The Purple Iris

Aaron Schnoor

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It seemed as if the bombs would never end. Each day they rained down, striking the earth

with their cold, metallic bodies and sending tremors through the entire city. One moment the city

would be quiet, with people lying on their beds or gathered around a table as they ate a meal.

Then, in the next moment, people would be screaming with pain as the windows shattered and

stone walls caved in around them. The lucky ones would be killed instantly. The others would

have to bear the pain of their injuries until death overtook them. The dusty air would be filled

with their shrieking—an inhuman, tortured sound, filled with the despair of a life escaping a

body. And after death overtook the injured, their screams still seemed to echo against the walls

of the crippled city.

For Jana, the bombs were a way of life. She had known of nothing but chaos for the past

four years, and as a thirteen year old she could barely remember a time when the bombs had not

been striking her city. Death was no longer a stranger that was to be feared—it was a neighbor

now, a familiar presence that walked the rubble-strewn streets to determine the house that it

would visit next.

“There is no tricking Death,” Jana’s father had often said. “One can merely hope that Death

will be merciful when it comes.”

Two months had passed since Father had died, but the pain was still fresh on Jana’s heart.

Death had been merciful to him—he had been killed immediately by an explosion when walking

on the street—but that was only a small comfort to the wife and daughter that he had left behind.

Jana blinked back tears as she stared out the window. The city was a place of ghosts now—

few decent people dared to walk the streets, for murderers and thieves crept boldly in every

shadow.

“Jana.” Jana heard her mother’s voice but did not turn.

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“Jana.”

“Yes, Mama?”

“It is time. Gather your things—we must hurry.”

Jana nodded. “I have already packed. I am ready.”

“Good.” The worry was evident in the lines on Mama’s face. “We should go. There are

people who will help us escape. We will go to them.”

The mother and daughter left their home quietly and began walking quickly down the center

of the street. Jana fought the tears, but they came anyway. How could she leave her home—how

could she leave Father? Soon she was sobbing, trying unsuccessfully to smother her grief in the

shawl she wore around her head.

Her mother pulled Jana close. “Shhh, Jana, shhh—do not worry. Allah will protect us.”

Jana wanted to scream and push against her mother’s embrace. Allah? Where was Allah

when her father was killed? Where was Allah when her school was destroyed, with many of her

classmates crushed inside while she had been lucky enough to survive? Where was Allah when

the leader of the country used chemical weapons against his own people? Where was Allah when

terrorists beheaded hundreds of citizens, just because the citizens refused to join a group of

violence? No, Allah would not protect them. There was no such thing as a God. Jana wanted to

shout these things at her mother; she wanted the whole city to hear her feelings.

But one could not dare to say such things.

***

Isaiah walked along the dusty street slowly, taking care to keep the heavy basket upright. He

winced with each step he took; sand had gotten between his sandal strap and heel and was now

scraping into his skin.

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Isaiah groaned and set the basket down, then sat down next to it. He sighed heavily. His

mother had sent him to the market to pick up fruit and vegetables for dinner and would be

expecting him back soon. And that was not the only reason he had to hurry. The Muslim school

got out later than his school, and soon the boys would be—

A shadow fell across Isaiah’s feet. He looked up into the sunlight, momentarily blinded by

its brightness and unable to make out the figure that stood in front of him.

“Hey,” Isaiah began, “what—“

He fell backward as a hand jabbed into his chest. The person—a boy the same age as Isaiah

—laughed loudly.

“Look,” he roared, “the Jew went shopping for his mommy.”

Isaiah sat up quickly, his face hot and sweaty. “Not a Jew—a Christian. Go away, Ahmed.”

Ahmed ignored him. “Come on, guys! Come look at the Jew crawling in the sand!”

Isaiah pushed against Ahmed and rose to his feet. He saw the other boys circle around him,

but he didn’t care about that.

“I’m not a Jew,” he growled, “I’m a Christian. Now why can’t you leave me alone?”

“‘Now why can’t you leave me alone,’” The Muslim boy mimicked. “Perhaps we’ll leave

you alone for a small price. You give us half of what’s in the basket, and you can go.”

