Zafir

by Prue Mason

  ‘If it doesn’t feel right then don’t do it,’ said Pops. ‘I would normally be against this idea entirely, but I admire Petros Papadopoulos. He’s different from other clerics.’

  Zafir stood at the Angel’s Gate for a minute and looked around. People in the church were quietly praying or bending to kiss the icons, yet in a street not far away Mr Saaba was probably being dragged out of his home. How could such terrible things be happening so close by when it felt safe and peaceful here? Being in the church reminded Zafir how he’d felt when he used to go to the masjid, mosque, with Giddo. How when he’d stepped into the musallah, prayer hall, it always felt different from the outside world. Zafir breathed in the musty air of the church. Tetah’s church was different to Giddo’s masjid because the church was dark and warm and had a golden glow to it from the icons. The masjid always felt cool and the blue and white tiles, which covered the floor and walls and even the high-domed roof, sparkled in the light of the crystal chandeliers. But like the calm of the masjid in bustling Dubai, this church felt like a still point in the middle of this swirling, dangerous city.

  ‘Okay,’ Zafir said. ‘I’ll do it.’ He pushed open the door and saw the room behind bustling with deacons helping priests into their black vestments. Zafir saw the twins, Georges and Alex, pulling on their long blue robes.

  ‘It’s good of you, Zafir, to help us in these troubled times,’ said Father Papadopoulos after he had blessed him. ‘Shukran, thank you.’

  ‘You are tall,’ said a deacon. He turned to the twins. ‘Find the largest gown and hurry, because it’s time to begin.’

  When he had struggled into the gown, Zafir realised the twins had deliberately chosen one that was too small. It was tight under his arms and only came down to his shins.

  ‘It’ll have to do,’ said the deacon. ‘There’s no time to change. Here – carry this candle.’

  Zafir heard the twins giggling as the deacon pushed open the door.

  The parade went on forever. There was nowhere to walk except around and around the nave. In the limited space and with the large number of people, the parade became one continuous circle led by those in the band playing drums followed by those playing trumpets and tubas. Behind them, came Zafir and Georges and Alex, ahead of the epitaphio for the statue of the crucified Christ carried on the shoulders of four men. Three priests and the deacons walked behind the epitaphio and everyone else followed.

  Zafir’s arms ached from carrying the huge brass candlestick and his head began to throb, but the beat from the brass band made him keep marching on. He could hear Tetah and other women sobbing. It was almost like a real funeral.

  He saw Eleni with her mother. She looked sad as well but when she saw him looking at her she gave him a small wave and one of her wide grins. Being Easter weekend she’d told him that there was no chance of getting out for some skateboarding. Zafir still had a week’s holiday left so he hoped they could catch up on Tuesday or Wednesday. With Rami still away it was good to have someone else to talk to. His mind wandered to what new trick he could perfect in the next few days.

  At last the ceremony was over. Zafir, the other altar boys, the deacons and priests filed through the doors into the sanctuary as people began to move out of the church.

  ‘May you and your family go in peace,’ said Father Papadopoulos in a special blessing to Zafir after he’d changed from the robe into his normal clothes.

  ‘May there be peace in the streets,’ one of the deacons said and he and Father Papadopoulos started talking about the sit-in and the protests and how worrying the whole situation was.

  Zafir sighed. There was no getting away from Syria’s problems, even in the sanctuary of the church. He hurried out to find Mum, Pops, Tetah and Ustaaz Farook were waiting for him on the porch outside the church. Tetah’s eyes were red.

  ‘Our Zafir, he looked like an angel,’ she said as she drew in a large, sobbing breath. ‘Ah, it is all so sad. No matter I have attended more than fifty Great and Holy Friday ceremonies – it touches my heart worse each year. And to see my own grandson as an altar boy? I was so happy I could not stop weeping.’ She put her handkerchief to her eyes and wiped away more tears.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mum, touching Zafir’s shoulder. ‘But he was a head taller than the others. He is growing as we look at him these days.’ Then she did something Zafir had only see her do in private because it was not considered respectable out in the street. She leaned her head on Pops’s shoulder and took his hand. ‘Our son will very soon be a man.’

  Back at Tetah’s house, Rosa was serving a light supper of samaka harra, spiced fish, when they heard the sound of clanging and rattling at the gate.

  ‘Who can that be?’ asked Tetah.

  Zafir felt his heart thudding. Was it the shurta coming to drag one of them away? It was then they heard the cry for help. And Zafir recognised the voice.

