by Eva Nour
Malik asked Sami if he could join but Sami had to draw the line somewhere.
‘Don’t even think about it. You’ll stay here.’
The attack was launched before dawn. It was the hour between night and day, the hour during which Sami often woke up with his heart in his mouth, unable to go back to sleep. Now he was wide awake and hard on the heels of the winding line of rebel soldiers. Nearly two hundred young men were going in and a similar number were waiting as backup above ground. Muhammed and another soldier lifted the heavy manhole cover. A black hole opened up, darker than the night around them. The soldiers climbed down first; Anwar and Sami followed.
Sami was grateful he had nothing but his video camera to carry. The smooth iron railings soon grew slippery and slick with mud and the tunnel went on and on.
‘Halfway now,’ Anwar whispered, almost out of breath.
If it hadn’t been for the last months’ lack of food, Anwar would have had difficulty getting through the tunnel. He still had some trouble, however, due to his extra luggage: a Kalashnikov on his back and two hand grenades in his pockets, in addition to the camera. Anwar was a media activist but his attitude to guns differed from Sami’s. Neither one of them had a helmet or bulletproof vest.
They had to lower themselves down the last few yards. Jumping would have made too much noise, risking their covert operation. Sami landed in water. The damp climbed up his jeans and the cold spread through his body but he had no time to focus on it because the FSA soldiers were already continuing down the tunnel. One group had turned left, while most seemed to be turning right. Anwar nodded to the left and he followed.
They had a flashlight but wanted to preserve the batteries so they only turned it on when they had to. The first time Anwar lit up the tunnel, Sami saw the backs of the soldiers in front of him. The second time, he squatted down to tie his laces. The third time they turned the light on, the soldiers were gone. The flashlight flickered across the walls without revealing a single clue.
Sami and Anwar waded on, their backs tense from crouching, then the tunnel split, the ceiling rose and they could straighten up. Anwar sighed with relief. A faint light was trickling in from somewhere.
‘Where did they go?’ Sami said. ‘Should we stop and …’
He was interrupted by the rat-tat-tat of a few rapid rifle rounds that hit the tunnel wall right next to them. Anwar backed into Sami, who tripped in the water but managed to regain his footing. More bullets whistled past, closer this time. Anwar was breathing heavily in his ear.
‘Are you hit?’
‘Shh!’
A new volley of shots, a few inches from their bodies. They pressed in closer to each other. Sami groped at the damp walls to find a way further into the tunnel when he realized – there was no way in. They hadn’t backed into an adjoining tunnel but an alcove in the same one. They were in a dead end.
‘Come on out, rats! We know you’re in there.’
Judging from their voices, it was two or three regime soldiers in an access shaft about fifty feet down the tunnel. Sami and Anwar didn’t dare use the flashlight so it was impossible to pinpoint their location. The two of them barely fitted in the alcove but there was just enough room for them to hide.
‘Do you have your rifle?’ Sami whispered.
Anwar nodded, sweating under his bandana.
‘But there are only four bullets in it …’
Just then new rounds were fired from the opposite direction. It seemed there was an access shaft there too, about 150 feet away. After a while, Sami could make out another two voices. They were under attack from both directions and had nowhere to go. Anwar pulled a chain from under his shirt and kissed a ring.
‘You’re engaged. I didn’t know,’ Sami breathed.
‘Was,’ Anwar replied. ‘She lived in Karm al-Zeitoun.’
Sami pictured Sarah’s face in the dark. What was he doing here? Why hadn’t he listened and left while he still could? The tunnel was dark, silent and damp; the only sound was from the soldiers climbing up and down. The soldiers seemed nervous about what was happening above ground, and at the same time scared of going into the tunnel. Their fear was Sami and Anwar’s only hope.
