“Wake up, Adam, wake up! You have to go get the bread before the soldiers come!”
I sighed. It was that time again. Every other day, before dawn, Mama wakes me up so I can go get the bread. Every other morning, I put on my last pair of decent shoes and walk to the old bakery, the only one still open in Hama, Syria. I have to be quick, so I can get back home before the soldiers and tanks come back in.

My name is Adam, and I am eight years old. I was in second grade when it started. Mama and uncle tell me the “it” is the Syrian Revolution. I heard them talk about Syrian Revolution when they don’t know that my younger sister, Eman, and me were listening. They said that the revolution was the reason that the tanks and bad guys were in towns in Syria, to stop the good people from wanting what’s right. Those bad guys are the same people who took daddy away six months ago. We haven’t seen him since.

I set out on my usual route to the bakery, a couple blocks away from the apartment we were living in. This isn’t our old home; we moved in with my uncle, grandpa and grandma when daddy was taken away. Mama said it was safer for us.

I must’ve taken too long getting the bread because, on my way home, I saw one of those tanks with the bad guys. Mama told me that if I ever saw a bad guy, I couldn’t say anything bad about Mr. President or mention daddy.

I know that Mr. President is bad; he’s the head of the evil guys! But I guess that’s why it, the Revolution, is happening - because we, Syrians, don’t want Mr. President. Apparently, the bad guys don’t know how evil Mr. President is because, whenever you say something bad about him, they shoot you or take you away, like they did with daddy.

I held onto the warm, freshly baked bread and kept walking.
Two minutes later, I heard gunshots
I’ve never run home faster.
--
I heard someone crying as I walked into my house with the bread. A second later my mother’s arms were around me, and she kept muttering, “you’re safe, you’re safe”.

I hugged her back, but looked at Grandma, confused. “We heard the gunshots,” she explained, “she was afraid you weren’t going to come back home.”
“Oh no, Mama, I’m alright, I’m safe!” I comforted my mother. I wasn’t surprised that she thought that I had been killed, though. Many of my friends were now angels in Heaven.
I miss them, my friends. The ones who weren’t killed left Syria months ago. I have no one to play with anymore, just Eman. And we can only go outside to play when the tanks are gone. The park we used to go to is destroyed; there is not much to do. Sometimes we build castles with the rocks and rubble.

When our holiday, Eid, came, we put ropes on the broken tanks and made swings! It was really fun. Mama even managed to get Eman a new dress. We hadn’t gotten new clothes in ages.

Sometimes, I remember that life wasn’t always like this. I used to be able to go outside anytime I wanted to and I could go to school and learn. I miss learning. Maybe, someday, the schools will be open again. Maybe, someday, Mr. President will let Syria get better so everyone can live and be happy.

Maybe, someday, I’ll see Daddy again.
--
It’s February 2nd, 2013. Thirty-one years after the Hama 1982 massacre, when Mr. President’s dad sent troops into the town to kill people. He killed 60,000 people. My daddy barely survived it when he was sixteen.

Today was the 31st anniversary. And we were scared. Last year, Mr. President sent his troops in Hama and killed people just like his dad did. We don’t know what might happen this year, but Mama hasn’t let me or Eman out of her sight all day.

Later that day, we were all sitting at the dinner table: me, Eman, Mama, Grandpa, Grandma, and Uncle. That’s when we heard a pounding on the door. And yelling. And Mama started crying.

Everything that happened next happened too fast for me to realize what was going on, but will stay engrained in my memory in perfect detail for years to come.

Two soldiers kicked our front door down. My uncle jumped out of his seat and started yelling at the bad guys to leave. Then he started bleeding really fast from his chest.
That’s when I realized a Bad Guy had shot him.
Mama grabbed me and Eman and tried to hide us in a closet. She managed to get me in the closet, but a Bad Guy caught up to us before she could hide Eman. My mom jumped in front of my little sister to protect her. From the crack in the closet door, I saw my mom get hit in the head with the butt of the gun, a droplet of blood trickling down her head.
Eman’s scream was cut off by a gunshot. She looked down to her stomach, then up at the bad guy, then, she fell.
I covered my mouth to muffle my sobs.
The bad guys left, and I bolted out of the closet to my barely conscious sister. I hugged her close as she looked up at me with her big brown eyes.
“Adam…” she muttered breathlessly, “why is Mr. President doing this?”
“Because he is an evil, evil, man. He doesn’t want to give up his power to help the people”, I replied, the tears blurring my vision. “I love you, Eman. So do Mommy and Daddy.”
She smiled. Then, the slow rising and falling of her chest stopped.

I kissed Heaven’s New Angel on her forehead and lowered her eyelids.
--

Grandma and I were the only ones left after that day. I still don’t know were Daddy is. If he’s alive, I’m not really an orphan. If not, I hope he’s in Heaven with Eman and Mama.

This, the Revolution, has been happening for almost two years. I don’t understand why people outside of Syria aren’t doing all they can to help.

I know that I am not the only one with a story like this. I’m not the only eight-year-old boy with a mommy and sister killed by Mr. President and a daddy in jail. I really hate Mr. President. How can one man kill over 70,000 people in twenty-three months?

When will all this end?