The Boy from Aleppo Who Painted the War

THE BOY FROM ALEPPO
WHO PAINTED THE WAR

NOW A BBC RADIO 4 DRAMATISATION

PRAISE FOR
THE BOY FROM ALEPPO WHO PAINTED THE WAR

‘Written with an insider's knowledge of the land and its people.'
Kate Saunders
,
The Times

‘[A] powerful debut novel.'
John Everington
,
The National

‘A perversely beautiful and viscerally disturbing read, powerfully written. In a brilliantly executed and convincing narrative, from the first line, we are propelled right inside the boy's head. The giddying fulcrum of autism in the context of a non-autistic (insane and violent) world works perfectly and the terrifying disintegration of normal life, the family and civilisation makes one feel as though one is on a descent to Hell. Once picked up, this book is impossible to put down. At the end, you will be shattered, your view of the world changed forever.'
Suhayl Saadi
, award-winning author of
Psychoraag
and
Joseph's Box

‘I'm still reeling from the emotional rollercoaster it takes you on. It's a clever writer who can draw that scale of emotion in one book. A stunning book, which bravely covers a horrific topic but does so in a way which reminds us that through every traumatic time, you can still find love, affection and humour.'
Jess McGlynn
,
Catch A Single Thought

First published in 2013
paperback edition 2014
by Eyewear Publishing Ltd
Suite 38, 19-21 Crawford Street
London,
W1H 1PJ
United Kingdom

Cover design
Stuart Poulson
Typeset with graphic design by
Edwin Smet

Printed in England by
TJ International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall

All rights reserved

© 2013-2014 Sumia Sukkar

Afterword © 2014 Laura Guthrie

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, companies, events or places is entirely coincidental.

Set in Bembo 12 / 14,5 pt

Print ISBN 978-1-908998-46-0
eBook ISBN 978-1-783015-92-4

WWW.EYEWEARPUBLISHING.COM

A NOVEL OF SYRIA

by Sumia Sukkar

with an Afterword by

Laura Guthrie

For my precious family,
with love.

Sumia Sukkar
is a British writer
of Syrian and Algerian ancestry,
brought up in London.
This is her debut novel.

My blood has travellers in it: a Damascene moon, nightingales, domes and grains. From Damascus Jasmine begin to send whiteness across the air so fragrance itself is perfumed by their scent.

—
from
Nizar Qabbani's ‘A Damascene Moon' Translated by Sumia Sukkar & Todd Swift

Adam — The boy from Aleppo who painted the war

Ali — Adam's neighbour/ friend

Amira — Adam's cousin

Aunt Suha — Adam's aunt

Baba — Adam's father

Isa — Adam's brother

Khalid — Adam's brother

Khanjar — Famous mercenary

Liquorice — Adam's cat

Maha — Mama - Adam's mother

Miss Basma — Adam's teacher

Nabil — Adam's friend

Tariq — Adam's brother

Uncle Shady — Adam's uncle

Walid — Khalid's friend

Wisam — Yasmine's lover

Yasmine — Adam's sister

Chapter One: ORANGE

Chapter Two: VIOLET

Chapter Three: NAVY

Chapter Four: BURGUNDY

Chapter Five: WHITE

Chapter Six: BLUE

Chapter Seven: YELLOW

Chapter Eight: RED

Chapter Nine: MAROON

Chapter Ten: BLACK

Chapter Eleven: INDIGO YASMINE

Chapter Twelve: BROWN

Chapter Thirteen: LIME

Chapter Fourteen: GREEN

Chapter Fifteen: GREY

Chapter Sixteen: BYZANTINE YASMINE

Chapter Seventeen: RUBY

Chapter Eighteen: LAVENDER

Chapter Nineteen: MAGENTA

Chapter Twenty: CHESTNUT

Chapter Twenty-One: CARMINE

Chapter Twenty-Two: CLOUDY WHITE

Chapter Twenty-Three: ROSE

Chapter Twenty-Four: APRICOT YASMINE

Afterword by Laura Guthrie

Acknowledgments

Notes On Arabic Words

‘I
CAN
'
T DRAW
! There's too much noise outside!' I shout to Yasmine.

‘Adam, calm down and just continue Habibi!'

‘Yasmine, tell the kids to yes, yes, yes, stop making noise! They listen to you.'

Yasmine lowers her head. She does that when things are difficult to explain. I don't like it.

‘Adam Habibi, you're old enough to understand this is the beginning of a war.'

Mama never used to shout at me. It's at times like these that I miss her the most. Yasmine's fingers ruffle through her hair, her fingers look frail, just like the number one. I feel sorry for the number one, it seems lonely. So I think I feel sorry for Yasmine too. Yasmine lifts her head up now. That means she is not upset. Her eyes look like the number eight, friendly and sad.