Should they lean out and take aim? But in which direction, and what chance would they have of hitting anyone? Even if they managed to catch a glimpse of a soldier in one of the passages, they would also be abandoning their cover. The same was true of the two hand grenades; the chance of hitting anyone was minimal and the person throwing it would be exposed, if only for a second. No, they were going to hold on to the grenades as a final resort if the soldiers stepped out of the access shaft and into the tunnel.
Sami messaged Muhammed, trying to describe where they were. At the same time, they were straining to listen to the above-ground battle, if it was coming closer or moving away from them. If the rebels were advancing, that could be bad, too, since the regime soldiers would have nowhere to go but down the tunnels, towards Sami and Anwar. That would be the end.
Anwar turned on the video camera. It was recording when they heard one of the regime soldiers shout, ‘So it’s freedom you want? I’ll show you freedom!’
A sharp white light lit up the tunnel. Sami was thrown into the wall as though he had received a blow to the head. Grenade shrapnel landed a few metres from them but not a fragment reached their hideout. Sami’s ears rang and howled, his face was cold and wet. There was mud in his mouth but the only thing he could think about was where he had put his phone. He looked around and trod the water, until he realized he was still clutching the phone tightly in his hand.
Further down the tunnel, another grenade exploded. His head pounded, there was a rushing in his ears. He felt exhausted, as though he wanted to lie down and sleep. Anwar’s lips moved but he couldn’t understand him. He looked distractedly at his arms and hands as though it was the first time he had seen arms and hands. Anwar grabbed him and pointed at the water and he understood what was going on. The water was up to his knees. It was rising slowly but steadily. When the regime soldiers had realized how the rebels were getting in, they must have turned on the water to force them out of the tunnel.
Sami was sweating and shaking and trying hard not to vomit. The only reason the regime soldiers were not climbing down into the tunnel had to be that they were afraid to get caught in a trap. Time passed differently in the alcove, where a second was an hour and an hour was a lifetime.
His phone lit up. Muhammed.
Soon in position. Pick u up when mission completed.
They had probably reached the regime stronghold. The rebels’ tactic was to return to the same tunnel entrance they had set out from, which meant Sami and Anwar had to wait. His phone lit up again.
Hold on.
Like they had a choice. The regime soldiers climbed up and down in the two access shafts but they never stepped into the tunnel proper. They fired at the alcove from time to time and threw four hand grenades, all of which missed them.
Above ground, the battle was drawing closer. Sami, deafened by the explosions, could none the less hear the sound of gunfire. But when he saw Anwar’s lips moving, it was as though the sounds were echoing up from the bottom of the ocean.
It was some time in the middle of the day that the guns fell silent and Muhammed wrote to say it was safe for them to climb up. Trembling, Sami waded down the tunnel behind Anwar to the access shaft from which the regime soldiers had been shooting at them for hours. He heaved himself up and started the long climb back into the sunshine.
The light hurt his eyes when he stepped out in a daze on to the battlefield. A white haze of smoke and dust surrounded him. He took a step and caught his foot on something, a bloody corpse in his path. A squatting rebel soldier was taking aim in the fog and signalling for him to get out of there. But Sami stayed where he was, frozen. He took out the camera and polished the lens and looked at the buttons, unable to remember how it worked. What was he holding? From the smoky mist, he saw Muhammed come runnin
g towards him; he grabbed Sami and Anwar by the arms and pulled them to safety.
As evening fell, the fighting died down. A grey dusk swept in between the buildings and for a moment Sami was unsure if it had all really happened. But when the bodies were lined up, it became impossible to deny. Around fifty regime soldiers had been killed, fifteen or so rebels. And thirty of the regime’s men had been taken prisoner.
It took several days for Sami’s hearing to return, and a monotonous beeping lingered. He started writing to Sarah, apologizing for staying, for not leaving with her. But when he was about to hit Send, he changed his mind and deleted the message. It made no difference now.
