by Prue Mason
Zafir followed Rami up the path to the building that housed the swimming pool. About halfway, Rami glanced around to make sure no one was watching and then quickly sidestepped and ducked between two bushes before running around behind the building. Zafir followed, not caring who saw where he was going. At least this spot was out of the wind and warm in the sun. They sat on the ground with their backs against the wall.
‘Okay, so what is it? A secret weapon?’ Zafir was only half joking.
Rami put the backpack on the ground. ‘This bank of panels draws enough power from the sun to charge up my phone and my laptop.’
‘Ya ilahi, wow! That’s impressive,’ said Zafir.
‘I’ve made something for you as well,’ said Rami. He pulled out a baseball cap with one solar panel on it and a lead attached. ‘Just plug your phone into this.’
Zafir pulled out his phone. The battery was low because he’d forgotten to charge it after they’d got back from Tetah’s house. When Rami plugged it in, the battery started filling up.
‘Ya ilahi! You’re a genius.’
Rami’s face lit up. ‘It’s nothing. One day I’d like to invent something important like my cousin, Steve Jobs.’ Rami never needed an excuse to mention Steve Jobs. ‘You know, the crazy thing is that if Steve Jobs had grown up here then he would have gone to a crappy school like this one. He might have turned into another maa’ez, goat, like Mustafa and Murshid.’
‘But you’re not a maa’ez,’ said Zafir.
‘No, but there are times I feel like headbutting things,’ said Rami. He jumped up and ran at a nearby bush with his head down, bleating like a goat.
Zafir laughed, but Rami turned to him with a serious expression on his face.
‘You might not want to be a maa’ez but both of us will end up as one if we stay in Syria. It’s too hard to fight this system. People say things … do things … to those who are different.’
‘You mean like what happened before with Murshid and Mustafa?’
Rami looked down at his feet, took a deep breath and said, ‘There’s something I should tell you. It’s a secret. A big secret.’
‘Wladna, our boys! What is doing you?’
Zafir and Rami turned to see Mr Wallis, the foreign English teacher, behind them. He thought he was good at speaking Arabic but in reality, he was hopeless.
‘What is doing you?’ he repeated.
‘We’re just on our way to the infirmary,’ said Zafir, in English, pointing to Rami’s knee.
‘Off then go,’ said Mr Wallis.
Later, in the locker room, Zafir asked Rami what the big secret was but Rami just shrugged.
‘I was kidding,’ he said, but he looked away and Zafir knew that he was hiding something.
‘Anta nayem, are you sleeping?’
Zafir heard Mum calling out softly. He opened his eyes. It was dark in the room but he could see Mum’s outline in the doorway. He pulled the blankets tighter around himself. He knew why she’d woken him up this early on a Friday. He was glad he didn’t have to get up and go to school. Everything was getting more complicated. Rami was still pretending there was no big secret and Mustafa and Murshid were still picking on him. The whole country was full of dangerous secrets. Back in Dubai, the biggest secrets were about who liked which girl.
‘I was,’ he mumbled as he watched Mum tiptoe into the room. She was rugged up in a long sweater, fleecy trackpants and warm woolly boots.
‘Ya aynee, my honey. Go back to sleep. It’s early. I just want to use the computer for a few minutes.’
Zafir was right. Mum wanted to check her Facebook page. She had her own laptop but it wasn’t connected to the internet through the private network. This was another secret. Zafir rolled over. He shut his eyes and tried not to think.
When Zafir heard Pops open the door a little later, he pretended he was still sleeping. Warmth and the smell of diesel fuel flooded into the room.
‘So this is where you’ve got to. I’ve lit the soba, so we won’t all turn into snowmen, though it was so quiet that I thought you’d both gone out and left me. Is Zafir still sleeping?’
‘Do you know what today is?’ Mum didn’t answer Pops’s question. She didn’t even wait for Pops to answer her question before she burst out, ‘Today is the Friday of Rage.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Pops asked.