“What? That’s not fair—that’s robbery!”

Ahmed snorted. “So?”

“So…well, you can’t steal!” Isaiah was spluttering now, trying desperately to break out of

the circle of boys. He knew that they wouldn’t stop at taking the food; they really wanted to hurt

him, wanted to see him cry out with pain.

The Muslim boy grabbed the handle of the basket. “Too bad. This is mine now.”

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“No!”

Isaiah wrenched the basket from the boy’s grip, then swung it around to hit the boys who

crowded around him. The boys toppled onto the sand, crying out with surprise and anger.

“Grab him!” Ahmed yelled.

Frantic, Isaiah tried to brush off the hands that clutched at his clothes. Someone was

punching him in the face, blurring his vision as they pelted his face with blows. A surge of anger

swelled in Isaiah—he wanted to fight back, but he knew what the consequences of that would be.

Any policeman or adult who tried to break up the fight would automatically favor the Muslim

boys and look down upon Isaiah. That was just the way it was in Jordan, and Christians had to

recognize that or pay the price.

Dizzy, Isaiah hunched down and covered his face with his hands.

“Go away,” he moaned. “Please! Go away!”

Ahmed stepped back, grabbed the basket, and turned to the rest of the boys. “Okay, he’s had

enough. Come on, let’s go!”

The sound of the boys’ footsteps faded in the busy street. Isaiah sat up slowly, feeling the

stiffness in his bones. The basket was gone, and with it were the fruit and vegetables for his

family’s meal. Isaiah wanted to cry, but such an action was not acceptable for a thirteen-year-old

boy. Sniffling, he stood up and began to make his way to his home.

Isaiah’s mother was standing in the kitchen as he walked through the doorway.

“Did you get everything…” she turned and paused, seeing the bruising on his face. “Oh

dear. Was it those boys again?”

Isaiah sat down at the table heavily. “Yes.”

His mother sighed. “Oh, son.”

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“Why?” Isaiah cried, “Why do they hate me so much? I’ve never done anything to them!”

Isaiah’s father walked into the kitchen, hearing the conversation from the living room. He

was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a dark beard and heavily tanned face.

“It is because we are Christians,” he said, answering his son’s question. “It is because we are

different.”

Isaiah wiped away the tears from his eyes. “But it’s not fair! I can’t do anything to them, and

yet they can bully me as much as they want!”

“My son,” Isaiah’s father said softly, “we are not called to fight back. We are called to turn

the other cheek. You must forgive the boys who bully you, for they do not know that they sin.”

Isaiah nodded, fighting back his anger. He knew that forgiveness was the right thing to do,

but how could he be willing to forgive? There was no forgiveness in his heart, and he doubted

that there ever would be. Not for those bullies. Not ever.

***

“Hmmm,” Isaiah’s father said two days later, as the family was gathered around the living

room, “one thousand more Syrians are coming into our land.”

He set down the newspaper, folded it across his lap, and removed his glasses. “Can’t say I’m

happy about that. Can’t say I’m surprised, either.”

“Why are they coming to Jordan, father?” Isaiah asked, looking up from the book in his lap.

“Why can’t they just stay in Syria?”

“They know that they will be safe here, my son. For many years, they have had to live under

the rule of men who claim to want peace. But the men do not want peace; they want power, and

what better way to gain support and power than to suppress the people of the land? There will

never be any peace in Syria—not as long as the country is ruled by men who do not seek God.”

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“I saw some Syrian refugees in the market yesterday,” Isaiah’s mother said. “Those poor

people look like they haven’t eaten anything decent in years.”

“Speaking of eating,” Isaiah’s father said, “we need to get food for supper tonight. Isaiah—

will you go to the market for your mother?”

“But…” Isaiah began. “The boys—“

“Do not worry about the boys, my son. Show them that you are not afraid, and they will

leave you alone.”

Isaiah doubted that this was true. But a few minutes later he found himself standing outside,

a woven basket in his arms. He sighed heavily, beginning the short walk to the market.

“Father means well,” he muttered to himself, “but he doesn’t understand! Why would the

boys stop bullying me?”

