Sara: A Middle Eastern tale of escape, self-discovery and true love by Harder David

Author:Harder, David [Harder, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Published: 2016-03-03T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

The sun was shining directly on the pavement, and it was scorching as I stepped outside the doors of the air-conditioned lobby. What a gorgeous day I thought to myself. It is truly good to be alive.

After stepping back into the lobby and finishing my coffee and pastry, I decided to cross the street and wander down the waterfront boardwalk, noticing the ships; the many ferries crowded with people leaving the port, and the booths set up as temporary markets along the boardwalk.

So many happy people, I thought, so many free and happy people.

I also noticed as I wandered farther along the boardwalk a group of young men who looked very familiar. Syria flooded my mind as I recognized the clothing and then the accent of their Arabic tongue as they came closer. I was walking straight towards them when in complete shock I realized that one of them was Mohammed, my brother!

I panicked.

What if he recognized me?

It was too late to turn around as they were just a few feet in front of me. I tried to lower my gaze and cover my face as much as I could, longing for my burqa once again, but as we nearly brushed each other’s arms as we passed, I heard a sudden gasp. “Sara!”

I froze in my tracks. “What are you doing here, and why…?” He couldn’t even form his full sentence. I could see the thoughts rushing through his head.

I decided the only way I could escape was to run. I bolted as fast as my little feet could take me, running away from them and away from the hotel, trying to figure out where to go.

They came after me, four of Mohammed’s friends in pursuit with him as they realized who I was.

It took no time at all for them to overcome my feeble attempts at escape, and my brother grabbed me roughly. My heart was racing to the point of exploding in my chest.

I was so close. I was so happy. And now I was caught.

They grabbed me by the arm, one of his friends on one side and he on the other, and started quietly interrogating me, not wanting to create a scene on the midday street of this little sleepy Greek town.

They led me to another hotel down the street; this one was not nearly as beautiful as the Angelika. It had no view, as it faced the inland hills and other buildings.

They tried to get me to talk, tying my hands behind my back and to a chair, asking me what had happened and why I had left Aleppo. He then asked me about father, and what had taken place at the check-stop. He volunteered the information that it had taken six months for father to recover and that he still had to use a cane to walk. “And,” he stated emphatically, “he is so angry at you, and if he knew I had you, he would want me to kill you.”

I finally had the nerve to ask why they were here, trying already to figure out how I would get out of this mess.

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