‘Yes I'm 14, does that make you happy Yasmine? What do you mean a war? Do you mean like in Dighton's paintings? But I can't see that from the window. Look here Yasmine, kids are just running around. No one is wearing uniforms.'

Yasmine closes her eyes. She looks green. She is usually ruby. That's my favourite colour. I use it in most of my paintings. I remember when mama used to say I should never stop painting. She promised she would keep my paintings with her. But now they have to stay with me.

‘It's okay Yasmine, I'll just paint with the noise.'

Yasmine blows me a kiss. We do this to show our love. Before she died, mama told her that she should blow me a kiss every time she is proud or happy with me. Mama used to do that to me because she understood I don't like people touching me.

‘Yasmine, do you like my painting?'

‘It's lovely Adam, but why not try painting something new for a change?'

Yasmine always says this. She thinks I paint the same picture. I don't. No two pictures are ever the same. It's hard to explain that to her. She starts walking away, so I don't need to explain anything. The colours are always different. I sometimes use pastel colours and at other times harsh bright colours. All the paintings have different feelings behind them. I wish Yasmine would understand this like mama used to. I feel content now so I use a lot of turquoise. I continue painting until it is time for Baba to come back home.

Baba comes back home every day at 4:48 p.m. He doesn't even need to ring the bell any more. He knows I'll be waiting to open the door for him at that exact minute. It has been like this for three years, ever since mama died. He looks more tired every passing day. The bags under his eyes are clearer now. I blow a kiss onto them every night hoping they will go away. I don't like seeing him tired. Yasmine has the hot water ready for Baba to soak his feet as soon as I open the door. He is never a minute late and is always holding a bag full of papers to mark. When he is not too tired he even stamps them with colourful words like ‘well done' and ‘excellent'. I like to help him when he uses the stamps. They're fun to play with. Baba sometimes complains about me playing with the elastic band around my wrist. He says the sound annoys him, but I can't let go of it. It has to always be on my wrist. It helps me think.

Yasmine has made stuffed vegetables. It is the 26th of January and mama isn't looking down on us today. I love stuffed vegetables: they are like a bowl of emotions because they are very colourful. I sometimes imagine the peppers arguing with each other because they all feel differently. ‘I feel melancholy in this bowl of food,' the red pepper would say. ‘Oh red pepper, how can you feel that way? You should be so angry that we are going to be eaten,' the aubergine would frown. My imagination sometimes takes hold of me and I get louder.

Yasmine always brings me back, reminding me that we shouldn't be too loud because Baba is tired. When Yasmine cooks six peppers, I know that mama is watching over us, because mama always made six stuffed peppers. Today there are five on the plate. This makes me sad, but it's okay, mama is probably resting. I sometimes wonder if mama eats stuffed vegetables and baklawa in heaven. I know they have a lot of yummy food up there but this is her favourite dish. Yasmine sometimes sighs and smiles a weak smile when I tell her about how I know when mama is watching over us. I can't explain why some things are true. But I am sure this is true. I don't lie.

Mama died when I was 11. I miss her. She always told me I should be good and go to university to show people my paintings. I can't wait to go to university. My classmates say I belong to the special needs class and not university. They are stupid and wrong, says Yasmine. I don't like meeting new people, so I won't speak to anyone in class at university. So many people like to create small talk. I don't see the need for it. It's silly and a waste of time. I don't know why people don't realise this.

Khalid, Tariq and Isa come in and join the table. They are all the same age and at university. They are triplets. Even though they look alike they all have different colours. Khalid is orange, Tariq is teal and Isa is green. That's how I tell them apart. Orange brother always smiles and looks cheerful, he is the one who makes all the jokes in the house. Teal brother always gets me chocolate and comes home the latest. Green Isa is the quietest. He doesn't study architecture like the other two, he studies Arabic literature instead. Hardly anyone notices his presence, but it's hard for me to overlook his aura.

‘Yasmine, can I get up from the table please?'

‘You didn't even finish your food Adam.'

Everyone is sharing from a plate in the middle of the table but I always need a plate of my own. I don't like my food touching anybody else's. So Yasmine can tell I hardly ate. I don't get up from the table but keep fidgeting and start banging my feet on the ground. Yasmine ignores me. I don't like it when she does that but if I say anything she'll make me eat and I don't want to. I wait until everyone else excuses themselves from the table. Yasmine is upset I think. Her face looks long. When her face is round she is happy. I have a long face when I think of mama. My heart feels bloody and black, I can't smile at anything. I try not to think of mama much because I don't like the feeling. I don't know why I feel that way when I think of her but I am too scared to ask too many questions about it. I just try to forget. Now that I am trying to forget about thinking of mama I can't stop. I hate it when this happens.