Isaiah stopped, groaning to himself. Ahmed was lounging in the shadows of one of the

alleys next to the street. A few other shadows marked the outlines of his companions.

Isaiah continued walking, hoping that the boys would not see him. As he passed by he could

hear their footsteps echo his; he stopped, knowing that there was nothing to do except to turn and

face the bullies.

Ahmed scowled at him darkly. “I thought you would have learned your lesson by now, pig.”

Isaiah held up the empty basket innocently. “I don’t have anything for you to steal, Ahmed.”

Ahmed’s foot shot out and connected with the basket, sending it rolling down the dusty

street. “There? What do you think about that?”

“I’m not afraid of you, Ahmed.”

“Come on—let’s get him,” the Muslim boy snarled at his companions.

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A flurry of blows pelted Isaiah’s body; he turned, saw he was trapped, and hunkered down

onto the sand. Someone—Ahmed, he thought—was kicking him in the side, knocking the air out

of Isaiah’s lungs with each painful jab.

“Say you’re afraid, swine!” Ahmed demanded.

Isaiah struggled to breathe, fighting against the choking, burning sensation that swept

through his body. Dust filled his eyes and mouth, and he gagged against its gritty, bitter flavor.

“I forgive you, Ahmed,” he managed to say.

Ahmed paused. “Forgive? You are a fool.”

“Someone’s coming,” another boy said. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”

The boys ran back into the alley, leaving Isaiah hunched over on the ground. Isaiah sat up

slowly, blinking as he saw his rescuer.

He had expected an older man or woman to come to his aid. The person who stood in front

of him was not an adult but was a girl about the same age as himself. She was wearing a red scarf

over her head, the frayed ends tucked underneath her chin. Her brown eyes were large and

vibrant in her small, timid face.

“Here,” she murmured softly, extending a hand, “let me help you.”

“Th—thanks,” Isaiah stammered.

He stood up, brushing the dust off his clothes as he cast sideways glances at the girl. There

was something different about her—something different than anybody else who lived in Jordan.

“You’re not from around here,” he said, almost accusingly. “I mean, well—you’re

different.”

The girl handed Isaiah his basket. “I’m from Syria.”

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“Syria?” Isaiah’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Wow, I’ve never met anyone from Syria

before.”

The girl nodded. “I do not think I have ever met a Jew before.”

“Jew? Oh, I’m not Jewish—I’m Christian.”

“Christian?”

“Yes…” Isaiah began uneasily. Religion was always a difficult topic for him to discuss with

other people; although Jordan was a Muslim country that tolerated Jews and Christians, most

Muslims found it surprising that any “infidel” would not live in Israel. Jews and Christians were

not mistreated in Jordan, but they were not well-liked either.

“I’m Jana,” the girl said.

“I’m Isaiah.”

The girl was silent for a moment, then her brown eyes flashed with anger. “Why were those

boys beating you up?”

Isaiah frowned. “Well, I suppose it’s because I’m different.”

“But why don’t you fight them back?”

“Well,” Isaiah began, “my father says that it’s better to love your neighbors than to try to

hurt them. Instead of fighting back, we’re supposed to turn the other cheek.”

Jana blinked at him slowly. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Isaiah shrugged. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. But that’s what I’m supposed to do. My father

says that if everybody acted that way, all wars would end.”

Jana was silent, thinking about her home city and the turmoil in her country. “Perhaps. Your

father sounds like a very wise man. Is he a rabbi?”

“No. He just knows a lot of things. What does your father do?”

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Jana’s bright expression instantly clouded, and she seemed to withdraw back into herself.

“My father is dead.”

“Oh.”

Isaiah could think of nothing else to say. He stood there awkwardly, rubbing the handle of

the basket in his palms.

Jana seemed to forget that he was there. Then, suddenly, she gave a little shrug and looked

at him.

“Do you want to go to the market together? We have only been here a little while, and I am

not yet sure where to buy food.”

Isaiah nodded, unsure of what had brought on this unexpected change in the girl’s attitude.

Without saying another word, the two began to walk side by side to the marketplace.

