Zafir

by Prue Mason

  ‘You must leave Syria,’ said Mum firmly. ‘Go to America or Sweden, or Australia. Sophia, my friend, the priest’s wife, says it’s a good country with so much freedom.’

  ‘I’d love to visit those countries one day,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘But I can’t leave now. Change is so close. Gulnaz has told me the good news – that thousands of people all around the country are demonstrating against the regime.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pops. ‘But there is bad news too. Many have died in this fight. Is it really worth it?’

  Zafir groaned. Pops hadn’t been arguing with Mum so why was he saying this now to Uncle Ghazi?

  ‘There are other issues that had been hidden that are now rising,’ Pops went on. ‘For instance, my mother cannot go to church without being worried that she’ll be spat on or worse. There is such hatred against minority groups like Christians, because they are against the protests and support the regime.’

  ‘We’ve asked your mother and Rosa to come and stay with us here in Al Waer. She knows it’s safer but she refuses to leave.’ Mum glared at Pops as if that was his fault. ‘But Ghazi, it is getting dangerous close to where she lives. Yesterday when we visited her, we couldn’t go through New Clock Square as the demonstrators coming from the mosques were gathered there. We could hear the shouting from Tetah’s house. And then there was shooting as well, and a child, among others, was killed. There have been many martyrs.’

  ‘I agree it’s not all good news,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘But I … we, all who’ve been supporting this cause have been through too much to back down now. And the way the government is reacting, ordering the security forces to shoot at crowds, preventing ambulances from reaching victims, arresting and now killing children, just proves that what we are fighting for is worth it. This is a brutal regime.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘But people have had enough. The Assad family must leave. They should go to Russia and let us get on with our lives.’

  ‘Do you really think even if this happens that change can occur?’ asked Pops. He sounded tired and sad. ‘There is all this talk of freedom and democracy. They are beautiful ideas, but will it ever happen here in Syria? How can we forget that it is in our country where Cain killed Abel? The stain of violence goes so deep I wonder if blood is all we understand.’

  There was an awkward silence. Zafir had to do something to make sure they didn’t have one of their arguments again. He said the first thing that came into his head. ‘I’ve got some good news. My friend, Rami, won his swimming race at the Interschool Games day in Lebanon. He said I should think about training to get in the athletics team next year.’

  ‘Great idea,’ said Uncle Ghazi. Pops nodded and Mum smiled at Zafir and patted his arm.

  ‘Next year is a good time to look forward to,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Mum after the phone call, ‘that we must go and stay with Tetah until things are less dangerous. Family is important and we should care for each other.’

  ‘It would be safer for her to stay with us,’ said Pops.

  Mum nodded. ‘Yes, I agree, but you know she won’t because there’s no church close by and it’s too far to go to her church from here.’

  ‘And being Easter week she will be going every day,’ said Pops. ‘But what about Zafir? It won’t be any fun for him. It’s term break and you know Tetah will probably make him go to church with her.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think he’ll mind too much.’ Mum looked over at Zafir and winked. ‘It’ll give him a chance to see his girlfriend.’

  Now Zafir knew how Uncle Ghazi felt when Mum went on about Gulnaz.

  ‘She’s only a friend,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’ll be studying for the exams in June.’

  ‘Would you prefer to stay here then?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Well … no … I can take my books.’ It’d be totally boring staying in the apartment for the whole holidays and it would be okay to go skateboarding with Eleni.

  ‘I’ll call Mama then,’ said Pops. ‘She’ll be delighted but I hope she doesn’t say anything to you about sleeping in or drinking too much coffee or about how I should never have become a Muslim.’

  ‘I promise I won’t get annoyed, even if she brings up any of those subjects. I even promise I won’t say a word when she goes on about how wonderful the president and his family is.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Pops but he grabbed Mum’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Shukran, habibi, thank you, sweetheart.’

  Zafir’s shoulders ached. He was dragging his schoolbag, heavy with books, and a suitcase full of clothes down the seven floors of stairs in their apartment building. Mum had taken up all the room in the lift with the bags of groceries she said she’d better take to Tetah’s. There was a strike in the city that had been called by the imam at the Grand Mosque to object to the way the protesters were being treated by the government forces. It meant that most of the markets and shops around the Old City were closed. So far, the strike hadn’t spread to Al Waer.