The action led to a gruesome aftermath that tarnished the Free Syrian Army in his eyes, even though far from all the rebels were involved. The rebels’ military council had been sceptical about the al-Qarabis mission from the start. It was considered too dangerous. Afterwards, the rebels edited together a propaganda film with religious overtones that the military council considered inappropriate, and banned. But someone shared it on social media anyway, which exacerbated the internal conflicts.
Before the siege, prisoners taken by the rebels had always been detained and then set free in due course. This time it was impossible. They would be a danger to the civilians in the besieged area. It was decided that some of the prisoners would help build a barricade by the red line. Coincidentally, those prisoners managed to escape back to the regime-controlled neighbourhoods, and coincidentally, they all happened to be Alawites, while the remaining twelve prisoners were Sunnis and Christians.
The civilian population was in uproar. Rumours spread in the besieged area that someone on the rebel side had negotiated the release of the Alawite prisoners – that the rebels had colluded with the regime.
One of the Free Syrian Army’s battalions in Homs proposed doing something drastic to calm the angry populace: the execution of the remaining twelve prisoners. A clear signal to the regime, which would also serve to regain the trust of the civilians in the area.
The proposal was unanimously rejected by the rebels’ military council. But after days of negotiations, opinions shifted. One night in late September, even though the decision was not sanctioned by the military council, the executions were to be performed.
Sami found out an hour before they were to take place. When he reached the square in al-Hamidiyah, he was soaked from the rain. Around twenty soldiers were present; Sami and Anwar were the only media activists.
‘You can’t take pictures,’ ordered the general of the battalion in charge.
Sami’s body seized up and he found it hard to think clearly. It didn’t need to happen, he was sure of that. There must be other ways to deal with this.
The twelve prisoners were tied up on the ground, face down. The rain was pooling around their bodies. Sami’s field of vision narrowed to a tunnel without light.
‘I don’t want to do this,’ said the FSA general. ‘They’re poor and were forced to fight for the regime against their will. I’ve talked to them. Several of them are really decent.’
Then he ordered the rebel soldiers to fire.
Two of the soldiers refused and stepped aside. For a few seconds, there was nothing but the sound of automatic fire. Then the general raised his hand, walked over to the mangled bodies and finished off the executions by putting a bullet in each head.
31
EVERYONE FOUND THEIR own way of surviving. Activists outside the siege zone supported them as best they could, by trying to smuggle in medical supplies and paying for satellite phone contracts. Others chose to stay and work for the regime while secretly supporting the resistance, using their connections to warn people about suspected airstrikes or help prisoners out. It required inventiveness and risk-taking, and it could be the difference between life and death.
One elderly man used to buy carp at a market in Homs. When the city centre was surrounded, this market remained open because it was in a regime-controlled neighbourhood. So the man continued to buy his fish, two or three at a time, until one day when he ordered a hundred carp.
‘My niece is getting married,’ he told the fishmonger, and took a photograph out of his wallet, leaning on his walking stick.
‘Mabrouk, ya hajji. May God smile on them and give them many children.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind. Do you have children?’
The fishmonger didn’t but he hoped he would one day – God willing. Meanwhile, he would sell his fish and save his money to buy a house for his future family to live in.
‘So, how many fish did you say?’
‘A hundred of the biggest and fattiest you have. And if it’s possible …’ said the elderly man. ‘No, never mind, it can’t be done.’
‘No, do say.’
‘I really think it’s impossible.’
That made the fishmonger insist, since problems were there to be solved and he was proud of his reputation as one of the city’s best fishmongers.
‘Since you insist,’ the elderly man said at length. ‘Fish is best served fresh, as you know, and if I take all the fish now, they’re going to go off before the wedding. The best thing would be if they could be delivered fresh, straight to the grill. Then the guests would have the pleasure of seeing them wriggle on the hot coals!’
The fishmonger smiled and asked the elderly man to come back in two days.
Two days later, the fishmonger showed him twenty buckets with five carp in each. The elderly man was happy, overwhelmed. He thanked the fishmonger, paid and wished him all the best in life, both with his house and his future children.
