About the Author | MUZOON ALMELLEHAN is an internationally recognized activist for education, refugees, and the rights of girls and women. She is a UNICEF Goodwill Ambassador, the first with official refugee status. She was named one of Glamour magazine's Women of the Year and one of Teen Vogue's 21 Under 21.Muzoon has spoken in front of the United Nations General Assembly and at the G20 Summit in Germany, among several other distinguished audiences, and presented a TEDxTeen Talk called "The Future of Syria Depends on One Thing." Angela Merkel, Bill Clinton, and Malala Yousafzai are among the supporters of Muzoon and her important work.Muzoon now lives in Newcastle, England, with her family, and is a graduate of Newcastle University.WENDY PEARLMAN is a professor of political science at Northwestern University who has written four books. Wendy’s book We Crossed a Bridge and It Trembled: Voices from Syria is a collection of firsthand testimonials that chronicle the Syrian revolution, war, and refugee crisis exclusively through the stories of people who have lived them. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 “Motorcycle!” my brother yelled. I came to a full stop. I had brought the ball the distance of three houses. The rocks that we used as goal markers were nearly within reach. But when you played soccer in the street, you had to be ready to pause for traffic. I placed my foot on the ball and looked right and left. No motorcycles. “Tricked you!” Mohammed crowed, stealing the ball. He turned toward the rocks at the other end of the street. I ran after him as fast as I could. My cousins Tayyim and Razi picked up speed behind me. Tayyim rushed to defend our goal. Razi positioned himself in case Mohammed decided to pass. I caught up within a breath of Mohammed, but he dodged my kick. I ran harder and reached my foot out long. This time, I heard the plastic of my flip-flop thump the ball. I pushed him out of the way. The ball was now back under my control, and I wasn’t about to lose it again. I went flying toward the rocks of our goal. Al-l-l-lmost there―kick! The ball sailed between the two rocks. “Goal!” I shouted, pumping both fists overhead. “Ughhhh,” Mohammed groaned, his head dropping into his hands. I was twelve and my brother Mohammed exactly one year and eleven days younger than me. We were so close, you’d have thought we were twins. At the same time, we were always jealous of each other. If I got ketchup-flavored potato chips, he demanded ketchup-flavored potato chips. If he drank tea, I wanted to drink tea. And I don’t even like tea! My three cousins closest in age were also boys, which made me the only girl in our pack of five. Soccer was our obsession. We didn’t really know the rules, so we made up our own. Still, we took the game very seriously. Whoever lost could expect to be taunted. Mohammed was usually on a team with Razi, who was only a few months younger than me. I paired up with our other cousin Tayyim. Tayyim’s older brother Mansour sometimes joined us, too. Mansour was the largest and strongest among us. He kicked the ball so hard that it scared me―not that I would admit it. So it was fine with me if he was absent. That meant I was the oldest and the one in charge, which was how I liked it. Mohammed and I got into plenty of arguments. But if either of us got into an argument with one of our cousins, we became a united front. We wouldn’t allow our cousins to come to our house. We’d declare our own fields and groves off limits. They would do the same to us. If one of them set foot on our property, we would demand an explanation. Or we would get back at them by entering their fields, even if we had to sneak there in the middle of the night. One epic fight began after Mohammed and I planted a watermelon seed. Mohammed had a knack with plants, and he carefully tended this one until there was a big watermelon, almost ripe. |