  ‘It’s Abu Moussa!’ Zafir was the first to arrive at the door, closely followed by Ustaaz Farook, who was faster on his feet than he looked. Pops was just a step behind him.

  ‘Sayidi, sir, please, you must help. It’s my son, my second boy, Mohammed.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Pops asked. He opened the gate and Abu Moussa almost fell inside. It was only then that they saw his gown was covered with a reddish brown stain.

  ‘My God, that is blood,’ said Ustaaz Farook. ‘Are you injured?’

  Zafir was staring at the blood. Where had it all come from?

  ‘Sayidi, bismillah, in the name of Allah, I implore you. My son has been shot.’

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Pops.

  ‘Here.’ Abu Moussa pointed to the back seat of the taxi.

  ‘Good God in heaven,’ said Pops as he looked through the back window of the taxi. ‘He needs to get to a hospital. Now.’

  Zafir peered into the taxi before anyone could stop him. Lying along the back seat was a young man with his eyes closed. He was holding a red towel to his stomach. Then Zafir realised it wasn’t a red towel. It was a blood-soaked towel.

  Zafir felt his own stomach turn over. His knees buckled and he had to lean against the car so he didn’t fall.

  ‘He needs to be operated on immediately,’ said Pops.

  ‘One has heard they are arresting anyone who enters a hospital with gunshot wounds,’ said Ustaaz Farook.

  ‘My son will die if you do not help us,’ said Abu Moussa. ‘He is married and has three babies. Bismillah, sayidi. Only you can help us.’

  ‘Come back inside,’ said Tetah. She’d come out with Mum to see what was happening. Neither Zafir nor Pops moved.

  ‘Paul, you cannot get involved. He’s obviously been at the protests. It’s not our business.’

  Now that they were outside the thick walls of the old house they could hear the popping sounds of gunshots and sirens wailing – the Red Crescent ambulances picking up those who had been wounded in this Friday’s protests.

  ‘Ya Allah, oh God!’ Mum clutched Pops’s arm.

  ‘Paulie, my son, I beg you, do not get involved,’ said Tetah, using the name she’d called him as a child, as if to coax him to her way of thinking.

  ‘Please, doctor. You have a son. You understand why I beg of you to save my son.’

  Zafir knew what Pops would do. He was a doctor after all.

  ‘Of course I will do what I can,’ said Pops. ‘But we must go to the hospital. Dr Bassell will not like it but we must operate.’

  ‘Shukran, sayidi. Shukran. May Allah bless you for your kindness.’

  ‘We must hurry,’ said Pops. He quickly kissed Mum and Tetah and passed his hand over Zafir’s head in blessing. ‘I’ll call from the hospital when I can.’ He turned to Ustaaz Farook and shook his hand. ‘I will go much happier knowing you are here like a guardian angel for my family.’

  ‘Paulie, my son, please if you care at all for your mother then do not do this.’ Tetah’s face was white. She tried to clutch at Pops’s sleeve and he had to loosen her fingers to get away. He put he
r hands into Mum’s hands.

  ‘I must go,’ he said, turning towards the taxi to go, but Abu Moussa suddenly fell into a heap on the ground.

  ‘It’s shock,’ said Pops as he examined him. ‘Zafir, get a blanket. We must keep him warm. And get a fresh towel too.’

  Zafir raced into the house and upstairs. He dragged the blanket off his bed and grabbed a fresh towel. By the time he got to the car Pops and Ustaaz Farook had got Abu Moussa into the front seat. He was conscious but unable to drive.

  ‘I’ll have to drive,’ said Pops. ‘But, Zafir, I will need your help. You must hold this towel tight against the patient’s stomach wound to stop more loss of blood.’

  Tetah started sobbing then, and Mum’s face went white too, but Zafir knew he had to help. When he sat down in the back seat of the taxi, Abu Moussa’s son moaned. His face was an unnatural blue-grey. His eyes flickered open and then closed again as Pops swapped the blood-soaked towel for the fresh one. Inside the car, blood mixed with the sour smell of sweat and fear. Zafir nearly gagged as he pulled the door closed. He put his hand on the fresh towel, which was already beginning to soak up the blood. He’d never known blood was so bright.

  Pops shoved the car into reverse and they sped backwards, the engine whining. They raced through the streets towards the hospital where Pops worked. Zafir tried to press the towel just hard enough so that it would stop the flow of blood but wouldn’t hurt Mohammed.

