The first time I heard the sound of a bomb, I was seven. It was late afternoon, and the sky over Aleppo was streaked with orange, a quiet beauty that felt at odds with the distant rumble. Mama told me it was far away, nothing to worry about. That night, the sound came closer.

We lived in an old stone house with walls thick enough to keep the cold out in winter but not strong enough to silence fear. My younger brother, Sami, cried every time the planes roared overhead. I envied him sometimes. His tears felt like a kind of release, while I sat frozen, holding his hand, pretending to be brave.

The war didn’t come all at once. It crept in, like the cracks that began to spread across our walls. The markets where Baba sold spices grew emptier, the streets quieter, and the neighbors disappeared one by one. The city didn’t feel like Aleppo anymore.

Food became scarce. Mama would make stew out of almost nothing—water, a handful of lentils, and whatever she could scavenge. She smiled as she served it, pretending it was a feast, but her hands trembled as she carried the pot.

One day, Baba left to look for bread and didn’t come back. The hours turned into days, and Mama’s face hardened like the stone walls around us. She didn’t cry, at least not where we could see.

School stopped soon after. The building was hit, and the teachers stopped coming. Sami and I would sit on the floor at home, tracing letters in the dust. Mama said learning was important, even if the world outside had forgotten.

There were nights when we couldn’t sleep because the sky wouldn’t stop screaming. Other nights, it was quiet, and that was worse. The silence was heavy, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

When the aid trucks came, we stood in lines that stretched for blocks. The bread was hard, the water warm, but it was something. Sometimes, though, the lines turned into chaos. People pushed and shouted, and I learned quickly how to hold onto Sami’s hand tightly.

As the years passed, Aleppo crumbled around us. Buildings turned to rubble, streets to dust. But life didn’t stop. Mama kept us going, finding ways to survive. Sami grew taller, his laughter less frequent but still there, a flicker of the boy he used to be.

Now, when I look at the city, I see the ghosts of what it was. The market stalls, the children playing in the alleyways, the smell of Baba’s spices—it all feels like another lifetime.

We’re still here, though. The sky still roars, the streets still crumble, but we’re here. For now, that’s enough.