All great friendships must have a beginning, and no friendship blossomed as quickly as the

one between Jana and Isaiah. Most days they would meet up in the market, walking together as

they bought their wares. And sometimes, as the orange sun began its descent and the stifling

earth started to cool, Isaiah and Jana would walk to the top of the hill outside the city. There,

they could see the entire city behind them, and they could look ahead and see the desolate valleys

on the other side of the hill. Purple Iris, the national flower of Jordan, dotted the landscape where

streams trickled out of crevices. To the east lay Israel, and beyond that the Mediterranean, from

which a scent of salt carried and lingered despite the great distance.

“It’s beautiful,” Jana whispered, seeing the vast emptiness of the rocky valley.

“Yes, it is.” Isaiah agreed.

The two sat on a craggy boulder, their backs to the city. They looked down at the purple

flowers, seeing them sway against the tide of the evening breeze.

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“You know,” Isaiah began, “looking at the flowers always makes me forget all the bad

things that happen. Everything seems much more peaceful up here—it’s hard to imagine that

wars exist.”

Jana nodded silently.

“Are you happy to be out of Syria?” Isaiah asked curiously.

Jana stared at the valley for a long time before answering. “Syria will always be my home. It

is where I was born, and it is where I will die. Jordan is not my home.”

“But here you are safe!”

“Safe?” Jana said sharply. “You think I feel safe here? Isaiah, do you know how much

people hate the refugees? We are lower than dogs to other Muslims, even lower than Jews or…”

“Christians,” Isaiah spoke the word for her.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

Isaiah shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“Isaiah, why do Muslims hate each other? Why do Muslims hate Christians? Why can’t

people get along?”

“I don’t know. People just aren’t willing to forgive each other, I guess.”

“But you are different, Isaiah. You forgave those boys who bullied you, right?”

“Well…” Isaiah muttered. “I guess I did.”

Jana looked at Isaiah with her round, serious eyes. “Perhaps Muslims and Christians can be

friends one day, Isaiah.”

“Perhaps.”

The two drifted into silence, staring at the purple flowers for a long time, until the sky grew

dim and the stars began to shimmer above.

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***

“My son,” Isaiah’s father said one night, as the family gathered around the dinner table, “I

was talking with Rabbi Arron outside the temple today. He said that he has seen you with a

Syrian girl—a refugee.”

Isaiah nodded. “I met her in the market a few weeks ago. Her name is Jana.”

The father looked at his son closely. “Yet you know that she is a Muslim?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“My son, you cannot give anyone the wrong idea. It is foolish—no, dangerous, even—to

spend time with someone of that religion. If rumors begin, it will only cause great trouble.”

Isaiah stiffened in his chair. “We are only friends, Papa. Nothing more.”

“Yes, I understand. But she is a Muslim, and you are a Christian. Christian boys must not

talk to Muslim girls, even if you are just friends.”

“But Papa—”

“That is enough.” Isaiah’s father’s voice was soft, yet stern.

Isaiah turned pleading eyes to his mother. “Mama, make him understand. We are only

friends—why does our religion have to matter?”

“Your father is right, Isaiah. It is too dangerous.”

Isaiah frowned angrily. “But why? Papa, you always tell me that I must love my neighbors. I

must be kind to them, I must not fight back when they fight me. But how can I do any of this if I

cannot even talk to them? It’s not as if Jana is trying to make me a Muslim—we hardly talk

about Allah or God at all! I don’t see why—”

“Enough!” Isaiah’s father roared. “I will not tolerate such disobedience. I have spoken, and

it is final.”

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“Fine,” Isaiah said, pushing his chair away from the table, “but you are wrong.”

He stomped out of the room and to the front door, ignoring his father’s demand that he

return to the table. He slammed the front door behind him and walked into the evening heat of

the street, feeling the warmth of the sun in the sand underneath his feet.

Isaiah began to walk aimlessly, not caring where his steps led him. Why was Papa so

stubborn? Why couldn’t he understand?

“Isaiah!” a voice called from behind.

