Zafir

by Prue Mason

  The future got shadowy again and the remote possibility of immigrating to Australia didn’t help today.

  ‘Do I really have to go to school?’ he asked again.

  Mum frowned and he could see she was thinking about it. ‘I’ve got a good idea,’ she said and a smile spread across her face. ‘How do you feel about a day in Damascus?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s less than a two-hour drive. Abu Moussa could take us and bring us back tonight. It will be a surprise for your father. I know he’s busy but we could go out for supper at that restaurant in the Sheraton and it’ll make up for him not being here on Mother’s Day. And I do need some more books, so we can go to Maysalun Street. It was my favourite street when I was at university. I’ll call Ghazi. We can have lunch with him if he isn’t too busy with lectures.’ She looked at Zafir. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Good idea!’

  Mum smiled. ‘I’ll call school and tell them you’re unwell.’

  The road between Homs and Damascus wound through mountainous desert. It was mostly single lane. Abu Moussa spent a lot of time waving his fist at drivers of lorries carrying rocks who revved their engines hard but still couldn’t go any faster than crawling pace up the steeper parts of the road. Zafir soon got bored with the scenery. He closed his eyes to try to catch up on sleep. When he woke up they were already in the outskirts of Damascus, passing houses and apartment blocks topped with satellite dishes.

  ‘You’re awake,’ said Mum, smiling. ‘I’ve spoken to Ghazi and he’s at a coffee shop in Al-Hareeka Square in the Old City. I said we’d meet him there. We can walk through Maskuf market.’

  Zafir nodded. It beat being at school and having to think about not turning up at football training or having to talk to Murshid. He’d worry about that tomorrow.

  The road grew busy with yellow taxis, vans and buses. Among the pedestrians, who were mainly uniformed soldiers, women dressed in long coats and scarves and men wearing black leather jackets, were a pair of blonde-haired backpackers and a group of Japanese tourists trailing behind their guide taking photos.

  They drove down a wide road lined with palm trees. Zafir could see water gushing up from the fountains of Sabaa Bahrat, Seven Fountains Square. Droplets caught in the sunlight and green grass surrounded the fountain. It was like an oasis of peace in the middle of the busy city. Zafir took out his phone and tried to capture the scene but the photo ended up blurred.

  When Abu Moussa dropped them off near the end of Shari al-Thawra, Revolution Street, Zafir looked up at the massive portrait of the president that was spread across the old stone wall at the entrance to the market. The president was wearing a suit with a blue tie, as he was in all his photos. He was smiling and his wave seemed directed at Zafir.

  ‘Please meet us at the Sheraton Hotel at eight-thirty,’ said Mum to Abu Moussa as they got out of the taxi.

  Abu Moussa nodded and smiled. ‘I will find a place to smoke a shisha for the afternoon.’

  They walked through the market. Along both sides of the street were shops selling tablecloths, woollen shawls, carved wooden mirrors, brass trays, beaked coffee pots and so much more. There was hardly any room to move inside the tiny shops so the merchants sat outside and called to the passing crowds. ‘Come here for the best prices.’

  They finally arrived at Al-Hareeka Square. The walkway between the shops was tiled with pink and grey stones and the bushes planted along the street were trimmed into small, neat mounds.

  ‘It’s busier here than usual,’ said Mum. Two young men stopped in front of them suddenly as one pulled out his phone. He checked it, then glanced around with a nervous look on his face before staring into the window of a shop that sold ladies’ coats. Zafir realised that a lot of people in the square didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Like the man in front of them, they were just looking in shop windows or standing on corners checking their phones. He saw a white bus parked down a side street with people sitting in it.

  Something wasn’t right, and Zafir had a bad feeling that he was about to find out what it was – whether he liked it or not.

  Mum called Uncle Ghazi to find out exactly where he was. Zafir heard her say, ‘No, Boulos doesn’t know we’re here. I thought we would surprise him.’ Then, ‘You sound strange. Is there a problem?’ She paused. ‘Okay, okay. You can tell us in a minute when we see you.’

