My mom had spent the past few days trying to gather enough courage for this phone call. She did not want her sister to suspect any sense of fear in her voice. For this reason, she waited a few days before actually picking up and dialing the phone. Her sentences seemed rehearsed and practiced to perfection, hiding any sense of weakness.
"Don't worry, Randa, he's a man. They will release him soon. You will see him knocking on your door sooner thank you think."
Manar is my only cousin on both sides of my family that is exactly my age, twenty one. Of all of my relatives, he is one of the most soft-spoken and well-mannered. My aunt treats him as her baby, and I remember watching her monitor his every move two summers ago. These are the victims of the Assad regime. These are the supposed terrorists that are being imprisoned and tortured daily. They are their mother's babies. They are innocent and non-aggressive young men and women who always have smiles on their faces. They simply happened to be caught in the wrong place and at the wrong time while standing against this regime.
Every night that goes by, I worry about the thoughts that go through his mind in that unfamiliar cell away from home. Every passing night, I pray to God that He ease my aunt's pain. I pray that he gives her the patience until he returns to her arms again. I pray to be reunited with them all soon, gathered again in my grandma's family room like we always used to be. We will sit around the foldable table and play our favorite card games, "Kent" and "Spoons". My grandma will serve us her freshly-squeezed grape juice in those long glasses I remember so clearly. The cool Syrian wind will blow in through the window, and her lace cream-colored curtains will dance back and forth. Manar will walk in with a bag from the corner store like he always used to, filled with all of our favorite Syrian-brand ice cream cones. We will smile, cherishing the moment we waited so long for. I cannot wait for that day... In a free Syria, iA.
- Iman