Isaiah didn’t turn, ignoring Jana as she ran up to catch him.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, breathing heavily. “Why wouldn’t you stop?”

“My father says I’m not allowed to talk to you,” Isaiah said.

Jana paused for a step, then continued walking. “Very well. Then we can walk together and

not speak.”

Isaiah stopped, suddenly angry. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you see? I’m not supposed

to even be seen with you! Why can’t you leave me alone!”

Jana’s eyes widened in surprise. “But…I thought we were friends.”

“Who gave you that idea?” Isaiah scowled. “Go away.”

He saw the hurt look in her eyes, saw how she turned, crying, to run away. Suddenly he felt

remorse for what he had done. It wasn’t her fault, was it?

“Wait, Jana,” he called, “I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry, Jana, I didn’t mean it!”

But she was already gone, just another small figure lost in the bustling crowd of the street.

***

“My son, wake up.”

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Isaiah felt the hand upon his shoulder—he opened his eyes, struggling to shake off the

drowsiness of sleep. The room was dark, too dark for it to be morning. Something was not right;

something bad was happening.

“What is it, father?”

“A fire. We must hurry to help.”

“Fire? Where?”

“Come—there is no time for questions.”

Isaiah stumbled out of bed, pulled on his clothes, and ran with his father outside the house.

“I don’t see any fire, Papa,” Isaiah protested.

“It is at the Syrian refugee camp.”

The words jolted Isaiah fully awake. “What? The camp?”

Isaiah and his father began to run, joining other men that were making their way to the

camp. The thick, acrid smell of smoke began to fill the air, and soon Isaiah could see the orange

flames that licked the black sky.

“That’s where Jana lives!” Isaiah cried out. “We’ve got to help her!”

His cry was lost in the shouts and screams of hundreds of others, and if Isaiah’s father heard

his son’s plea then he gave no sign of it. Isaiah tried to look through the crowds of people to find

Jana, but there was no sign of her. People were milling about, recognizing the futility in trying to

stop the flames.

“Most of the refugee tents are gone,” Isaiah heard one man say.

Another man nodded. “A few were caught in the fire and didn’t make it out—mostly

children.”

Isaiah felt the tears come to his eyes. What if something had happened?

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He darted away from his father, running to the few remaining tents that were not yet burned

by the fire.

“Jana!” he screamed. “Jana!”

Flames scorched the earth around him; he was aware of the overpowering heat, aware that

he was getting dizzy, aware that he was choking on the thick, black smoke. Isaiah fell to the

ground, the crackling roar of the flames echoing in his ears.

Somebody had an arm around his chest—someone scooped him off the ground, drawing him

away from the fire.

“It is okay, my son,” Isaiah’s father said. “Jana is safe.”

Isaiah looked at his father, then saw that Jana was standing close behind.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” he murmured.

“Don’t be, my son.”

Isaiah closed his eyes, shutting off the scene around him, but not before he saw the tears in

his father’s eyes.

***

Three days later, Isaiah and Jana sat at the top of the hill, looking down at the valley below.

“Well,” Isaiah said, “I suppose this is it.”

“Thank you, Isaiah.”

“For what?”

“For being my friend. You know, Isaiah, after my father died I wasn’t sure that I could bring

myself to forgive my enemies. But I think I can now.”

“Do you really have to go, Jana?”

She nodded. “Jordan is not my home. We will continue traveling until we can have peace.”

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She turned to go.

“Wait, Jana!” he called.

He hurried over to a nearby stream, bent down quickly, pulled something from the ground,

then ran over to Jana.

“Here,” he said, handing her the purple flower. “This is for you.”

She murmured her thanks, and the two were silent.

And then she was gone, making her way back to the city, her red shawl bright against the

dusty rocks. Isaiah watched her go, straining until he could see her no more.

He did not hear of her after that. As he grew older, his memory of her faded more and more,

until it seemed to be a dream that had only been of his own making. But sometimes, when the

evening sun began to descend beyond the horizon, he would go to the top of the hill and look

over the valley. And there he would stare at the purple flowers, letting the tears trickle down his

cheeks as he remembered the brown-eyed girl with the red shawl.

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