  They found Uncle Ghazi tapping out a text on his phone in a café overlooking the square. At a nearby table, three young women were having coffee and at another table a man was reading a newspaper.

  ‘Uncle Ghazi!’ Zafir called. Uncle Ghazi looked up and frowned. He stood but instead of greeting them he said, ‘Nadia, if Boulos finds out you are here, and you’ve brought Zafir, he’ll be angry.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Mum. ‘What’s wrong, Ghazi?’ She kissed him on the cheek, one side and then the other, and sat down.

  ‘Nadia, do you really not know? It’s all over Facebook and Twitter.’

  ‘I told you – I promised Boulos I wouldn’t check those sites and I haven’t.’

  Uncle Ghazi picked up his cup but it was empty. He put it down and twirled it around on the saucer before he spoke. ‘Well, it’s starting. Today. Here.’

  Mum gasped and put her hand up to her mouth. Zafir looked from her to Uncle Ghazi. What was starting?

  ‘What’s happened?’ Mum asked.

  ‘The spark that has ignited it all is the news from Daraa,’ said Uncle Ghazi, his voice tight and hard. ‘Just over a week ago a dozen or more schoolboys, not much older than Zafir, were caught writing anti-government slogans on their school wall. They were dragged from their classrooms and taken away. A few days ago, the body of one of the boys was returned to his family to be buried. There were burn marks all over him.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Mum.

  Zafir felt sick.

  ‘Yes,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘This has gone way beyond demanding tax reforms, getting rid of corrupt officials and releasing political prisoners.’ He leaned forward. ‘A lot of people are angry and the call has gone out through Twitter and Facebook to have our real day of rage.’

  At that moment Uncle Ghazi’s phone rang. He nodded as he listened and then said, ‘Okay. Yes. I’m here too.’

  ‘That was Gulnaz,’ he said as he stood up. ‘She says there are about two hundred of us here now, so we should begin.’

  ‘Begin what?’ Zafir asked, still trying to understand what was going on.

  ‘The Syrian revolution,’ said Unce Ghazi. ‘In years to come you’ll be able to say that you were here on this day.’ He grinned at Zafir like everything was fun again.

  ‘You two promise to stay up here though,’ he said. ‘I don’t want Boulos getting mad with me for turning you both into revolutionaries.’

  ‘Be careful, Ghazi,’ said Mum, putting her hand on his arm. ‘This isn’t a game.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Nadia, it won’t last too long. See all the security guys down there?’ He pointed to the men in black leather jackets who seemed to have suddenly multiplied. ‘They’ll probably just move us on like they did last time. Now I’d better go. I’m going to be taking photos that the whole world will see. They’ll finally understand what’s happening here.’

  As Zafir watched Uncle Ghazi walk out onto the paved square, he noticed the three young women from the café went downstairs too and the other people who had appeared to be wandering around aimlessly in the square came together as a group.

  Someone started chanting, ‘Allah, God, Sourya, Syria, and azadi, freedom.’ Others joined in. One of the women who had been sitting near them pulled out a placard that she had been hiding under her long coat. It read, ‘The Syrian people will not be humiliated.’

  Uncle Ghazi stood to the side of the group, taking photos.

  The protest got noisier and the chant changed: ‘Our souls and blood for Syria.’ People began clapping. There were a lot of women among the crowd and Zafir saw
a boy with a Syrian scarf draped around his neck, riding a bike in-between his mother and father. He looked younger than Zafir.

  ‘This is incredible,’ said Mum. ‘I cannot believe I’m witnessing such a thing.’ Zafir pulled out his phone to take a photo of the protesters but the man who had been reading the newspaper nearby pushed back his chair so hard it fell over. He took two big strides across the room and grabbed the phone out of Zafir’s hands.

  ‘No photos,’ he yelled, spitting phlegm. Zafir shrank back in his seat.

  ‘He didn’t mean any harm,’ said Mum. She looked scared. ‘We are from the country.’

  ‘Yes,’ the man said in a calmer voice. ‘I can see you are no part of this. Go home, Madaam, and take your son with you. Forget all this. Ahsan lak, it is better for you.’

