After months of hell, the rebels can hold their heads high. They excavate their dreams. They sketch big projects—life, marriage, career. Always precise in his narration, Ahmad wants to give me updates about everybody. Ustez, the Professor, took advantage of this unimagined respite to launch a new seminar on marital relations for those daring, finally, to think about an engagement or wedding. Following a brief hiatus, Omar returned to his library. He reads there even more often and also gives new lectures. They feel a thirst to learn and share down to the bone. There is also a desire to let loose. Amid the ruins, a soccer pitch emerges. Quickly, holes are filled in, mounds of dirt are flattened, rubble is swept away. Eight teams of ten players are formed. Each group includes both fighters and activists. They play friendly matches in T-shirts before a public of curious spectators sitting on improvised bleachers. Suddenly, it’s a time of unlimited possibilities. Even the grammar has changed. The inhabitants of Daraya are using the future tense, instead of speaking in hypotheticals. Living in the present has meaning again.
The walls are coming back to life, too. Down this street, or along that disemboweled sidewalk, sometimes at the base of a jagged wall, blooms a trail of poems, a constellation of drawings, a shield made of words … Abu Malek al-Shami, the group’s tagger, roams the city with paint cans, covering it with color. On a wall deformed by a blast, he’s drawn a four- or five-year-old girl in a blue-and-yellow dress. Standing on a hill made of skulls, she’s writing the English word “hope” in capital letters with one chubby hand. This larger-than-life drawing is a lesson in optimism. It immortalizes these protesters as they thumb their noses at the war.
Another mural drawing, this one in chalk, grabs my attention. I am looking at a photograph taken by Ahmad, of a classroom with shattered windows in which the carcasses of desks jostle for room with metallic chair skeletons. In the back is a blackboard on which Abu Malek al-Shami has written something in Arabic, right to left: “We used to joke around and say, I hope the school falls down. And now it has fallen.” Self-deprecation, another protective shell. My gaze shifts farther left, to the drawing: a boy in raggedy clothes and bare feet, wearing a backpack, scrawling “Daraya” in bloodred letters. I think of another activist–graffiti artist Ahmad recently told me about—Madjd Mohadamani, killed on February 19, 2016, by a shell shot from an army tank. And I also think, inevitably, about those teenagers in Daraa whose arrest for spraying anti-Assad graffiti triggered the 2011 uprising.
This mural is a way to pay them homage. It also declares: “We are still standing.”
Saturday, March 19, 2016. I’ve just returned from a reporting assignment in Izmir, the coastal Turkish town that is the departure point for boats of Syrian refugees, so many of which capsize on their way to Europe. Hundreds of dead buried beneath the waves. Another consequence, terrible and invisible, of the war. My daughter, who’s four, is waiting for me in Istanbul, her little arms stretched toward my heart. But that heart is heavy. So many children her age lie at the bottom of the sea. As usual, she wants to know everything about my reporting trip. For a four-year-old, life is a litany of questions. Scrolling through my phone, I show her life vests adorned with cute Hello Kitty faces. These are sold for children heading on the dangerous clandestine crossing toward Greece. I refrain from saying anything about shipwrecks or death. I just show Samarra her favorite little cat and she reminds me that it’s Saturday, and that at 11:00 a.m., it’s story time at the French Institute. A precious, never-to-be-missed ritual shared by mother and daughter. We put on our boots and jackets—the forecast says rain—before going down the stairs. Her hand in mine, we stride down the streets leading to Taksim. As we cross the packed square, we walk by the simit seller, near the old red tramway. French tourists are taking selfies. A lost Iranian visitor is trying to find his way. Some Saudis are hailing a taxi. On the other side, where Istiklal Avenue begins, a Syrian beggar sings to earn a few coins. Pigeons peck the bread crumbs at his feet.
It’s 10:57. In three minutes, the story will begin. At the start of Istiklal Avenue, I walk up the steps to the French Institute. Behind me, Samarra’s little voice chirps, “What a great day!” At the top of the stairs, I hand my bag to the security guard. He doesn’t have time to open it. The air splits. A howling of metal. Violent. Intrusive. I turn around, stunned. Istiklal Avenue is a wave of panic. People rush headlong toward Taksim. A crazed flock. The explosion was so close. Unexpected. Thirty feet away—maybe less? I don’t move, Samarra huddled against me. The guard pushes us inside. The doors close behind us. Outside, a torrent of noise. An uproar of worry and incomprehension. Chaos on the cobblestones.
