A Flash of Fiction with Graduate students. "Seruya" by Arlette Johnson

Last week, I assigned my graduate students to write a piece of flash fiction in the tradition that for teachers to be better instructors of writing, they need to write themselves. I love reading the creativity of my students and this piece, written by Arlette Johnson, a first grade teach in Bridgeport, especially caught my attention.

SERUYA

Seruya knew it was going to be another sleepless night with her three young children. After sharing a dry piece of bread among her kids in the small dark room, they shared a long prayer, and she kissed each a good night.

Seruya quickly picked through the small window of her severely damaged apartment. and the full mom gave her an instant sense of happìness while she slowly sat on the concrete floor and started to cry. She knew she was not safe in her own home, her own country.

-      

Uncle Moussafi is here, mommy. It is time.

Seruya opened her eyes wide and could feel her heart beat fast. She scanned the room to ensure her kids were safe.

-We dont have much time! exclaimed Moussafi, with a sorrowful look in his face.

Without hesitation Seruya put on her mother´s white hijab, the hand made veil was her family’s last inheritance, and picked up her youngest child. The kids fell to sleep quickly and peacefully after the prayer, but now it was time to go. The other two children awoke, warily, and carried a few bags with food and clothing. Gunshots came from the mountains.

-Where is Jabhat? The children haven´t seen their father in ten days. They think he is dead too. Seruya whispered to Moussafi while he carefully opened the door to exit the apartment.

- He stayed back with the other rebels in Damascus. The rebels believe they have a good chance to fight the Assad regime there. He asked me to take your family as close as I can to the border.  He promised to find you in Jordan. You must be strong.

Without looking back, the small group of civilians walked quietly down the stairs of their abandoned, dark building. The streets were deserted. If there were any soul left in their small community, they did not want to be seen either.

Once, a lively neighborhood, now a lifeless place. Fear accompanied them with each step they took. They knew it was going to be a long night exiting their country to enter the unknown.  

Seruya wanted to scream. She was aware of protesters who were imprisoned, tortured and killed in the state prisons in Damascus.  She wanted her old life back. She wanted to teach again and wished to see Syrian kids running free in her neighborhood once again. Now all she saw was destruction, despair, and death.

-Uncle Mousaffi, are you bleeding?  Abbi, the oldest child, interrupted.  

Seruya felt selfish for dreaming about her past and not noticing Mousaffi´s large wound.

-Shhh... I am fine he replied as he looked down at the wound.

Without saying a word, Seruya removed her precious veil and wrapped it around the old man´s right leg.

-Thank you for saving us Mousaffi -she replied wiping her tears.