  A squeal of tyres made them all look down. Pulling up into the square was the white bus Zafir had seen earlier, along with a squad of white four-wheel drive vehicles. Shurta in black clothes carrying rifles plus men in plainclothes holding batons ran out of the bus towards the demonstrators, shouting, ‘Long live President Bashar al-Assad. God bless Syria.’

  ‘The special security forces have arrived. The fun begins.’

  The man sounded pleased. He dropped Zafir’s phone onto the table and ran down the steps, pulling out a baton from under his jacket as he went. He joined the other men who were hitting any protester in their path. People began screaming and running in all directions. Zafir kept his eyes on Uncle Ghazi, who was holding his phone out taking a video of a woman wearing jeans and a padded jacket. Zafir recognised her as Uncle Ghazi’s friend, Gulnaz. She was talking into the phone and waving her arms about.

  Four policemen came up behind Uncle Ghazi. Zafir couldn’t move in his seat. It was like watching a horror film when you want to look away but you can’t because you’ve got to know what happens next. Two of the policemen in plain-clothes rushed at Uncle Ghazi, their batons whirling. Uncle Ghazi threw his phone to Gulnaz who ran into the crowd, one of the policemen following her. Uncle Ghazi put his hands up to protect his head as the three policemen swinging batons closed in on him. The men’s arms went up and down and their legs in and out as they beat and kicked Uncle Ghazi who was now on his knees. A high-pitched noise began somewhere close to him but Zafir couldn’t look away to find out what it was. The beating seemed to go on and on until finally they dragged Uncle Ghazi away. Zafir saw blood on his T-shirt. Just as he was being pushed into one of the white cars, Zafir saw him lift his head and look up towards where they were sitting.

  It was only as the car reversed that Zafir realised the high-pitched noise was Mum screaming.

  ‘At least I didn’t know about my dad when he was in prison. I didn’t have to think about what it would be like for him.’ Rami was the only person Zafir had told about what had happened that day. Pops had said not to tell Tetah and Zafir didn’t want to tell Eleni. How do you tell a foreigner that in this country you will get beaten and put in jail for taking videos of people asking for freedom?

  Rami and Zafir were jogging slowly around the running track at the back of the school, for once not just so they wouldn’t be heard but because Rami was trying to get as fit as possible. He’d been picked to be a member of the swimming squad to go the Interschool Games in Lebanon in mid April.

  ‘Is he in Al Adra Prison?’ asked Rami. ‘That’s where they put all the political prisoners.’

  ‘I think so,’ said Zafir. ‘Pops is trying to find out through friends of friends who work in the Interior Ministry.’ The only good thing was that Mum and Pops hadn’t argued since it happened. Pops hadn’t even been angry with Mum for being in Damascus on that day. He’d said that he thought Uncle Ghazi had been foolish but he was more worried than angry. It had happened nearly two weeks ago and there was still no news.

  ‘I just hope he doesn’t have falaka done on him,’ said Rami.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Zafir.

  ‘They beat the soles of your feet until they turn to pulp and then make you walk on salt.’

  Zafir wished he hadn’t asked. He ran faster, his knees and arms pumping. He ran a whole lap before he had to pull up, gasping, hands on his knees and his head hanging. Rami finally caught up to him.

  ‘I think they only do it to spies and your uncle isn’t a spy. He’s only an activist.’

  Zafir didn’t know about that but he hoped Rami was right.

  ‘What your uncle said was true – when he said that day was the start of the revolution. It’s really spreading now.’

  Zafir nodded, still catching his breath. Every Friday since Uncle Ghazi had been taken away, people were coming together to protest against the government. It wasn’t just happening in Damascus but in Daraa to the south, Aleppo to the north and Al Hasakah to the east, and right here in Homs hundreds of people gathered after prayers each Friday and marched to New Clock Square. They yelled for freedom and for the downfall of the president.

  ‘The Naqib says the higher-ups are seriously worried because the regime doesn’t know how to deal with what’s going on,’ Rami said. ‘I mean, they can’t put everyone in prison. Or kill them either for that matter.’