Mum read out loud from the computer. ‘Today it is the day for the people of Syria to meet on the streets and show this government we are angry. Angry at all the injustices, the unfair imprisonments, the—’
‘What are you reading?’ Pops asked.
Zafir peered out from under the sheets and saw Pops looking at the computer screen over Mum’s shoulder. Was Mum still on her Facebook page? It didn’t sound like it.
‘What are you doing on this page?’ Pops asked, his voice low and angry. ‘Don’t you realise how dangerous it is to use Facebook when it has been banned by the government?’
‘Plenty of people use it here,’ said Mum. ‘It’s the only way to find out the truth about what’s happening in our own country.’
‘To use Facebook is bad enough but to get on this site, this Syria Revolution 2011 page – what are you thinking? How can you take such a risk?’
‘How can we not risk it?’ Mum asked. ‘Can’t you see, Boulos, if we take a stand, we could gain everything. We could live in our own country without this wall of fear, without all these secrets that are destroying our country.’
‘I agree with Mum.’ Zafir sat up in bed and they both turned towards him. ‘I don’t like secrets. And what’s so wrong about using Facebook to keep in touch with friends?’
Pops sighed and shook his head. ‘The problem is that neither of you really know what it’s like to grow up in Syria.’
‘I was born here,’ said Mum, her eyes glittering as they did when she was angry.
‘Yes,’ said Pops calmly. ‘But your father got the job at Dubai Hospital when you were three years old and the only times you’ve come back here until now were for holidays and a few years at university. You have no idea what might happen if there’s an uprising here.’
‘But in Egypt and Tunisia the people have risen up and rid their countries of bullies,’ Mum said. ‘We can too. Can’t you feel it, Boulos? Spring is in the air. An Arab Spring.’
‘How can you spout this foolishness? Our country is stable because our government is able to keep our many separate communities together. If the government were weak, all would be at each other’s throats seeking power. Or worse.’
‘It doesn’t have to be like that,’ said Mum. ‘Look at us. You’re a Christian and I’m a Muslim. We get along.’
‘Technically I’m a Muslim. Remember? I converted so that we could marry.’
‘Yes, but it was only a formality, and I told you at the time I would have become a Christian but you wouldn’t allow it.’
Pops sighed. ‘It wasn’t because you wanted to be a Christian but because you wanted to do something that had an element of danger to it.’
Mum glared at Pops. ‘That’s exactly my point. In this modern age, all educated people can see there are more similarities than differences between the Muslim and Christian religions and yet we are expected to live by rules that were made for another time. You say that yourself.’
Pops nodded, but Mum wouldn’t let him speak. ‘It’s the same with the government. The time has come to stand up and say it’s wrong to put a seventeen-year-old girl in jail for writing a poem that criticises the regime, for torturing a journalist for telling the truth about the injustices done, for—’
Pops cut her off. ‘Yes, we are educated people and you’re from a family that grew up modern and enlightened, but in this country there are too many people steeped in tradition who live to seek revenge on a neighbour for the slightest insult. You must realise it’s too dangerous for the government to loosen their hold – it could open up old wounds and create further divisions. Now, under a strong government, the p
eople are united.’
‘United in fear,’ said Mum. ‘Oh Boulos, how can our country move forward if even educated people like yourself hold such outdated beliefs? Can’t you see how important this movement is?’ Again, Mum didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I want Zafir to grow up feeling azadi, freedom, in his own country. Don’t you want that for your son?’
Pops was still shaking his head. ‘I want what is best for my son – and that is a stable country.’
Typical. No one asked Zafir what he wanted and what he wanted most of all was for them to stop arguing all the time.
Pops continued. ‘You know I don’t blame you, Nadia. I know who has put these ideas in your head: Ghazi and his university friends. They think a thawra, revolution, is the answer, but they have no idea what might happen if they continue with this business.’
‘At least they’re not too scared to speak up against all that is wrong in our country.’
Pops’s face went red and he did something that Zafir had never seen him do. He raised his fist and for a minute Zafir thought he was going to put it through the computer screen. He saw the muscles in his father’s neck clench and bulge before he turned away and pulled the computer plug out of the wall. The screen fizzed and went blank.
