A Horror Story

It was dark, I was warm in my bed when my Father shook me awake and told me to get dressed quickly.
"Where are we going Abba?" I asked.
"Just do as you're told," he said with a voice that I was not used to hearing, and which scared me into silence.  "Put some extra clothes in this, and hurry up, dress warm, it is cold." He threw a duffle bag on the floor and I began to pack quickly.
We didn't have a lot of things in our little apartment, but I had some toys, books and a warm place to sleep.  I could hear Father speaking to my sister and Mother with that same stern voice, there was no laughter in it, my Father used to laugh often, but lately not so much.  I saw my Mother in their room as I passed, she had a duffle bag too, and she was crying.  She looked away from me quickly, but I could see the fear and the tears on her face.  As I came into the front room of the apartment, I could hear men yelling in the street and strange cracking sounds in the distance.  I did not know what gunfire sounded like... yet.
The next few hours seem like a blur of a bad dream, all jumbled together.  We walked and ran, each of us carrying our duffle bags, trying to stay far away from the cracking sounds and the occasional explosions.  We had to turn and change course many times in order to get through the town without running into the fighting.  By the time we made it out of the town, I didn't even know which way home was, and somehow I knew that home was not going to be there for us anymore.
We walked for the rest of the night, many others were with us on the road, some of whom I knew, many were strangers.  My little sister cried a lot, but I did not, I am eleven and I am learning to be a man.  I kept looking at my Father, I wanted nothing more than to see him smile and tell me that things would be okay, but he didn't, I know now that he couldn't.
In the gray light of dawn we found some men with clipboards and a truck, and I heard them tell my Father that the truck would take us to the refugee camp.  I did not know what a refugee was, I certainly did not know it was me.
By the time we saw the camp, we were further from my home than I had ever been in my life.  There were so many white tents, and it looked like a safe place.  We were eventually directed to one of those tents by another man with a clipboard.  The tent had nothing but some cots and blankets and a metal cabinet with a lock.  We were going to learn that things needed to be locked up all the time.  We were going to learn that there was never enough of anything in the camp, not enough food, not enough toilets, not enough shower or water or soap.  My Mother and Father had whispered arguments every day and my sister and I pretended not to hear them.
Father was trying to get in touch with his brother in Turkey, if he could just get in touch with Salaam, they could go and live safely until this trouble passed.  My Mother half sobbed, "this trouble is never going to end."
That thought terrified me.  I went out and found a place to hide behind our tent, and I let myself cry.
That is when my Father found me.  At first I was ashamed because I was crying, but I could tell he was not ashamed of me or for me.  I saw the light in his eyes again, it was not laughter, but it was something other than darkness.  He sat down in the dirt next to me and put his arm around my shoulders.  He didn't say anything, he just sat there with me until the crying was done.  We went back inside.
Eventually we made it out of the camp and got to where my Uncle lived.  We were lucky.  My Uncle Salaam can help us and make sure we were allowed to stay as long as we need.  I don't know what happened to all those people who left with us, my schoolmates, or the people in the camp.  I don't know if I will ever see my town again, but I know I have heard my Father laugh again, and that is all I need for now.