Then the elderly man put the buckets in his car, waited until nightfall, and emptied the fish out in a stream which ran in the direction of the besieged neighbourhoods.
For the starving people on the other side, it really was like being invited to a wedding. Women and men gathered by the stream and fished in the moonlight.
Sami arrived too late, standing with cold water up to his knees for hours without catching a single fish. He pulled his net through the water and from time to time thought he glimpsed a silvery shard of glinting fish scales, but it always turned out to be one of the white stones on the riverbed.
Another idea to help alleviate the starvation, which was never carried out, was to round up a flock of sheep by the red line and shove chillies up their behinds, so the animals would bolt into the besieged area in desperation.
As food stores ran ever lower, the civilian population’s patience began to run out and the siege seemed to enter a new phase. The regime was holding them hostage and the rebels had not been able to push them back as promised.
During the year, a group of battle-hardened rebels from the Free Syrian Army left and joined a branch of the terrorist organization al-Qaida, the al-Nusra Front. In Homs, the group was small at first, and unorganized, founded partly out of religious fervour, partly as a result of personal conflicts among the rebel leaders.
One of the members of the al-Nusra Front was called Tareq. He was a former university friend of Sami’s, a twenty-four-year-old from one of Homs’ more well-to-do families. He had neither lost a loved one nor suffered more from the war than anyone else, but he was prone to taking on the grief of others and considering it his own. It was not uncommon for him to end up in heated discussions with one of the imams who lived in the besieged area. The imam would urge Tareq not to mix politics and religion. The most important thing was to ease people’s suffering, not to stoke hatred.
‘You’re a kafir, no better than any other infidel,’ Tareq told the imam. ‘God is the highest and his will must be reflected in every part of our society.’
Sami continued to meet up with Tareq on occasion, to have tea and talk to him, even though his friend had become an extremist. Socializing was limited under the siege and at least it was a breath of fresh air to have someone to argue with.
‘How can you justify violence in the name of religion?’ Sami asked.
‘What do you mean? P
eople do that all the time,’ Tareq countered. ‘The American president says “God bless America” and drops bombs on the Middle East. And the rebels are shooting at the regime every day …’
‘You can’t compare the Free Syrian Army’s self-defence with a desire to take over the Western world and introduce sharia law.’
‘Why not? Muslims are being killed and oppressed. We have to defend ourselves.’
Sami was having tea at Tareq’s hideout, a miserable basement with no electricity or water, when Tareq informed him that one of the al-Nusra soldiers was spreading rumours about him. They were saying Sami was an atheist and an infidel, and that he should be taken care of. That usually meant death.
‘But I’ve never even met him,’ Sami exclaimed in surprise.
‘He’s seen your pictures and what you’ve written about us. You’re shaming our leaders.’
‘I write about anyone who commits crimes and transgressions, irrespective of their allegiances.’
‘Either way, he says you’re a bad Muslim.’
Before they could finish the conversation and without pausing to think it over, Sami got up and walked straight to the nearby house of the leader of the al-Nusra. He knocked, was patted down and shown into the living room. The group had about fifteen members in Homs at that point and most of them were gathered there, on sofas around a glowing cast-iron stove.
‘What can we do for you, brother?’ said their leader, a man in a black kaftan with prayer beads in his hand, who introduced himself as Abu Omar.
‘I’m not your brother,’ Sami said. ‘And that doesn’t make me a bad Muslim.’
‘There, there, calm down.’
But Sami wouldn’t calm down. Things were boiling over inside him. People who claimed to know the Quran should know better than to talk ill of others, especially if you didn’t know them. And to create a so-called caliphate, were they out of their minds? How was that supposed to work, when they hadn’t even been able to leave their own neighbourhood for over a year? When the regime kept shooting at them and dropping bombs? Non-Muslim lifestyles were hardly the enemy here and not worth starting a war over. Wasn’t there enough war to go around anyway?