الدخان يرتفع وينتهي في الهواء، مثل الحقيقة الباردة التي تتلاشى دون أن تترك أثرًا
the smoke rises and fades into the air, like the cold truth that vanishes without leaving a trace

SHE HAD SWORN she would stop smoking. Promised herself, really.

But the urge was too familiar, too persistent and promises made in the quiet of her mind always crumbled in the noise of reality. With a sigh, Maryam fumbled through her pocket, feeling the familiar shape of the cigarette pack. She pulled one out, placing it between her teeth, cursing softly as her fingers scrambled to find a lighter in the depths of her bag.

She remained rooted to the spot where the Bat ( or was it the drifter? )had left her, the faint echo of his departure lingering in the cold air.

The flicker of the flame caught the cigarette, and she took a deep drag, feeling the burn in her chest.

A voice broke through the silence behind her. "Boyfriend?"

She turned slightly, hazel eyes landing on a homeless man curled up on a worn mat, his face barely visible beneath the grime of the streets.

Maryam exhaled slowly, the smoke unfurling from her lips before she coughed. "Uh — what? No," she muttered, pulling the cigarette away, trying to collect herself, to straighten her thoughts along with her posture.

The man chuckled then coughed, a low, gravelly sound. "My bad then."

She took another drag, staring at the ground, fixating on a piece of gum stuck to the pavement. "Why'd you think that?" she asked, trying to sound indifferent, crossing her arms as she tapped ash from the cigarette.

He clacked his yellowing teeth together, his grin crooked. "The way you looked at him, I guess."

Maryam huffed, smoke swirling around her. "Looked at him how?"

"Like he could save you," the man said, his voice softened by the cold night air.

Her jaw tightened, irritation flaring. "Yeah, well... I don't need saving."

"Sure, sure," he replied, pulling a threadbare blanket tighter around himself. "People like you... don't need nobody, huh?"

His words hit her like a cold slap, it lingered in the air, mingling with the smoke.

Maryam's eyes drifted to him, and after a long minute, she noticed his clothes : old, worn, but unmistakable.

Veteran.

Ugh.

The sight made her stomach tighten.

She fucking hated US veterans. Hated everything they symbolized.

When she was younger, she'd seen the videos — those staged reunions where soldiers came back, surprising their children with hugs and tears. It happened all the time at her school, too. Soldiers, returning from some war she couldn't even place, cheered like heroes.

But what had they really come back from? Murdering Middle Eastern children ? Destroying families? Cities? Entire Countries ? They weren't heroes in her eyes ; just puppets in some propaganda machine, painted with a patriotic brush.

"You're a soldier," she said absently, the words tasting bitter as she blew out another puff of smoke.

"Yes, miss" hesitant he added." Iraq." His tone was low, almost careful.

Her body went rigid. 

The cigarette wavered in her hand. "Oh." She looked anywhere but at him.

Once again, silence enveloped the space, thick and unspoken, as she fought to suppress the anger tightening her chest. It was a silence as cold as ice, unforgiving as a winter wind, suffocating in its heaviness.

Every breath dragged, bitter with words she couldn't say and memories that cut deep.

The silence pressed in, forcing her to face wounds still raw and the injustices clawing just beneath her skin.

"How lovely," she says, tone cutting, more harsh than sarcastic.

His bloodshot eyes flicker away from hers, avoiding her gaze as if weighed down by shame. "You don't seem —"

Before he could say another word, her patience snapped. "My uncle was Iraqi," she bit out, her eyes sharp enough to kill. "Mohamed Rajab," she added, almost to herself, the name barely a whisper as her gaze drifted, leaving the words heavy in the air.

His name felt almost foreign, the syllables heavy on her tongue, a relic of a past she could barely grasp. It had been years since she last spoke it aloud, and now it emerged as if from the depths of a grave — another ghost haunting her sorrow and grief. It was like a whisper from a forgotten time in a way, bringing with it only a rush of memories tinged with both warmth and despair.

The man shifted slightly on his mat, but said nothing, just watching her through tired eyes.

Maryam's mind drifted back, further into memories she rarely allowed herself to visit.

Aunt Jamila's husband.

He had been in Iraq when the invasion began, a last-minute decision to return and bury his mother, unaware that fate would trap him in a storm of chaos and war.

Caught in the storm of chaos and war, his gentle soul trapped beneath the weight of bombs that fell from skies blackened by imperial greed.

Her sweet uncle had died there, under the bombs of imperialism, crushed by the same hands that wrapped themselves around countries, tearing them apart for power, for oil, for nothing at all. His life extinguished in an instant, another casualty in a conflict that cared little for the human cost.

