Chapter Nineteen: Hope

The days passed slowly, as if time had stopped or slowed down just to weigh heavily on Aboud. Inside the cell, it felt as if the clock’s hands barely moved, while outside, life continued, events sped up, and fates intertwined. For Aboud, each day inside the prison was a test of his mental and physical endurance. Years of pain and loneliness had passed, and Aboud hadn’t been able to communicate with anyone outside the prison, nor did he know how his mother was living. But hope wasn’t just a faint glimmer in his heart; it was a driving force that began to fill his being once again.

In the corner of his cell, Aboud sat on a worn iron bed, holding a small notebook and a faintly inked pen—this notebook was his most valuable possession. It wasn’t just lined paper; it was an alternate world where Aboud could escape, reshaping the reality of his life in a way that allowed him to retain his dignity and humanity. Each page in that notebook was a mirror of his soul, reflecting his pains, fears, and lost dreams.

Sometimes, he would ask himself: “Will I ever get out of this place? Can I live a normal life after all I’ve been through?” These questions replayed in his mind like a sad song that never ends. But even so, he found himself continuing to write, as if writing was his only lifeline.

Aboud began writing about his childhood in Syria, about the days he spent with his family in a small village embraced by nature. He wrote about those simple days, where the air was fresh, and the smell of flowers and jasmine filled the streets. Syria before the war was a piece of paradise on earth, that’s how he remembered it.

He began writing about his school, about his first friendship with Layla. Layla was always the girl who drew attention with her warm smile and strong personality. Since childhood, Aboud felt that Layla wasn’t just an ordinary girl; she had something special, something that made him return to those memories time and time again, even behind the prison bars.

On other pages, he wrote about the war that destroyed everything. How the terrifying sounds of bombs began to seep into daily life, and how families started leaving one by one. “It was a long nightmare that never ended,” that’s how Aboud wrote about those dark days. With every bomb that fell, a piece of his heart shattered. The war didn’t just take his home or city; it also took his ambitions and dreams.

In those long nights Aboud spent in darkness, writing provided solace, but it also forced him to face his pain in a way he hadn’t dared to before. Every line he wrote was a painful confession about the life he had lived.

He often thought about his last encounter with Abbas.

Aboud and Abbas weren’t just friends; they were brothers in suffering. They had fought through years of struggle together, from dodging guards to enduring hunger and fear. Aboud wrote about the moment when he had to tell Abbas: “Run, leave everything and go.” It wasn’t a moment of bravery but one of desperation, yet he knew Abbas had to live and continue the journey they had both started.

Deep down, Aboud always felt he wouldn’t see Abbas again. That final moment between them haunted him every night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Abbas’s face and heard his voice calling his name.

The days in prison passed slowly.

On cold nights, Aboud would lie down, imagining a new life. He imagined what Germany would be like, how he would start his life anew there. He saw himself walking in clean streets among people who didn’t know his story but whom he knew would respect him because he had fought honorably to reach them.

In his notebook, he wrote about every dream and hope. “When I get to Germany,” Aboud wrote on one of the pages, “I will look for a job, learn German, and build my life from scratch. It won’t be an easy life, but I’m ready for it.”

Sometimes, he wrote about Layla, the girl he had loved deeply in his youth. He wondered if Layla thought about him, if she regretted leaving him. “Do you remember me?” he wrote in his notebook. “Do you think of us? Of all those dreams we used to dream together?”

In those days, Aboud became different. He was no longer the defeated man who had entered prison years ago. He had developed a determination to survive, to stand firm. Every time he stood in front of the broken mirror in his cell, he saw a new person, a stronger person. He knew that the pain he had endured had molded him, made him more resilient. “Pain doesn’t destroy us,” he would tell himself, “pain builds us.”

Every day, Aboud would talk to his fellow prisoners, trying to give them some hope. He talked to them about Germany, about the future that awaited him, about freedom. “Hope is what keeps us alive,” he would tell them. “If we lose hope, we lose everything.”

Aboud started planning for the future. He wrote a list of things he would do when he got out of prison. The list was simple, but it meant a lot to him. “I want to see the sea again,” he wrote one day. “I want to walk on the shore, feel the wind on my face.” On other nights, he wrote about the food he would eat. He dreamed of eating simple dishes like falafel or kebab, things he hadn’t tasted in years. “In Germany, I will live a simple life, but it will be a life filled with joy.”

Sometimes, he would sit alone in his cell and reflect on the meaning of life. “What have I learned from this experience?” he would ask himself. “Have I become a better person? Have I learned something about myself?”

The answer he always reached was: Yes. He had learned a lot about patience, pain, and hope. He realized that life isn’t easy, but it’s worth fighting for. “Life isn’t always fair,” he would tell himself, “but that doesn’t mean we stop trying.”

One day, while he was writing in his notebook, the guard entered his cell. The guard (in a dry tone): “Aboud, you have a visitor.”

Aboud stopped writing, feeling his heart race. He wasn’t expecting a visitor that day. He set the notebook aside and slowly rose from his bed. He walked behind the guard, his steps heavy as he headed toward the visiting room.

When he entered the room, he saw a man sitting at a small table. The man was dressed in a neat suit, with a calm smile on his face. Aboud sat down in front of him, his eyes full of questions.

The lawyer (calmly): “Hello, Aboud. I’m a lawyer from Germany. I’ve come on behalf of an old friend of yours.”

Aboud (in astonishment): “Who?”

The lawyer smiled and said: “Abbas.”