  Zafir nodded again. Security forces had done worse than beat protesters now. They had fired into the crowds and people had been killed. Then there were more people killed at the funerals of the protesters. Yet more and more people were joining the protest marches.

  ‘It’s like my father said in his latest blog post,’ said Rami. ‘The wall of fear has been cracked and courage is contagious.’ He grinned. ‘The excellent thing is that if the protests continue and the regime is ousted my dad could come back and live in Syria and then I’d be able to live with him here.’

  ‘Has he told you this?’ asked Zafir.

  ‘Um … well not exactly,’ said Rami and he looked away. ‘I’ve sent him a few emails but he hasn’t replied yet. I think he probably doesn’t want to contact me in case … you know,’ he said, looking up again and sounding almost proud. ‘I could go to jail for even sending him an email, so if he sent one back I’d be in big trouble.’

  At school assembly the following morning, Mr Marbruk, the principal, made an announcement. ‘Today, to show support for our beloved president we will be marching in the city. A flag and photo of the president will be given to you to carry. After the march, the president has said that all students are to have the rest of the day off.’ Everyone cheered at that news.

  ‘To get a day off school I’d wave a flag for my uncle’s pet magpie,’ whispered Rami as they set off on a bus to the middle of the city. Zafir grinned, but it wasn’t a real grin because inside he felt twisted up. How could he go and pretend he was supporting a regime that had put Uncle Ghazi in jail?

  Police cars escorted the buses, with police on foot stopping the traffic and directing the crowds towards New Clock Square. These policemen were smiling and making sure all the students got to the front, near the tall, striped clock tower. A Syrian flag hung from the tower and there was a huge banner with a portrait of the president staring out into the distance over everyone’s heads. People came from surrounding office buildings carrying their flags and photos. Everyone seemed happy to be outside in the sunshine.

  ‘It’s like a big party,’ said Rami.

  When no more people could be squeezed into the square, a man carrying a Syrian flag in each hand jumped up onto the pedestal of the clock tower and shouted, ‘We love Bashar al-Assad! We love Syria!’

  A shiver went through the crowd. Zafir felt it and even though he wasn’t sure he loved Bashar al-Assad he found himself shouting that he did and waving his flag and photo. It was like being at a football match but everyone was cheering for the same team. As the chants went on, every thought except being on the winning team – the president’s team – went out of Zafir’s head.

  When it was over, he felt sucked dry. He realised his feet hurt and his throat was sore and his arms ached from all the waving. Maybe everyone else felt the same way. They
were all strangely quiet as they trudged out of the square. Zafir turned and looked up at the huge portrait that hung from the building.

  ‘They could have hung that banner lower so at least it would have seemed like he was looking at what we were doing for him,’ said Rami.

  Zafir nodded. It was like Bashar al-Assad was so high up that he couldn’t see what was happening directly below him. He was stuck staring out at a view that only he could see.

  ‘Syria is the victim of a conspiracy by external forces. Foreign terrorists are infiltrating our country in an attempt to destabilise it,’ said the president, looking out through the screen of the television into the sitting room where Mum and Pops and Zafir sat watching the news two weeks later.

  ‘How can he say that?’ asked Mum. ‘How can he blame foreigners for what’s happening in his own country?’

  The president’s speech was interrupted by clapping and cheering from the members of parliament. The president waved his hands to stop the applause and smiled at them, and at all Syrians watching him from their sitting rooms and restaurants and shops, and even at everyone in the world who was watching the televised speech.

  Mum’s phone rang. She picked it up, looked at the caller and gave a loud cry as she pressed the talk button.

  ‘Alhamdulillah, praise God! Ghazi! How are you? It’s so good to hear your voice.’

  Zafir and Pops looked at each other and grinned. This was the best news of all. Pops switched off the television and the president’s face disappeared into the dark, blank screen.

  ‘Where is he?’ Pops asked. ‘Put the phone on loudspeaker, Nadia, so we can all hear.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Uncle Ghazi’s disembodied voice crackled through the speaker on the phone. ‘I was released today and for now I am staying with Gulnaz’s family because my landlord doesn’t want to be associated with a traitor like me.’