His memory felt so distant now, like an echo from another lifetime, fading with each passing day. She could barely picture his face anymore, but she could still recall the way he always carried Turkish candies in his pockets — those delightful little treats with a gooey liquid center that melted in your mouth. 

They were her favorites. 

He would pull them out with a smile, passing them to the neighborhood children with a wink, even when times were hard. He had owned a modest market, a small shop that was the heart of their community, and somehow, it was enough.

Life had felt rich and full.

But then, the invasion happened. When the first bombs fell, he had still been in Iraq, still burying his mother, caught in the chaos with no way out.

They had clung to hope, waiting for him to return, believing against all odds that somehow he would make it back to them. But hope dwindled with each passing day, and the stark reality settled in.

He never made it back.

In fact, none of his family made it out. All decimated. Dust.

She vividly recalled the day they received the news. How Aunt Jamila had screamed, collapsing in the kitchen, her wails piercing the air like shards of glass, as if her very soul had been ripped from her body.

Aunt Meysa had rushed to comfort her, cradling the pregnant woman as best she could, while her own heart shattered in the chaos.

Uncle Fawzi stood frozen by the window, his expression blank, eyes gazing into a world that had suddenly lost all meaning. The silence in the room felt suffocating, heavy with despair.

She had felt so small, so powerless, standing in the doorway, a mere shadow watching her family break apart yet again under the weight of another curse, another war that had ensnared them as if they were trapped in a nightmare with no escape.

It shattered Aunt Jamila. Destroyed her in ways Maryam could never fully comprehend.

Just months away from welcoming her first child, her aunt had been filled with hope despite the growing unrest. But the news of Mohamed's death, along with the obliteration of his entire family, became an unbearable burden. Soon after, she lost the baby, her first and last child, snuffed out before it ever had a chance to take a breath, a ghost that would never exist.

Maryam remembered how Aunt Meysa had told her there wasn't even a body to bury—only fragments, pieces of him scattered beneath the rubble, indistinguishable from the wreckage of their lives. The bombing had torn through their home, their neighborhood, leaving behind only silence and ash, memories mingled with dust.

But the worst part wasn't just the loss; it was the haunting loneliness that followed, a void that swallowed everything whole. The suffocating silence pressed in from all sides. There was no one to talk to, no one who would listen or care. 

The world had already made up its mind.

In the post-9/11 haze, everyone was too engrossed in their own lives, too willing to swallow whatever narratives their governments fed them — stories of freedom, democracy, and the relentless fight against the so-called "enemy of democracy."

To them, people like Mohamed or Fawzi weren't fathers or husbands; they were mere abstractions. They weren't human. They were branded as terrorists, Islamists, faceless bodies stripped of identity, marked for death by the sheer accident of their birthplace, by the faith they practiced, by the cultures they cherished and fought to preserve.

Their stories were reduced to statistics in a news report, their lives devalued, dismissed as collateral damage in a war that felt more like a game of chess than a human tragedy. 

As if their existence was a mere footnote in a narrative that never considered them worthy of remembrance.

Just dirty little Arabs.

Muslim terrorists.

Violent by nature.

Enemies of the state.

Radical extremists.

Savages in a primitive land.

Maryam exhaled slowly, the smoke burning her throat as the weight of it all pressed down on her chest, threatening to suffocate her under the collective grief, the unshed tears, the rage against a world that refused to see them as anything but monsters.

At this point, it felt like everyone had become desensitized to the images — Middle Eastern children blown to bits, their small bodies crumpled in the debris, their faces smeared across the news like they were nothing more than statistics.

It was as if the world had decided that this was their fate.

As if suffering was something they were meant to endure, something woven into their existence, to be endured without question, without grief.

When she thought about her uncle— she thought about the stories her family never fully told, but hinted at in the silences around the dinner table, in the careful way they avoided certain topics. He had been proud once, she remembered that much. Proud of his land, his people.

Until the war came.

Until everything was shattered.

She glanced back at the homeless man, her thoughts spiraling in the quiet of the early morning. He had probably seen the same horrors, lived through the same lies, though from the other side of the world.

Maybe, in some twisted way, they both knew what it was like to be used. To be broken.

But the difference was, people like him got to come home.

She never really did.

The image of her uncle, buried beneath the rubble, under a sky choked with smoke and the deafening roar of jets, felt far too vivid now. It wasn't just a memory—it was a living thing, clawing at her insides. This was the kind of war that had seeped into her bones, the kind that had stolen so much from her family.