Samarra pulls on my sleeve. “What was that?” Reassure her, at all costs. Skirt the question. Think of life, of those who were saved. Cling to the word “hope,” like the one tagged on Daraya’s faraway wall. Say something about fireworks. Remind her that it’s 11:00 a.m., story time. Take her little hand. Cross the garden that leads to the library. Walk down the stairs. Push open the glass door. Down here, no one heard the explosion. The books formed a barricade. A paper shield. It’s 11:05 and I whisper what just happened to Julie, the storyteller, slipping in the word “bomb.” She frowns. Stands up straight. Claps her hands. “Come on! We’re going to start the story.” Her composure is inspiring. Sitting in a row on the bench, the children go silent. It’s story time, and today, we have the story of Alfred, the dog who stinks. It’s story time, and, outside, ambulances race by. It’s story time, and Alfred is a hungry dog who can’t get his fill of bones. It’s story time and news updates flash on my phone. Confirmed attack. A suicide bomber. At least four dead. Dozens are injured. Daesh is named. Alfred barks. Sirens are shrieking. Julie reads. Helicopters are whirring. Julie turns the page. Children laugh. Alfred is a magical dog that brightens faces. Behind the wall of books, Istanbul is bleeding, struck at its heart. The sunny stars of fiction versus the fiery sparks of reality.
It’s 11:45 and the story is almost over. And after? An insistent voice is telling me not to go back upstairs, to prolong this serene interlude for as long as possible, to stay underground and listen to other stories. About dogs. Cats. Snails. Bugs. To gorge myself on paper. To read everything within arm’s reach. Until night comes, if that’s what it takes. Is there someone outside who can turn off the sirens? Stop the police from using bullhorns? Tell my editor in chief that this time the reporting can wait? It’s too early to leave. To confront the children with reality. To take away their right to dream—to hope! Books as a security blanket. The guard has other priorities. He has been told to evacuate the library. ASAP. Follow me. Proceed along the wall. In single file. Walk to the end of the garden. Go out the back door. Come on, faster. And good luck!
It’s noon. Apart from a few panicked seagulls, Taksim Square is a desert. In my arms, Samarra whispers, “I think that’s the first time I heard an explosion.” How do I respond? I say nothing. The hum of helicopters would have eaten up my reply, anyway. Next, she asks me why they’re roaming the sky. “Because of the storm … You remember, this morning, when you put on your boots?” It’s the first lie that comes to mind. After all, it is story time.
Back home, I have a wild urge to call the book collectors. Ahmad, Shadi, Abu el-Ezz, Omar. To tell them about experiencing this mix of imminent death, the comfort of books, a retreat into fiction, the refuge of paper around me. To tell them what they already know, what they’ve been living every day, every hour, every minute for three years now. What’s the point? The attack on Istiklal is just a tiny headline compared to the hell of Daraya. Then again, it has brought their world closer to me.
Two weeks later, on April 5, I receive a new email from Daraya. It’s a group letter. A distress call signed by forty-seven women.
We are women in the besieged town of Daraya and we are writing to you with an urgent call to save our town.
The Syrian tragedy continues along with its repetitive scenes of violence and siege. Our town has witnessed the worst of bombing and destruction and cr
uel siege for over three consecutive years. Civilians have had to pay the price under the policy of starvation.
The area is witnessing a shortage of all of the basic necessities, from the very simple, such as table salt, to the more complex, such as the ability to communicate with others. This has gotten much worse since Daraya was cut off from the neighboring town of Moadamiyet Al Sham [Moadamiya]. The town was closed off completely in the face of fleeing civilians. We were left with a population of 8,000. There was no life outside of the basements because of the fear of being bombed. After the recent cessation of hostilities, calm returned to the town. Still, there is no life outside of the basements because all the buildings have been brutally destroyed. We’re appealing to all who see this, near and far: we need immediate assistance.
