layla’s folks…Now hurry!”

Fear had slipped into her voice, although she was trying to be brave, in control, her mind was on constant recall. She’d found them. That morning. After that we knew we had to leave.

Dad had gone out to arrange transport. We didn’t have a car any more. Last week a stray mortar blew it up. Thank God no one was in it at the time.

I stood in the room. 45 minutes seemed a long time, but I’d already used up 10 and I hadn’t packed anything. How do you pack your life away?

Staring at my laptop, with all my writing, my musings and my flights of fanciful escape enshrouded in its metal frame, I knew I couldn’t leave it behind. Not for them to find. Throwing open the suitcase, I shoved in the laptop with some underwear, jumpers, skirts and trousers. I didn’t look at the colours or designs.
That wasn’t important anymore. Just clothes to cover me.

The books were too heavy, so were the photo albums and CDs. I’d burn them all. I wanted nothing of me left for them pick through, comment on.

I heard the front door slam and rapid talking. Dad was back with transport. We’d all be safe now. Of course, we never expected things to descend so quickly. It had only been a week. We thought the conflict was going to remain in the cities, that it wouldn’t hit our little village. That somehow, our village would be isolated, sheltered from the encroaching madness. But we were wrong.

Who’d have thought that a surname could make a difference, could decide whether you live or die. That’s what it’s come down to. A name.

Layla had been my best friend at University. Her parents had a farm in the neighbouring village and Mum had gone that morning to pick up some fresh milk and eggs for our breakfast. They were all dead.

Running out of the house, she was confronted by one of the lurking rebels. Mum recognised him as a student she used to teach Mathematics. She’d given him a chance to progress, helping him and giving him extra tuition when he was stuck on subjects.  Holding her, Mum said she’d feared the worst, but her former student did nothing. With cold eyes he delivered his warning: get out by 12 am and no one dies. Then he walked away, grinning with the confidence of a fighter on the winning side.

Looking down, Mum saw my friend’s blood stuck on her shoes. Suppressing panic, she tried her mobile, desperate to contact us, but the network was down, as usual. It was 9.45 and getting back home would take her to 10.30. Mum pelted down the road at a heart-attack inducing rate; arrived back at 10.15, served up the news and my life liquefied in a single blast.

I heard Mum telling my brother Fawaz to take blankets, pans, utensils and food to the car. By her listing, she’d already selected what was to be taken. In survival mode, Mum scanned everything going into the car, and threw out anything superfluous to our immediate needs. No luxury items. Space was limited; that was why I had to be so ruthless in my packing.

Glancing at my watch, I realised I had but 25 minutes.

Things seemed to pop into existence the more I scrutinised the room. Items I’d barely acknowledged seemed to take on new meaning; my egg and spoon race certificate; the toy bunny that sang a tune which made me cry and Mum had to sing over the top a new song; a mug with Westminster Abbey on that I bought when I visited London 2 years ago; a cushion embroidered by my Grandmother who died while I was a teenager; so many items that were more than just items in my room. They made up my experiences, my memories…my life.

I sat on the edge of the bed, and stared despondently in front of me. I should be rushing, doing things, packing things, but I couldn’t. I had no energy; a wrung out dish cloth, my arms dangled by my side, refusing to rise to the challenge before me.

Shock was setting in, and I just couldn’t do this.

Downstairs, doors banged, footsteps ran, and voices shouted. They seemed to be handling this situation. But how do you handle Civil War? I thought about the term. What was civil about war? Was killing, raping, and rampaging through your neighbour’s house now regarded as being civil?

“Have you finished Shereen?”

Dad called to me, from somewhere. I could hear him, but he was so far, far away. Turning my eyes rested on a painting, quite amateurish in execution but it got me to Art School, so I guess it served its purpose.

Rising off the bed, I reached out and grasped the frame and was carried through the canvas. I could feel the heat on my face; the tingle of the cool waters of Shat Al’Arab abundant with marine life amidst the marshes; a blue sky, devoid of cloud, limitless like my imagination. A wondrous time of innocence. By the time I’d painted the scene, the riverways were dry and barren of life and depleted uranium tinged the sky with acrid, yellow dust. But the scene remained forever in my mind.

Right now, I longed for that place.

“Shereen, what the hell’s the matter with you. You haven’t packed anything. We have to go in 15 minutes. Do you understand?”

Mum was shaking me. Desperation creased in her every line on her face. I looked at her, but I couldn’t see her. All I could see was those lovely wavy marshes, and feel those soft, cool waters around my feet.

I wanted to step in…to feel the waters around me.

“Amr, get up here, we’ve got a problem.”

I could hear Mum again, but her voice was a faint whisper, an echo of a life gone by.

“Shereen, Shereen!”

Dad’s voice was caught on a slight wind. I could barely distinguish what he was saying. But the waters were beckoning. I could see silver, sparkling fish swimming in shoals towards me. Enchanting me forward.

“What’s happened, Minal? Did you say something about Layla to her?”

“I didn’t say a thing. I don’t know why she’s like this? Oh God, why’s this happening now…We’ve got to hurry?”

“Go down stairs, finish putting the stuff on the fire and I’ll be down with Shereen. She’ll be okay love, it’s just been a shock for her. On you go…”

“I don’t know if you can hear me Shereen, but you’ve got to come back. Wherever you are right now, it’s not right, it’s not real. Here is real. And if we don’t move now we’re not going to make it. Please Shereen, speak to me…”

The waters vanished, my room slammed back into focus. Dad’s face full in front of me, defined the anxiety and pain that the diminishing minutes caused.

“Dad, I’m sorry…I just can’t, can’t…” My words dwindled to sobs.

I wasn’t my Mum, steely, resolute and logical. I wasn’t my Dad, strong, clever and calm. I wasn’t even my little brother, who was still too young to understand what was happening. I was me. Maybe selfish, but I just couldn’t be something I wasn’t. I couldn’t pretend to take all this and not be affected. I just couldn’t be the tough woman they thought I was.

Dad hugged me close. A rare show of emotion that he kept for special moments.

“Have you packed everything you need?”

I nodded, too tired and confused to even contemplate packing. Dad dropped to his knees and snapped shut the case.

Turning to look at my room for the last time, I glanced at the clock, we had 5 minutes. Dad put his arm out and guided me down the stairs.

“Everything packed?” Dad asked, as Mum tore past him, her arms laden with medicines and first aid packs. If things got dicey on the road, those packs would be needed.

“Almost,” cried Mum, heading towards the car.

“Shereen, get in the car and wait with your brother.” Dad instructed, grabbing my case.

I opened the door of the battered old Merc Dad had been given by his cousin, and sat on the torn, burgundy leather seat. Dad threw my case in the back, shut the boot and headed back to the house to collect the last bag and Mum.

Pain shot through my head, and shattering whiteness engulfed my sight. I closed my eyes. As swift as the pain arrived it departed. I felt nothing. Maybe just another migraine…I opened my eyes. The gently waving marshes were all around me, as were the cool, bright waters. Diving into the alluring aquamarine, I smiled, happy at last. And at peace.