  Pops had gone to work earlier that day, which was lucky considering how much stuff they had to pack into Abu Moussa’s taxi.

  ‘It’s not so safe in the city,’ said Abu Moussa. ‘There are many people roaming the streets looking for trouble. They are like wasps buzzing and I fear they will bring about their own destruction.’

  The drive into the city was like travelling between different worlds. Once they left the farmlands along the road between Al Waer and the main city of Homs and were on Bassel Hafez Al Assad Korniche, they saw more police cars than taxis. The shops along the streets had their shutters pulled down and men with scarves the colour of the Syrian flag wandered around in groups. They also saw other cars cruising slowly with three or four men inside. Zafir now recognised that these men were probably shabiha, because they mostly wore khaki shirts or black T-shirts.

  ‘It feels tense,’ said Mum. ‘As if everyone is waiting for something to happen.’

  Zafir was pleased to get to Tetah’s house. It felt safe inside – like nothing bad could happen. Nothing was different here. Not even Tetah, because after she greeted them and saw all the bags of groceries she said, ‘It’s very kind of you, Nadia, to bring all this food but do you not realise this is Holy Week, a time of fasting?’

  Zafir glanced over at Mum and saw a frown flit across her face, but she was also biting her lip. Pops would be proud of her.

  ‘I managed to get some eggs,’ she said. ‘Last week you said it was difficult to find any now that the market is shut down.’

  Tetah smiled – a proper smile.

  ‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t feel like Pascha, Easter, without eggs. I’ll get Rosa to prepare the dye.’

  ‘I am so looking forward to egg painting,’ said Mum. ‘Sophia … Presbytera Sophia has explained to me the significance of the egg as a symbol of the renewal of life.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tetah. ‘We will all paint our own eggs on Easter Saturday.’ She patted Mum’s arm. ‘Paul used to love doing that when he was a boy.’

  When Pops got in from work, Tetah had just returned from evening service at the church. Rosa brought them tea and they sat in the sitting room on the blue-and-gold striped sofas.

  ‘I do wish you had come to stay in Al Waer,’ said Pops to Tetah. ‘There’s a dangerous feeling around here. Thousands of people are gathering in New Clock Square. We couldn’t drive past this evening.’

  ‘Have they got nothing better to do?’ asked Tetah. ‘They should all go back to work.’

  ‘Many of them don’t have a job, Mama, and it’s one reason why they’re protesting. But it’s not just the unemployed and young activists anymore. Even the lower middle income people are involved. Abu Moussa told me they’re going to sit in the square until they get their freedom. They have even renamed it Tahrir, Liberation Square.’

  ‘How ridiculous,’ said Tetah.

  ‘Many people are supporting them, bringing food and water,’ said Pops. ‘But the shabiha are surrounding the area.
I fear there may be a confrontation that could lead to many deaths.’

  ‘The world has gone mad,’ said Tetah. ‘What can all these deaths bring about but sorrow for the families seeing their loved ones’ photos pasted on a mosque wall?’

  It was only then that Mum spoke. ‘Inshala, if God wills, what is coming is better than what has gone.’

  It was something people said at funerals to make people feel better, but Mum said it like she really believed it.

  When Rosa answered the bell the next day, Zafir expected it to be one of the neighbours, probably Ustaaz Farook. Tetah relied on him for advice and he often came by just to see if she needed anything. Or it could be Mrs Mohammed. She and Tetah played cards together. Zafir was surprised when Rosa came back and announced that the visitor was for him.

  He went to the door and found Eleni, skateboard under arm.

  ‘Ready to ride?’ she asked.

  She dropped the skateboard to the ground, stepped onto it with one foot and pushed off with the other. She shot down the narrow lane, leaning her body this way and that as she curved along the street. Then she tapped the tail of the board on the ground and it flicked around but she did a fakie and stayed facing the same way as she skated backwards towards him.