There is no food at all in Daraya. There are cases of malnutrition and we have resorted to cooking soups made purely of spices in order to stave off hunger. There are signatories to this letter that have not eaten for at least two days—some longer. There is no baby milk and no breast milk due to malnutrition. Even something as simple but as necessary as dishwashing liquid is unavailable. There are no cleaning supplies in order for us to ensure hygiene and keep diseases away.
We the women of Daraya call for:
—An immediate lifting of the siege from all sides of the town
—The opening of the roads and the entry of basic necessities, from food and medicine to drinking water, clothes, shoes, and cleaning supplies
We call on the United Nations and all humanitarian and relief organizations to enter the town immediately and deliver humanitarian aid to all those affected as quickly as possible.
We appeal to journalists to write about Daraya and shed attention on the plight of our town before mass starvation takes. We are on the verge of witnessing deaths from starvation. The infants and the elderly will be the first to succumb. Please take action before it is too late.
One by one, I read the signatures at the end of the letter: Sawsan, Khadija, Azizah, Mouna, Ikram, Samar, Najaa, Amal, Malak, Amani, Kinaz, Samera, Rama, Haifa, Fatemah, Maha, Merzat, Nour, Joumana, Afraa, Ghada, Khouloud, Wardah, Loubna, Amenah, Ayat … a string of names written as if in blood, a desperate SOS thrown at the world.
This is the first time, I think, that the “invisible” have broken their silence and abandoned their anonymity, at the risk of ending up on one of the regime’s blacklists.
I can’t even imagine the extent of the despair that would drive them to break from their traditional restraint.
Their letter is an act of self-exposure; it has no aim to please, seduce, or manipulate.
I know nothing about them. I can’t see them. But I hear them. I can imagine them. Housewives, teachers, midwives, activists. I imagine their daily distress. I imagine their exhaustion, the miscarriages, the premature babies, the lack of sanitary napkins. I imagine the pee-stained beds of panicked children, the insomnia of anxious mothers, the tears in the dark. All hardships that aren’t talked about, that are muffled by war, deferring to the bravery of the fighters. But behind the courage of men can be found the suffering of women.
Every war has its hidden female universe. A few days after receiving this collective letter, I meet online Hussam Ayash, another pillar of the Daraya group. Using his perfect English, which he learned through books, he oversees communication for the city council, sending reports and statements, translating letters, and answering questions from foreign journalists. Inside my Skype window, Hussam looks lost in his blue Adidas T-shirt. “I’ve lost forty pounds in three years,” he says softly. At the age of thirty-two, standing five feet, nine inches tall, he weighs only 135 pounds. And yet, below eyes hollowed by fatigue and hunger, his triumphant smile lights up the screen.
“On really desperate days, I focus on the future,” he enthusiastically tells me.
His future is named Zeina, a young Syrian from the suburb of Moadamiya, now a refugee in Istanbul. When he met her in late 2015, shortly before Daraya was surrounded, it was love at first sight. After a few weeks, halfway between the two rebel enclaves, the couple became engaged. They promised to support each other, but every attempted reunion was a dangerous undertaking. Hussam had to sneak into Moadamiya. He had to brave the threat of cannon fire from Assad’s soldiers watching, from their hill, the clandestine comings and goings between the neighboring cities. Zeina would wait for him on the other side, heart racing, beneath her veil. A furtive face-to-face, long enough to chastely shake hands or exchange a few sweet nothings. That’s it. The shortages in Daraya deprived Hussam of the pleasure of offering even the smallest present to his intended. “We established a rule between us: no gifts!” explains Hussam. But at their third meeting, Zeina broke the pact.
“She surprised me with two books,” says Hussam.
Across the screen, he holds up one of them like a treasure: Psychology and You, coauthored by Julia C. Berryman et al. A prophetic gift?
“It was the night before they closed the last crossing between the two cities,” Hussam recalls perfectly. “And also the night before Zeina left for Turkey, where her parents pressured her to follow them, though she didn’t want to.”
Since that hasty departure, the two have yet to see each other. But the book has stayed with Hussam. A proof of love. A vital comfort in the heart of this endless war. The catalyst, as well, of an epistolary relationship that has always revolved around reading.