As he strode out of the room, Mum yelled after him, ‘I’m not afraid, Boulos. I am not afraid. The winds of change will come and they will blow away this injustice and shame.’
Zafir sat back on his bed, stunned. Why did his parents get so angry with each other over the way their government ran the country?
The front door closed with a thud. Mum didn’t look up. Zafir knew he should say something, anything, but his throat was tight and there was pressure behind his eyes. He grabbed a towel and went to the bathroom. Maybe if he took long enough in the shower then everything would be okay by the time he came out.
A few hours later, Zafir was in the carpark practising on his skateboard when he saw Pops come home. Zafir followed him inside, and he heard the argument starting again.
‘How could you just go out like that and come back as if everything is normal?’ Mum still sounded angry.
Pops was calm but Zafir could tell he was still angry too. ‘Nadia, please explain how you could use Facebook when you knew I wouldn’t approve?’
Mum didn’t answer for a minute and then she burst out, ‘If you think I’m going to your mother’s house today then you are wrong.’
‘As you wish,’ Pops said in a cold, hard voice. ‘I’ll call Mama and tell her we all have colds. She’ll understand. Abu Moussa will be downstairs already but I’ll tell him we don’t need him today.’
Zafir snuck into his room and shut the door.
‘I have to finish my homework,’ Zafir said as he got up from the table. Mum nodded. She cleared the plates from supper as Pops flicked the channel onto RTV for the news. Neither spoke to the other. It had been like that for days now and Zafir couldn’t stand it. Worry wrapped around him like a cold, wet blanket. He hadn’t told Rami about it because he knew Rami had his own problems at home.
Back in his bedroom, Zafir opened his English book but he found he couldn’t concentrate on the words. He knew that if he didn’t finish his homework he’d get detention, but he didn’t care. Everything in his world seemed dark.
‘Zafir!’ Mum sounded excited. ‘Come and watch this!’
Zafir ran into the sitting room.
‘Can you believe it?’ said Mum, pointing to the television.
‘What?’ asked Zafir. Mum looked pleased but Pops was frowning.
‘The ban on using Facebook, YouTube and Twitter has been lifted,’ Pops said. At least he didn’t sound angry, Zafir thought.
Mum turned to Pops. ‘Now you see what can happen when people stand up for their right to speak freely.’
Pops gave her a strange look. ‘I did hear that no one turned up for that famous day of rage.’
Mum was too happy to be annoyed. ‘Ghazi said a few of them were there but, of course, they got moved on by the Mukhabarat, secret police. Surely now that we are allowed to exchange views on the internet then everyone in our country has a chance of learning how to live freely as well.’
‘Oh Nadia, if only the rest of the world thought like you.’ Pops smiled at her and for the first time in days Zafir saw it was a real smile. ‘But sadly they don’t. You must realise that agents from the Mukhabarat will be monitoring these sites. Now they’ll know exactly what’s going on.’ He took Mum’s hand. ‘Please promise me you won’t log on to any activist sites. It’s too dangerous. I am begging you for my sake and for Zafir’s, if not your own.’ He sounded so serious that Mum agreed.
‘No one uses their real name on Facebook,’ said Rami. It was a week later and they were in the locker room. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘But I started my page when I was in Dubai,’ said Zafir. ‘And Uncle Ghazi set us up on the VPN.’
‘I wouldn’t trust the VPN,’ said Rami. ‘The GIA could find a way to get into it.’
Everyone else called the General Intelligence Administration Idarat al Mukhabarat, or just Mukhabarat, but Rami liked to call it the GIA because it sounded like the CIA.
‘But why would they be interested in what I’m saying to my friends in Dubai?’
Rami rolled his eyes. ‘Because they want to know about everyone. The Naqib says there have already been a lot of arrests.’
‘For having a Facebook page?’
‘For saying the wrong thing on it,’ said Rami. ‘I told you before: even innocent words can be made to look guilty to the GIA.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Haven’t you heard about Tal al-Mallouhi?’