And for what ? So they could craft stories of heroism, tales of sacrifice? So soldiers could return draped in glory while the dead lay nameless in the dust, forgotten?

She glanced toward the American flag fluttering above the bank entrance just down the street, its colors stark against the gray sky.

It felt like a cruel joke.

After everything, after fighting so hard to earn a place here, to get their nationalities, to be accepted — and yet here she was, haunted by wars and destruction she couldn't escape.

Her throat tightened, and she took a drag from her cigarette, letting the smoke fill her lungs. She forced herself not to flinch, not to let the bitterness bleed into her face.

She couldn't afford to.

The man shifted on his mat, his earlier bravado gone. His eyes softened, narrowing as if he'd begun to understand something unspoken between them. "I see," he said quietly, the weight of his words pressing down on the silence between them.

There was something else now in his voice — recognition, maybe even... guilt. "War's... hell for everyone, I guess."

Hell ? She swallowed, her throat constricting against the rising tide of grief. Hell didn't even begin to describe it.

War wasn't just hell. 

War was a thief.

It stole everything that mattered — lives, homes, futures — and left behind nothing but wreckage.

Iraq hadn't felt like a war.

Srebrenica hadn't felt like a war.

It had felt like being trapped in a nightmare, watching everything you love get torn away while the world pretended to care. It wasn't just the soldiers, the so-called heroes, who suffered. It was the forgotten, the nameless, the ones like her. The ones whose stories would never make it home.

The ghosts.

She couldn't reply right away. Her voice felt fragile, like it would shatter the moment she opened her mouth. Instead, she stared at the flag, its proud flutter a mockery of everything she had lost, everything the world didn't care to remember.

Finally, she muttered, her voice low and rough, "Yeah," flicking the ash from her cigarette to the ground. "Hell for everyone."

But even as she said it, she knew hell didn't cover it. Hell didn't tear you apart in the same way; it didn't erase you from the world, didn't let history move on while you were still standing there, bleeding from the inside like a wound that refused to heal.

An agony that seeped into your bones, a gnawing ache that twisted your insides and left you gasping for breath, like drowning in the memories of those lost, memories that clung to you like shadows, haunting every moment.

Maryam's gaze stayed locked on the crumbling asphalt beneath her sneakers. The cigarette burned slowly between her fingers, but she didn't feel the heat. She didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to see whatever expression he'd try to wear—whether it was pity, guilt, or some hollow understanding.

None of it mattered.

Her thoughts drifted back to her uncle once again, the one no one spoke about anymore.

Him and her parents.

Her brother.

Her extended family.

The ones her family treated like ghosts, too painful to mention.

As if grieving them was poison.

His memory hung in the silence of family dinners, in the way they tiptoed around certain topics, like stepping on landmines. Her uncle Mohamed had been proud once. She could still see it, the way his eyes used to light up when he talked about his land, his people.

But the war had come, and with it, destruction. He had fought to hold onto something, anything, but in the end, everything was shattered.

She remembered the stories she overheard late at night, when her family thought her and her siblings were asleep. Stories about how they found him—or what was left of him and his family.

The land he had bled for, loved so fiercely, had turned to ashes, just like him.

They just didn't talk about the aftermath.

They didn't talk about the ones who didn't make it home—not really. Because once they were gone, they were gone.

Erased.

But Maryam hadn't forgotten. Couldn't bury it. Not like they had.

She could still feel the weight of them—the stories that were never told, the grief no one could bear to speak of. The silence in the wake of everything they had lost.

Her uncle's pride, his dreams, had been buried along with him, forgotten by a world that kept spinning as if none of it had ever mattered.

But she was still here. Still carrying that weight, those memories that wouldn't fade. The anger that wouldn't let her rest.

She took another drag, the smoke filling her lungs, thick and bitter. She exhaled slowly, watching it curl up into the air, dissipating like the lives of the ones lost to wars no one cared to remember.

Finally, she glanced at him, her voice hollow. "You don't know the half of it."

He didn't respond right away. 

The silence between them stretched, thick and uncomfortable, like the burden of all the unsaid things lingering without a place to rest. She didn't care. She certainly didn't need his words, didn't need his sympathy or whatever hollow platitude he might offer.

There was nothing he could say that would fix it.

The doctor crushed the half-finished cigarette on a near bin, grinding it into metal of it with deliberate motion. Watching the embers fade, snuffed out like the lives lost to senseless wars.

It felt like a ritual — something small, something pointless — but it was the only control she had left.