“Books have become our common denominator. When we can’t reach each other, each of us will read something. Then, as soon as we’re able to connect on Skype or WhatsApp, we swap reading notes. Books bring us closer together. They’re a bridge between us.”
The two young lovers know so little about each other. And they’re actually very different, including their literary tastes.
“Zeina’s a fan of mushy romance novels. She’s obsessed with them! But I’m more drawn to self-help books.”
And yet they share a mad desire to love each other, urgently, to flirt with the unknown. To project themselves into a future that, though uncertain, is filled with shared dreams. On the advice of Ustez, Hussam devoured Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, borrowed from the library, and he quickly encouraged his beloved to read it.
“It helped us, both of us, understand our differences, and manage the complexity of our long-distance relationship.”
But they also have to adapt to the worries generated by war. Especially Zeina, whose exile in Turkey has only increased her anxiety.
“I realize that war is harder on the person who’s far away. For me, the war is part of my daily life. It is my daily life. I chose it and accepted it. To be honest, I’ve lost any sense of fear.”
Silence hovers after his last syllable, which is immediately replaced by hysterical laughter whose echoes reach all the way to my office walls. I watch him. Hussam is roaring with laugher. He’s laughing with the ardor of someone desperately clinging to life. Who’s proudly turning his back on death. What is really striking is how easily he steps back from the difficulties of what he’s living through. How he accepts the absurdity of his situation, mocking it if he has to. When I tell him that he has the maturity of a wise old man, he answers me, detached: “Oh, you know, I was born in 1984, like George Orwell’s novel. My life was doomed never to be simple! In four years, I’ve aged at least forty…”
Hussam takes another pause. I stare at him. Lined with subtle wrinkles, his face is a page of history. Four years during which he’s lived through so much: the first revolutionary spasms; prison for refusing to shoot at protesters during his military service; the sarin gas attack, halfway through the summer of 2013, which almost cost him his life. Even his nom de guerre is a story in itself: he borrowed it from Hussam Ayash, the first martyr from Daraa, the famous city where the 2011 uprising began. (Many of the Daraya revolutionaries have adopted aliases during the siege for safety reasons, e.g., protecting family members living in regime-controlled areas.)
“Sometimes,” Hussam
continues, “I feel like I’ve gone numb. Thankfully, Zeina’s here to remind me what’s normal.”
Zeina, his virtual muse. His humanity, helping him keep his feet on the ground when the war tries to devour his emotions. She’s his second half, the tears he no longer sheds, the fragility on worry-filled days when, at the other end of an unreliable connection, she whispers that she loves him. That she cares about him. That she’ll wait for him until the end of time, despite their fights and disagreements.
“If I don’t call her regularly, it’s big trouble!” he laughs. “Zeina helps me stay anchored in what’s real. And when we can’t reach each other, books do the rest. They make me feel like I’m again the student I used to be, that I look like any other young man somewhere in the world. They take me away, for a moment, from my mess of a life.”
In a city where the women remain invisible, a digital romance helps him endure the conflict. His love for Zeina gives him a goal. An objective that takes form beyond the front. The dream of a shared life, on the other side of the wall of war.
“Hey, how are you?”
“Hi, Ahmad. Any news?”
“Yes! Guess what? A United Nations and Red Crescent humanitarian convoy is finally coming to Daraya!”
“Really?”
“They’ll be here any minute. A matter of days … or hours…”
“That’s great news! Daraya’s calls for help have finally been heard!”
“Yes, except they just told us that there won’t be any food in the convoy. Only health kits, contraceptives. They’re also sending glucose test patches … when what we actually need is sugar!”
It’s May 11, 2016. This exchange on WhatsApp is only the starting point for a series of fiascos that will accelerate Daraya’s descent into hell. A little over twenty-four hours later, the first humanitarian convoy in three and a half years finally approaches the enclave. At the end of interminable negotiations, the regime gave the green light on certain conditions, notably no food—except for baby formula. But on the spot, the soldiers impose their own rules: only vaccines will be allowed. The United Nations refuses these unfair terms.
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