That Mother’s Day, Doaa’s world was changed forever. Every year, as a family tradition, she, her mother, sisters, and little brother would visit their grandfather for lunch and visit the cemetery to read the al-Fatiha, the first chapter of the Quran, over her grandmother’s grave, an important ritual for Doaa. After reading the al-Fatiha, the children would hand out ma’amoul cookies filled with dates, and single flowers from their bouquet, to the other cemetery visitors, receiving similar small gifts in return.
On that particular day Hanaa’s instinct was to stay home. Outside the door of their home, the street that was usually bustling with passersby and shoppers was eerily silent. There was talk of snipers, checkpoints, and clashes between demonstrators and government forces. To get to her father’s house, Hanaa and her children would have to venture into the city center, where the clashes were at their fiercest. On top of all this, Shokri was at work and could not accompany them until much later in the day.
However, Doaa wouldn’t hear of staying at home. She loved visiting her grandfather’s old house with its budding garden where she would play with her younger cousins. At least thirty of her family members were expected to be there, an occasion she did not want to miss.
“Mama,” she insisted, “we go every year. We can’t stop doing what we love.”
Hanaa eventually gave in, knowing that if she didn’t take her, Doaa would probably attempt to go on her own, leaving her at home worrying. Throughout the unrest in Syria, Hanaa wanted to give her daughters and Hamudi a sense of normalcy. However, nothing about the journey that awaited them would be normal.
Hanaa decided that the safest way to get to her father’s was to go by taxi. Dressed in their best clothes, and carefully carrying boxes that held chocolate cake and assorted cookies, they set out.
At first, Hanaa’s fears seemed unfounded. She walked out the door with Doaa, Saja, Nawara, and Hamudi and looked out to their street in El-Kashef. Fewer people than usual were out, but the shops were still serving customers and people were going about their business. Doaa spotted the usual gathering of neighbors in the shady square; the popular Abu Youssef falafel shop had its regular line of people waiting to order and the corner store where Doaa and her sisters bought sweets and chips had its door wide-open. For a moment the family forgot the violence that was sweeping through their city and upsetting the peace of their lives. Doaa strolled down the street smiling at the thought of visiting her grandmother’s grave and spending a day with her family.
It was only a fifteen-minute ride to Doaa’s grandfather’s house. Normally, taxis were abundant and cheap: thirty-five Syrian pounds for the ride to the city center. But that day, the few cars that drove by had their windows up and wouldn’t slow to Hanaa’s waving arm. Finally, a taxi stopped and the driver rolled down his window to tell them his price—250 pounds, a 600 percent markup. He said this was his “risk fee.” Doaa was appalled that the driver would charge so much, but if they wanted to get to her grandfather’s, they had no choice but to pay the driver’s price.
They piled into the taxi, careful to not crush the cake or wrinkle their good clothes. Doaa caught sight of herself in the side mirror and smoothed her brightly patterned veil, wanting to look her best for the celebration.
The young driver was extremely nervous, breathing hard and constantly looking over his shoulders. As they made their way through the militarized zones in Daraa, they heard gunshots, making the driver jerk in his seat and Doaa think that perhaps her mother’s fears were not unfounded. At every turn, they were stopped at a military roadblock. The driver tried to get around them by taking back roads and promised to take the family as close as he could to their destination.