  Zafir grabbed his helmet and his skateboard. He did the Caveman start that he’d been practising where he jumped on the board before it hit the ground. He rolled it straight at the kerb and the wall of Mr Farook’s house and as he hit the kerb his skateboard leapt into the air and spun around. He landed it back almost in front of Eleni.

  ‘Sweet trick,’ she said, grinning. She took off down the lane and then kickflipped around and came back at full speed before she nosed the board over and jumped in the air as it spun.

  He nodded. Not a bad nollie.

  As they rolled up and down the narrow street, a man came out of Ustaaz Farook’s doorway. It was Ammar, the student who was renting a room. He was talking on his phone and Zafir overheard him say that he was on his way to join the sit-in at Tahrir Square. Ammar waved to them. Zafir didn’t really know him but they waved back, then watched him hurry off down the lane and disappear around the corner.

  Zafir and Eleni practised more tricks. Finally Zafir spun to a stop. He picked up his skateboard and wiped the sweat off his face with his arm.

  ‘It’s hot,’ he said. ‘Do you feel like an ice-cream?’

  ‘I can’t because I’m fasting,’ said Eleni. ‘That reminds me, I heard my mum and your mum talking and they’ve decided you’re going to be an altar boy in the Easter Parade.’

  ‘What? But I’m not a Christian. I’ve never been baptised.’ Zafir looked at her but she just grinned back. ‘They’ve spoken to my father and he’s agreed. Your gran doesn’t know yet because they want it to be a surprise.’

  ‘Great,’ said Zafir, knowing that there would be no getting out of it.

  ‘Hey,’ said Eleni, punching his arm lightly. ‘You’ll look sweet in that long blue gown.’ She said it with a straight face but was she teasing him? Zafir wasn’t sure.

  Pops was late. Tetah wasn’t pleased because she had invited Ustaaz Farook for supper and they had been fasting all day. Like every night lately, the discussion was about the problems that were being caused by the protestors and worries of how the shurta and government forces were reacting. It was all bad news and Zafir stopped listening. He had to think of how he could get out of being an altar boy. He’d never been to an Easter Parade but Tetah had been talking about how she was looking forward to it since Great Lent began. She said Pascha was more important than Christmas because it was about Christ rising from the dead, not just being born. But what if the procession went through the streets and someone from school saw him, like Murshid or Mustafa? Zafir hadn’t told Rami about the parade because Rami was still away. After the games he had gone to Dubai with his family and every email Zafir got from him was all about how wonderful Dubai was. Maybe, with any luck, everyone else at school would be away too.

  ‘I’m going up to the roof terrace for some fresh air before bed,’ Pops said when they finished supper.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ said Mum. ‘It’s already after midnight.’

  ‘Fresh air is good for one before retiring,’ said Ustaaz Farook, following Pops upstairs.

  ‘Be careful,’ called Tetah. She settled herself in front of the television. ‘Those soldiers are not so far away.’

  Zafir knew it wasn’t possible to see New Clock Square from the roof terrace, but he wondered if you could from the roof of Rosa’s bedroom.

  He ran quietly up the stone steps, the hollowed grooves cool and smooth under his bare feet. Out on the terrace, the sky was silvery-blue with light from the full moon. Zafir could hear a cooing sound from Mr Mohammed’s pigeons on the roof next door. Pops was already on the roof of Rosa’s bedroom with binoculars. Ustaaz Farook had lit a cigarette and Zafir could see the tip of it glowing in the shadows. Zafir stayed hidden because he knew if he was discovered he’d be sent to bed.

  ‘It is not wise,’ he heard Ustaaz Farook say. ‘But it does fill one’s heart with pride at the courage of so many and one wishes one was not so wise and a little braver.’

  ‘Yes, although I can’t support all this civil unrest,’ Pops said. ‘The actions of the government so far have made the protestors’ case more emotive. But there will be consequences to their actions. It’s been two days now. I can’t count them, but there must be thousands of people in the square.’

  ‘Tahrir Square has a fine sound to it, but you are right. One cannot believe they will be allowed to stay there indefinitely.’

