On the last day of Ramadan, in the sugar feasts of Bayram, I was born. All I can remember back then is the gentle touches of my mother, Amal, the fierce gaze of my father, and the sparks of the forge. I was fascinated with fire, its very nature held the same status of Allah to me. I grew up forging - learning the blades, the patterns, the handles, and hilts. From the Syrian scimitar, to the Arab shamshara, and the straight blade of the saif, I was fixated.

"A sword can elevate one's status, or used to," my father would often say. He was a warrior born in the wrong time, with surprising liberal views and a love for peace. My mother would often say that we were fortunate to have appliances, running water, and a place to bathe. We couldn't have that in the olden times, she would muttered. In the outskirts of the Syrian city Damascus, I lived. Under olive branches and fig trees, I practiced the art of beating molten metal. At six I first managed to create the marbled oak pattern, through folding steel 45 times.

"A little prodigy!" My father would shout, twirling me around. He would have me swing that single 8 inch blade with an olive branch handle for hours on end, till there was a pool of sweat the size of the dead sea in the yard and the cloth covering it was ragged. At twelve I folded the steel 75 times, and made a straight Saif 30 inches in length. I swung that too. In an era of machine guns and sniper rifles, swords were terribly outdated. But still I swung, and I became strong. Ropes of muscles squirmed across my back, and by the time Ramadan came around the 15th time I could best my father in a clean fight. Of course, his bones were not in the same shape as the day I was bone. He would reminisce of sturdy bones, not creaking and moaning ones. On my 18th Ramadan I folded the steel 100 times, 10 times more than my father. My hammer would swirl about and come crashing down, creating a curved scimitar 48 inches. That night, fire rained down on my world, and the gnarled olive and fig trees came crashing down, and as did my home.

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My mother died that night.

Frustrated, my father threw away his swords and joined the rebel army against Bashar Al Assad, the one who ordered the strikes. In the middle of the night he touched my lips with his hard calloused hands, and held my face in his chest.

"Fight for peace," He said. "I no longer can."

That night he left me, alone with swords and a hammer. I journeyed north, to Turkey, to go to university. They turned me away at the border, my sandals and garbs travel weary and sun-stained. I talked to the boss of the docks, Hamza, for a boat.

"It's a sturdy boat," He said. "Not like the other smuggler ones, it has a motor, and no leaks."

I took that boat, until the waves reached twenty feet and shook the sides. Five miles off the coast of Greece, the sea took my body, my swords, and my father's words. But instead of a darkness, I found light.

Author's Note: All of the names, dates, and everything else is from research. If anyone knows more about the topic of forging, swords and such, please leave me a review with information. It is much appreciated, Thank you.