  By the time they got to the hospital Abu Moussa had recovered and helped Pops to get Mohammed out of the car.

  ‘We did not know he was taking part in the protests,’ said Abu Moussa, as they entered the hospital. ‘His friends brought him home or he would have died in the street.’

  ‘It was a good thing you brought him to me,’ said Pops. ‘Now, Zafir, stay with Abu Moussa and make sure he keeps warm.’

  Pops turned and gave orders to the staff to get the theatre ready for an emergency operation.

  He was pulling on his grey surgical scrubs when another doctor appeared. Dr Bassell. He was puffing and there was perspiration on his round, bald head. A crumb was stuck in his neat black moustache.

  ‘Good evening, Dr Haddad. What’s going on? I was having my dinner when I was informed you’re about to perform an emergency operation in theatre. It can’t be done. There are proper procedures to be carried out.’

  ‘Ah, Dr Bassell, good evening. Everything’s fine. Please go back to your dinner. I’ve prepped the man. Our anaesthetist, Dr Al Qubair, is standing by and the nurses are ready. I just need to scrub and I can get on with it.’

  ‘But what is this emergency?’ asked Dr Bassell. His face was going red and his voice was raised. ‘Is it a gunshot wound?’

  Pops didn’t reply. He scrubbed his hands and pulled on his gloves.

  Dr Bassell’s cheeks were puffing out like he was about to explode. ‘We’ve been ordered to let the authorities know if anyone comes in with a gunshot wound as it’s likely that they’ve been involved in illegal activity in the streets.’

  ‘I have no time to argue with you or the man will die,’ said Pops coldly. ‘We can discuss this matter afterwards.’

  ‘If he is a traitor to the homeland then he deserves to die,’ shouted Dr Bassell as Pops headed for the operating theatre.

  It had been such a long day. Zafir only realised he’d fallen asleep in the chair at the hospital when Pops shook him by the shoulder. He was still dressed in his grey pants and loose top.

  Abu Moussa, who had also fallen asleep beside Zafir, jumped up and then fell straight down on his knees in front of Pops.

  ‘Please, sayidi, sir, tell me …’

  Pops ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Your son will live. By great luck, the bullet did not sever the spinal cord.’

  ‘Allah Akbar, God is great! Can I see him?’

  ‘Yes. Come this way.’

  Pops made them scrub their hands and then led them both into a ward where there were half a dozen beds – some with screens around them.

  Mohammed had woken up and although he still looked pale, even against the white sheets and pillow, he was alive.

  ‘Are you a madman?’ asked Abu Moussa. ‘Why did you join those protests? You could have been killed.’

  ‘Many were killed,’ said Mohammed. ‘The bullets were hammering down on us like iron rain.’

  ‘Alhamdulillah, praise God, that you are alive after such an experience,’ said Abu Moussa. He kissed his son’s hand and then turned and kissed Pops’s hands too.

  Zafir stepped backwards. Just in case Abu Moussa wanted to kiss his hands as well. He felt glad that Mohammed was okay. He grinned at Pops and Pops grinned back.

  But it was at that moment that everything went wrong.

  A loud clattering sound was followed by running footsteps. Suddenly, six Mukhabarat security forces men wearing black uniforms ran through the swinging doors into the room. They carried guns and looked ready to shoot. Dr Bassell strode in behind them.

  ‘Where is the traitor?’ yelled one of the men. Before Pops had the chance to say a word, Dr Bassell spoke.

  ‘There he is,’ said Dr Bassell. He pointed to Mohammed who was too weak to even sit up.

  ‘Arrest him,’ yelled the man who was giving the orders.

  ‘You cannot do that,’ said Pops. ‘This man has just had a major operation. He needs to recover.’

  ‘He can recover in a prison cell.’ The leader of the security forces nodded to his men to take Mohammed.

  ‘I cannot let you do this,’ said Pops. He stood by the bed with his arms wide to protect Mohammed.

  ‘Arrest this doctor also,’ screamed the man. ‘If he has operated on this traitor then he is a traitor too.’

  ‘Zafir, go!’ Pops said calmly. ‘Abu Moussa, please take him home. Now.’

  Later Zafir couldn’t remember anything about the drive back to Tetah’s house. Pops would have said Zafir was in shock, but he couldn’t speak, not even when Mum asked him where Pops was or when Tetah wouldn’t stop screaming after Abu Moussa told them what had happened.