  Pops and Ustaaz Farook chatted a while longer. Zafir was thinking about creeping back to bed when Pops made a startled sound

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Ustaaz Farook. There was shouting in the distance.

  ‘All the lights in the square have just gone out.’ Pops replied.

  A voice came through a loudhailer calling for everyone to leave the square. It was surprisingly loud in the cool night air and the message carried clearly to the rooftop.

  ‘God have mercy,’ said Ustaaz Farook.

  Shortly afterwards a sharp ratatat cracked the air. There was yelling and screaming. The ratatatting went on and on and the yells became fewer and further between. Sirens began to wail and tyres screeched as cars raced through the streets. Zafir saw Pops bow his head and Ustaaz Farook sighed as he puffed on his cigarette.

  The next day Ustaaz Farook discovered that Ammar had never come home. Later Zafir heard him tell Tetah that Ammar’s family had pasted a photo of him on the wall of the Khalid Ibn Al-Walid masjid.

  ‘The Easter Parade is to be cancelled,’ Tetah announced three days later. Mum looked up from her coffee.

  Yes! Zafir couldn’t believe his luck.

  ‘It’s only right when the whole city is in mourning,’ said Mum. ‘But I believe that the parade is still going ahead inside the church. Presbytera Sophia told me when I saw her yesterday.’

  ‘I see,’ said Tetah. ‘What’s wrong, Zafir? You look as if you’ve won a prize but had it taken away from you.’

  Mum looked over at Zafir. There was a guilty expression on her face. ‘I need to talk to you, Zafir,’ she said. ‘In my room.’

  ‘Of course it’s your decision,’ said Mum. They were sitting in the small bedroom that looked out over the courtyard. ‘We, that is Sophia and Petros, I mean Father Papadopoulos, and your father and I, all think that it would be such a wonderful symbol of unity in these troubled times to have a child from a different faith carrying a candle in the parade. And your father and I have been invited to be there as well. I must say I am feeling quite excited.’

  What could Zafir say? Mum smiled when he nodded.

  ‘And I can’t wait to see Tetah’s face when she sees you as an altar boy.’

  Everyone wore black on Great and Holy Friday. Even Ustaaz Farook wore a black tarboosh because it was, as Tetah said, the funeral day for Jesus Christ. She went to the mo
rning and afternoon service but it was the evening service that Zafir was dreading.

  ‘Nothing feels right,’ said Mum as they left Tetah’s house for the five-minute walk through the narrow streets to the church. All the nearby shops had their shutters down. Even the small teashop across the road where the old men sat after going to the mosque or church was closed. ‘It’s too quiet.’

  The only sounds were their own footsteps on the pavement. A screech of tyres broke the silence. They turned and Tetah made the sign of the cross because racing around the corner was a truck with a gun mounted on the back. The truck pulled up at the teahouse and four black-clothed Mukhabarat security forces men jumped out. One had a loudhailer and he called for Mr Saaba, who lived above the teashop, to come out.

  ‘Surely he hasn’t been part of the protests,’ said Tetah.

  ‘The security forces are rounding up anyone they believe has been involved in anti-government activities,’ said Ustaaz Farook. ‘A known activist may merely have been seen at the teahouse.’

  Zafir shivered as the image of Uncle Ghazi getting beaten came into his head. Would they beat Mr Saaba too? He walked quickly: the last thing he wanted to see was another beating.

  A small crowd milled around the square where the church stood. They murmured the special Great Friday greeting to each other, ‘The Light of God may be with your departed ones.’

  ‘I’ll take you to the sanctuary where you’ll get ready,’ said Pops, putting his hand on Zafir’s shoulder and guiding him into the church.

  As they walked towards the wall of shining icons to the door called the Angel’s Gate, Zafir saw the epitaphio, funeral bier, for Christ in the middle of the church. Inside was the carved statue of Christ that usually hung on the cross. The statue was covered with flowers.

  ‘This brings back memories of being an altar boy on Great Friday myself,’ said Pops.

  ‘Do I have to do this?’ asked Zafir. He was still shaken up by what they’d seen on the way to church.