Zafir shook his head.
‘You must be the only one who hasn’t,’ said Rami. Then he raised his voice. ‘I can’t find my diary. Would you help me look for it in my locker?’
Zafir felt stupid but he knew Rami wouldn’t tell him unless he did it Rami’s way. With both their heads inside the locker, Rami whispered, ‘Tal al-Mallouhi is from Homs and she was at high school until, a couple of years ago, she wrote some poems about freedom on her blog. The GIA found out. They took her computer from her parents’ house and she got taken away. No one knew where she was being kept.’
Rami stepped backwards holding up his school diary. ‘Found it,’ he said in his usual voice. He took his blazer off, hung it up, got his school sweater out of his bag and began to pull it down over his head. He spoke through the sweater in a muffled voice. ‘Yesterday Tal was at court, in chains and blindfolded, and she got sentenced to five years in prison.’
Zafir remembered now that Mum had mentioned a seventeen-year-old girl who was put in prison for writing a poem. Zafir found it hard to believe, but it had to be true. Maybe all these secretive ways of Rami’s weren’t so stupid after all. He pulled his sweater over his head and whispered, ‘Was it really just for writing a poem?’
‘No,’ said Rami. His face appeared as he tugged the sweater down, lowering his voice so that Zafir had to lean in to hear. ‘For revealing information to a foreign country that should remain hushed.’
Rami reached for his blazer. ‘What are you doing tomorrow for the holiday for Mawlid al-Nabi?’ he asked in his normal voice. ‘Would you like to play that new game I found online? It looks cool.’
Zafir was still taking in everything Rami had just told him. ‘Tomorrow? Oh, yes, the Prophet’s birthday.’ He frowned as he remembered what Tetah had organised. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘We have to go to Tetah’s house. We’re having afternoon tea with friends of hers.’
The bell rang and it became impossible to speak over the noise of thudding feet, crashing lockers and yelling. They hurried with the throng of boys to their classroom.
‘Do we really have to go?’ Zafir asked again. They’d just arrived at Tetah’s house and were about to leave for afternoon tea with the new priest and his family.
‘Yes, of course,’ Tetah replied. ‘It would be most rude not to go.’
They set off for the church wh
ere Tetah went to pray most days of the week. Zafir lagged behind. What would a priest’s family be like? He could picture them – serious, never doing anything wrong, boring. Even worse, would they talk about religion all the time? His friends in Dubai came from lots of different backgrounds but religion was something that never came up except for wishing each other ‘Eid Mubarak’ or ‘Happy Christmas’ or many ‘Diwali’ blessings.
‘The Reverend Father and his family live in the house behind the church,’ explained Tetah as she led Mum, Pops and Zafir down the alley that ran beside the church. Zafir dragged his feet. He wished he’d worn two pairs of socks. Clouds had swallowed up the sun and the day was bitterly cold. Although the church was only a five-minute walk from Tetah’s, Zafir’s toes and fingers were starting to feel numb.
They came to a wooden door with a lion’s-head knocker. Tetah gave the door a loud ratatat with the lion’s head.
Suddenly, Zafir heard a rumbling sound behind him. He turned. Swerving around the corner was a girl on a skateboard. Her knees were bent and her head was down so she didn’t see them.
‘Hey!’ Zafir yelled. The girl hurtling towards them looked up and teetered slightly but quickly moved her feet and swayed her body so that the board spun to the side and skidded to a stop in an expert power slide. Zafir nodded. That was impressive. Even if her board, a Powell Golden Dragon, was a few years old and more like a beginner’s one.
The girl was wearing a tracksuit and a blue-and-white ski cap pulled down to her thick eyebrows. She picked up the board, held it under her arm and grinned at them.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said in English, but with a strange accent, not like the American English Zafir was used to hearing. ‘Mum said to get back before three-thirty and I was … er, I mean I am a bit late.’
At that moment the door opened and behind it stood a short woman with long dark hair tied in a braid down her back. She smiled.