Grey Skies by Stella Pierides

Ever since the militia thrust a Kalashnikov into Gamal’s hands, he stays indoors. “Use it,” the men had shouted at him. After their car sped away, Gamal fell on his knees wanting to cry and pray at the same time. At seventeen, he is no stranger to guns. His old father keeps three well-oiled specimens under the carpet-covered divan. These Persian carpets with boteh paisley motifs, hide three weapons against the enemies of the state. “May God forgive you, Father,” Gamal repeats to himself. But he himself cannot forgive his father. “He knows our leader personally,” mother explains to him, as if she feared he’d forget. “It is tribal loyalty.” That’s no excuse for supporting a killer, he says to himself. Deep down Gamal knows it is not out of loyalty his father supports the regime. It is out of fear. Now Gamal is expected to fight on the same side. The thought of the dictator makes him sweat. So he stays indoors and watches the sky from the inner courtyard: normally a beautiful square of blue, fringed with overhanging cherry blossom, it now tells him the news of the city. The last few days, the sky has turned grey. Black billowing clouds carry an oily smell to Gamal. Ash snows on jasmine, geranium, and on his mother’s beloved cacti. He is hiding ‘his’ gun under his mattress. He dreads his friends coming for his father. He knows he’ll have to act, then; he’ll have to choose sides.

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