Only a Little Kid (Flash-Fiction)
Only a Little Kid
My name is Ahmed and my little brother’s name is Khalid. This is our story.
I woke up one early Autumn morning, shivering from the cold air outside seeping into our bomb-damaged apartment building located on the eastern outskirts of the city of Aleppo. I could hear distant gunfire and artillery bombardment. After a while, these daily sounds and reminders of our country’s civil war died down and then stopped.
Our parents told us we could go outside to play, but to be very careful and not stray far from our apartment building, just in case any violence erupted again. Some of our neighborhood friends were already outside playing “our version” of soccer consisting of running and kicking around a small old worn rubber ball. We all dreamed of having our very own real soccer ball one day.
Most of the kids in our group were 10 to 14 years of age. Khalid tagged along with me, as he did every day. Being five years old now, Khalid was very adventurous and curious about everything around him. He really liked to play and have a good time. To Khalid, the Syrian Civil War meant nothing. In fact, he was born on March 15, 2011—the first day of the war. Khalid was only a little kid. He wanted to play, have fun, and be with me. As brothers, we were very close. I was his protector.
For me, I was aware of the terrible effects of the civil war ravaging our countryside. Being now age 14, and almost 15, I’d seen some really gruesome things from this war. Like most older kids, I’d seen and experienced really too much. I had frightful dreams almost every night. Khalid would wake up at night whenever the gunfire and bombing outside of our home area were loud and intense. The noise and explosions would make him cry. My parents would hold him and calm him down over time. I used to cry like that too when I was younger. Sometimes, I still do today, especially when some of our neighbors in our home area are killed by gunfire and bombs. Being around this endless carnage has left an indelible mark on all of us in our neighborhood.
As we gathered outside for our ritual soccer game, all of us in our tight-knit group seemed to be in a joyful mood. Our spirits were high. Our quest for fun and laughter was infectious. Khalid was nearby, playing with a small group of little kids. They were all involved in the fine art of “marble playing.” This was a sport they had become familiar with earlier this year. Watching these little ones play and have fun brought a big smile to my face. Like all of us, they were kids too, except much younger. The intensity of their activities and ours help us to forget the war, if just for a short while.
As the morning wore on, more kids came out to play. Our parents and other kids’ parents watched all of us from the housing area. For some reason, this particular day just seemed to be so special. Everyone was having fun, and any nagging thoughts of the war virtually disappeared. I could see Khalid out of the corner of my eye. He was smiling and having a lot of fun. And then, suddenly a couple of Syrian military airplanes and several combat helicopters appeared overhead—coming out of nowhere! They were stealth in their approach and arrival, and were most unwelcome intruders determined to destroy our oasis-moment of fun and childhood activities. We were all so hungry for fun and kids’ activities. We had been oblivious to their initial arrival.
With the these “Dogs of War” now closing in on our area, I knew we had very little time until the machine-gun fire and bombing started. We older kids and many parents began herding the children away from the open area toward the buildings to seek quick shelter. I immediately called out very loudly to Khalid: “Khalid! Khalid! Khalid! Run quickly and come to me right now!” He replied, “Yes, Ahmed! I hear you! Here I come!” I started running toward him, and I could see him running toward me as fast as he could! As I ran toward Khalid, I quickly gazed upward responding to the whistling sound of a large dropping object. It was a petrol-laden barrel bomb! It had been hurled from a helicopter now directly above us. We only had seconds until its impact. Khalid jumped into my arms. I ran with all of my might toward the closest building. With a flash of blinding light and heat, the bomb detonated. Its lethal concussion ripped Khalid from my arms. I stumbled and fell hard to the ground.
I lay motionless, face-down on the ground for what seemed an eternity. The deafening bomb blast robbed me of my hearing. I had deep shrapnel wounds from the bolts, screws, and nails in the barrel bomb. I had severe burns too. I struggled to get to my feet, in obvious shock, and called out several times to Khalid, not even being able to hear my own words! “Khalid! Khalid! My Brother, are you okay?” I could see, but couldn’t hear a thing. I was in excruciating pain and bleeding profusely. I then saw Khalid lying nearby. His small body had been shredded from the shrapnel and roasted black from the heat of the blast and the intense fireball. He was dead. I began to cry and then passed out.
I woke up in agonizing pain days later in a makeshift hospital. My left leg had been amputated. I was covered in burn bandages. I could barely hear a thing. My mother was there by me, holding my hand. Khalid and my father were dead and gone. I cried endlessly. My family was everything to me! And Khalid, was only a little kid!
Gary Bateman – March 29, 2016
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Author’s Notes: This flash-fiction story is total fiction to include all names, people, events, and circumstances. Any coincidences, if any, are unintended. Being one who is a retired U.S. military veteran, I chose this particular theme, likened to the many real and horrible events and crimes against humanity associated with the Syrian Civil War, courtesy of the infamous international war criminal, President Bashar al-Assad and his cohort of nefarious allies. I did this in order to highlight the pain and tragedy of war inflicted on innocent civilians—especially the children—who have experienced such unimaginable strife brought on by Assad’s government, ISIS, Russia, and the other warring parties throughout the Middle East. What I’ve tried to do in this storyline is to show the consequences and incalculable costs that unbridled warfare in the twenty-first century brings to innocent children and people in general who are caught up in the midst of it. My particular use of the “barrel-bomb scenario” and the tragedy of the events surrounding it are quite instructive in this instance, let alone the additional monstrous use of chemical munitions by the Syrian Army and the Russian military forces. Such events on behalf of the Syrian Army have occurred practically on an everyday basis in this civil war. It’s indeed, a very sad situation. It’s something that our politicians, and particularly those of them who have never served in the military, need to carefully consider each time they decide to rattle the saber and sound the war tocsin. It should also be understood that many of the authoritarian leaders worldwide care not one iota about any of the customary diplomatic niceties that are proposed to stop war and the killing of innocent people. Typically, the biggest victims in any war are always the innocent men, women, children, and old people who are defenseless, and have no place to go, and just want to live a normal life. This is something for all of us to think about in today’s supposed advanced modern-age world! War is still very much with us, as are tyranny, poverty, disease—and now, climate change too! One final note, since I completed this original story on March 29, 2016 for inclusion and future publication in my upcoming second book planned for release in 2017—it looks like now, as we are in December 2016, that the city of eastern Aleppo will soon fall to Assad’s deadly rampaging Army with no short thanks to the Russian dictator, Vladimir Putin, and his murderous Russian air power that are hell-bent on bombing and killing innocent civilians. My story stands here as a testament to the perfidy of Assad and Putin. I wonder if Assad and Putin plan to dance a victory jig together to celebrate this blood slaughter much like Hitler did when the French surrendered at Compiègne? So much for any justice for all of the murdered innocents in this conflict!
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