He shifted beside her, the mat creaking beneath him as he adjusted his weight.

She could feel his eyes on her, but she refused to meet his gaze, to acknowledge his presence. What could he possibly understand ? He wasn't the one standing in the rubble, watching everything he knew burn to the ground. He wasn't the one left behind, forced to sift through the ashes of a shattered life, desperately searching for remnants of hope amidst the devastation.

No, he was the one who had taken part in it all, the one who had marched into the chaos, while she remained trapped in the wreckage, haunted by the ghosts of those she had lost.

"Look..." he began, his voice hesitant now, unsure. "I didn't mean to — "

"Save it," she cut him off, the sharpness of her voice slicing through the air like a blade. "I've heard it all before." She wrapped her arms around herself, more to keep the memories from spilling over than from the chill in the air.

His silence was answer enough. He wasn't going to push, and she was grateful for that — grateful for once that someone didn't try to offer solutions to a problem that couldn't be solved.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself. The air tasted like smoke and rain, thick with the scent of something burning far off in the distance.

Maybe it was just her imagination, but it felt too close, too real ; like the wars were still with her, clinging to her skin and sinking into her bones, refusing to let go.

"You must have seen a lot over there," Maryam said quietly after a while, the words barely more than a murmur, as if they weren't hers to ask. Each syllable hung in the air like a fragile promise, a flicker of connection in the suffocating silence that surrounded them.

"More than I care to remember," he replied. His voice was rough, but there was something hollow behind it, as if he were speaking through a fog of memories he couldn't shake. "Lost a lot of good men. Did things... none of us should've had to do."

The confession hung heavy in the night air. Maryam's heart thudded painfully against her ribs, a flood of memories threatening to surface — the wars she fled, the ruins she walked through, the faces of people she once knew.

"And what, you think that makes it better? That you regret it now?" she asked, her voice harsher than she intended, breaking the delicate thread of understanding that had started to form.

The man sighed, a long, weary sound. "No. Regret don't fix anything, miss. But it's all I got now."

Maryam crossed her arms tightly, as if holding herself together.

The old anger still simmered, but it was tangled now with something else — more complex, more painful. She wanted to hate him, like she hated the others. But standing there, hearing the exhaustion in his voice, it felt... harder.

After a long pause, she looked up at him for the first time, really looked.

His eyes were tired, bloodshot, bottles of alcohol laced around him but there was no defiance in them, no pride. Just a man, worn down by too many battles — some fought overseas, some right here on these streets.

She took a step back, blinking against the burning sensation creeping behind her eyes. "Doesn't change anything," she whispered, but the words sounded hollow, even to her.

"No, it doesn't," he agreed, pulling his blanket tighter around himself, retreating into the comfort of its worn fabric.

Maryam stood there for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the conversation settle deep in her bones. She wasn't sure what she'd expected—a confrontation, maybe, something explosive.

But all she felt was tired.

Tired of the anger, tired of the guilt, tired of the endless cycle of pain.

Finally, she forced herself to speak, her voice low and rough. "War doesn't end when the fighting stops. It stays with you. It eats away at everything you are, everything you thought you knew. And no one... no one cares about what it does to the ones left behind."

Her words hung in the air, thick with the weight of all the unsaid things she couldn't bring herself to explain. She had learned long ago that some wounds never healed. Some scars were too deep.

The man beside her said nothing, and for once, it was the right response. There was nothing more to say.

Finally, she turned, her gaze fixed ahead, and without looking back, she whispered, almost to herself, "They're all gone. And so am I."

She swallowed hard, surprising herself as she asked softly, "What is your name?" Her hands found their way to the pockets of her trench coat, searching for warmth or some semblance of comfort.

"Bryan Geoffray Jr.," he replied, his voice hoarse yet steady.

She nodded, her mind racing as she fished out three crumpled dollars from her pocket, placing them in his cup.

It wasn't much, but it was all she had on her, a small offering in the face of shared despair.

Tears bloomed in his already bloodshot eyes, and she quickly looked away, uncomfortable under the weight of his gratitude. He whispered a thank you, his voice thick with emotion. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for what we did."

"Take care of yourself," she only said quietly, flicking the ash from her cigarette to the ground.

And as she turned to leave, she tossed another coin into the small pot in front of him, a small token of connection before breaking away.

She walked away then, leaving the stranger, the cigarette smoke, and the shadow of her past behind her. But as she disappeared into the night, the memories stayed.

They always did.

"Same to you, miss," he called after her, his voice trailing off into the cold air.

DONT HESITATE TO LEAVE A COMMENT xx