the 16th of August, 2015, this was the hardest day in my life. At quarter to two afternoon, I heard the warplane sound and three missiles shook #Douma. My heart poked me because my father and two brothers were in their shop. My brother came back with his tears covering his face and said to me “our father died”.
We tried to find my second brother for more than a week in all the makeshift clinics until the Civic Defense team came holding a piece of cloth full of flesh and blood. My brother’s wife saw the cloth and we were sure that my brother became shreds.
Until today, I recall my fathers’ hands, forehead and laughter; they never leave my thought. My father used to bring the family together. He never liked eating alone.
We used to sit on one table surrounded by my siblings and their children and I used to argue on the noise they made and he used to laugh on that.
My late brother’s wife loved him very much. They lived a love story together and when they got married and became successful partners, the death took my brother. I love to see my brother’s children and see their photos as they are growing up. However, it is a pity that they are growing up without a caring father, even the word “father”, they will never feel it. I exhorted my brother’s wife to tell her children who their father was and how his ethics, reputation and visage was. I also exhorted her to put his photo before them so they can always remember because I am away and cannot tell them about him that much.
Unfortunately, they are very far from me now but, for sure, I will never save any effort when they need me one day.
My brother was younger than me. Every time he said something, I used to say the opposite and contradict him just to tease him.
I want to say to my brother “Ilias and Mahmoud will continue the way you started. They miss you so much and us too. You made us suffer because we did not find you.”
I look at his photo and talk to him and say “where is your head and where did your hands stay after you became shreds?” I wish there were a piece of him.
I want to tell my brother “until today, your mother opens the door at night thinking that you are coming now”. She does not believe that you’re gone because she did not see your dead body.
I want to tell him “I really suffered because I looked for you in all medical points and in all of al #Ghouta not only in Douma”. Many things I want to say but I cannot talk.
From a 35 year old lady (the father was 67- the brother was 29)