  Zafir felt so tired. He wanted to sleep but when he closed his eyes all he could see was the image of Pops standing by Mohammed’s bed, arms wide, as the security forces moved towards him with their guns pointed at his heart.

  Zafir clicked through the emails in his inbox. There was one from Rami but he didn’t bother opening it. Zafir had already heard about how wonderful Rami thought Dubai was. Besides he wasn’t actually that interested in his emails. He was just trying to distract himself from the thoughts that were circling like hungry crows in his head.

  How could such a thing happen? Pops was a good person. He wasn’t a traitor. He didn’t criticise the government. Not like Uncle Ghazi and Abu Moussa’s son and the thousands of other people who were saying the same thing now: that the government must resign. Even Mum said it. But not Pops. Pops helped people.

  The worst thought was the one about how Zafir hadn’t done anything to stop them taking Pops away. Mum had said there wasn’t anything he could have done because the security forces had guns and if he’d tried then they would have taken him away as well. Zafir knew she was right but he still felt guilty.

  He thought about checking Facebook but no one in Dubai understood what was going on in Homs. A couple of friends had replied with comments like ‘keep your head down, dude’ or ‘stay smiling’ when he’d told them he could hear the shooting from Tetah’s house. They lived in another world.

  Zafir walked down the stairs slowly, placing his feet in the hollowed-out grooves. He was halfway when he realised that the people whose feet had worn down these steps had all died long ago – he was stepping into dead people’s footprints. He shivered and wished he hadn’t had that thought.

  Mum and Tetah were sitting at the table in silence. They looked up when Zafir came in.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Mum. She was pale and probably hadn’t slept much either. In front of her was a cup of coffee.

 
; Zafir shrugged. ‘Okay.’

  ‘All I can say is thank God they did not take you also,’ said Tetah. She had said that at least a hundred times the night before after he’d got back, but it didn’t make him feel any better. Tetah had her make-up on and her hair was curled and sprayed in its usual style, but her eyes were puffy. ‘Ustaaz Farook is making enquiries. He believes it’s all a mistake and that Paul will be released without charge.’ Tetah reached out and put her hand on Zafir’s arm. ‘What a terrible thing for you to witness.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ Zafir repeated, though he didn’t really feel that way.

  ‘Why did they arrest him?’ Tetah asked again, although she knew neither Mum nor Zafir had the answer. ‘He’s a doctor. He was only doing his job. He’s not a criminal or an activist.’

  Rosa came in to clear away the plates and Zafir saw her hands were bright red.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Mum, pointing at her hands.

  ‘Nothing, Madaam. It is from the red dye for the eggs,’ she said. ‘But now that sayidi, sir—’

  Rosa didn’t finish her sentence because Mum stood up and clapped her hands. ‘Of course! Today is the day we paint the eggs. This is exactly what we must do. We must think about the renewal of life and how even in the dark times there can still be hope.’

  ‘Yes, this is a good idea.’ Tetah nodded.

  A little later Mum and Tetah were dunking the eggs into a bucket filled with red dye. It looked like they were dipping the eggs into blood.

  ‘Come on, Zafir,’ said Mum, looking up at him, her own hands now bright red. ‘You must paint your egg too.’

  Zafir stared at her hands and almost threw up. He turned away.

  ‘Are you okay, Zaffie?’ Mum asked.

  ‘I’m fine. I … I just don’t feel like doing it. It’s kid’s stuff.’

  Later Zafir saw the small pile of blood red eggs sitting in a basket on a shelf in the kitchen but after that day no one ever mentioned them again.

  When Zafir checked his emails on Sunday morning there was only junk mail and the unread message from Rami. He opened it. The email was long and all about how amazing Dubai was, but at the end he’d written ‘double delete this email’. Zafir frowned. There was nothing important in the email. Was there? He reread it carefully. It started with Rami apologising for not returning Zafir’s email straight away and then went into details of how they got to Dubai from Homs. He said he liked the beaches, but the Naqib had said there were dangerous sharks in the waters now and a local fisherman said the problem was getting worse. He asked how Zafir’s family was, before saying he should have known Dubai’s malls would be better than the ones in Homs. He’d wanted to leave his baby sister in one shop because she screamed so much that everyone in the mall stared at them. The last sentence before the ‘double delete this email’ said ‘I wish you were here’. It was only when Zafir read the message for the third time that he realised there were words within the sentences that were typed in a different font. The second last sentence was all in that font. He quickly wrote the words on a page of his notebook.