Zafir

by Prue Mason

  ‘I miss you too, habibi, sweetheart, but I’m sure I will see you very, very soon.’

  When he hung up the phone he saw Tetah shaking her head. She was watching a foreign Arabic news channel that she could pick up because of the satellite dish on the roof.

  ‘Why are the foreign media telling so many lies? It is as the president says: these takfiri, Muslim radicals, are the source of all the problems.’

  The next day when Tetah got back from church, she had a bad headache. ‘I must go and lie down,’ she said to Zafir. ‘Please ask Rosa to bring me tea.’

  Rosa wasn’t in the kitchen but Zafir found her upstairs on the roof terrace. After she had hurried away to make the tea, Zafir clambered up onto the roof of her bedroom and sat with his legs dangling out into the laneway. Tetah would be hysterical if she saw him but from here he had a good view across the flat rooftops to the city. Mr Mohammed’s pigeons were sitting on the rim of the satellite dish and in a row along the electricity wires, cooing with their chests puffed out. Zafir could see the top of the clock tower and the sun glinting off the blue-and-white glass panels of the City Centre building. In the distance he could see the towers of the Khalid Ibn Al-Walid masjid. Closer by, he could see the minarets of the al-Nouri mosque.

  Over a loudhailer he could hear someone yelling, ‘Today is the Friday of Defiance. The age of silence is over. The age of freedom has just begun.’ There was a roar and he heard the person shout, ‘Al mawt am azadi, death or freedom!’ and the fainter sound of a crowd repeating these words. Zafir couldn’t see the crowd, but from the top of a building not far from the al-Nouri mosque he saw a flash of fire and he heard the ratatting of a gun. Somebody was shooting into the crowd from above. Over the shouting and the roaring engines of motorcycles and cars, he heard the wailing sirens of police and fire trucks and Red Crescent ambulances. He listened and watched for a while longer. It seemed incredible that he could sit there feeling quite safe and yet be in hearing distance of people being shot at and maybe even killed.

  Zafir went downstairs to email Rami and tell him everything he’d seen and heard.

  Rami’s reply came quickly.

  When Zafir decoded the message it read:

  1. Fire trucks are being used to wash the blood off the streets.

  2. Snipers have bullets that explode inside a person’s head.

  3. Naqib has officially defected so if the president doesn’t resign we’ll never be able to come back to Syria.

  4. Know anyone who wants one used Syrian passport?

  Although Rami was making a joke of it, Zafir was shocked to think that his friend and all his family were exiles.

  There was a PS on Rami’s email:

  Got my phone stolen in a mall and the Naqib says he won’t get me another because I must have been careless to let a thief get it.

  Zafir was about to log out when he noticed that another message had arrived in his inbox. It was from Eleni. She’d finally found an internet café. After telling him about how it was almost impossible to skate in the village because the streets were too steep and made from cobblestones, and that they had to fetch water from the well to wash with, and that she’d never known how smelly maawaa’ez were, she ended, saying:

  Hope things are okay with you. It all looks horrible on the news. My dad says it will be bad for all Christians if the president goes. If that happens my dad will have to get out of Syria and then we won’t come back.

  Zafir shut his eyes.

  Pops was in jail and Mum was probably at a protest march and he had no idea if either of them were safe. Now, although he knew his two closest friends were okay, depending on what happened in Syria, one of them was never going to come back. His head felt as if it were about to split in two. How had it got this bad so fast? When they’d come to live in Homs the worst that Zafir could have said was that it was a boring town and his biggest problem was having to tell Murshid he didn’t want to be on the football team. But out of a calm blue sea, a tsunami of events had reared up and was about to crash down on everyone and change their lives forever. Would anyone – even the president – be able to stop it now?

  Zafir was trying to do his maths homework on Saturday afternoon when his phone rang. He picked it up, glanced at who was calling, then quickly pressed the ‘answer’ button.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. Like she’d said, Mum hadn’t rung on Friday and he missed talking to her.

  ‘Mum?’ Zafir heard a strange sound, almost like a hiccup, but no one spoke. ‘I can’t hear you. You must be in a dead zone.’

  There was something like an intake of breath and suddenly the connection dropped out altogether. Zafir tried to ring her back but got a message saying that the phone was switched off or out of range. He put his phone down and got back to his homework. She’d try again when she was in a better spot.

  Later, before he went to supper, he checked the phone but there were no new messages.

  ‘How’s your mother today?’ asked Ustaaz Farook. He was sitting on the hard blue-and-gold striped sofa talking to Tetah.

  ‘Ustaaz Farook has brought us fresh bread,’ said Tetah, before Zafir had a chance to answer. ‘I have asked him to share our supper.’ Ustaaz Farook nearly always had supper with them so that was nothing new, but Zafir was pleased they would have fresh bread tonight. He knew the professor must have been up early to get it because so few bakeries were open.

  As they ate their supper – a bowl of plain rice with a handful of dried figs that Tetah had preserved last autumn and mint from the garden, plus the soft fresh bread – Tetah also asked about Mum.

  ‘I haven’t spoken to her yet,’ he said. ‘She rang before but I couldn’t hear her.’

  ‘I do hope we have good news soon. The thought of Paul locked away is becoming unbearable.’ Tetah clutched at her chest as she spoke.

  ‘Have you taken your pills, Lilith?’ It was the first time Zafir had heard Ustaaz Farook call Tetah by her first name.

  Tetah shook her head. ‘I have no more left. It cannot be helped.’

  ‘I will go out tomorrow,’ said Ustaaz Farook.

  ‘But, you mustn’t. If those rumours are true, it will be unsafe. I’ll be fine.’

  Zafir looked from Tetah to Ustaaz Farook. Was Tetah sick? Except for her headaches she’d seemed okay.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Tetah repeated firmly. ‘But Ustaaz Farook believes it will be better if you don’t go to school tomorrow.’

  Ustaaz Farook cleared his throat. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just for tomorrow … and maybe a few days after. On Friday, several soldiers and policemen were killed here in Homs by unknown gunmen but it is believed that now some protestors have taken up arms.’ He shook his head. ‘I fear this will bring repercussions. There are rumours now that the army is camped on the outskirts of the city. It seems prudent to keep one’s head down, so to speak.’

  At mention of the word ‘head’ all Zafir could think of was what Rami had said about exploding bullets. He had a sudden picture of headless bodies in blood-soaked streets. Maybe it was smart to stay indoors.

  It was weird being at home on a Sunday when he wasn’t sick and it wasn’t holidays. Tetah wouldn’t let him go out, even into the lane, and she’d said he wasn’t allowed to skate up on the roof terrace either. Zafir tried to call Mum a few times but the recorded message always came up saying that the phone was switched off or out of range. Zafir couldn’t help it. He started to worry.

  He knew he had to distract himself so he wrote a long email to Rami and then another one to Eleni. He even checked his Facebook page. He scrolled through all the messages about what was happening in Dubai and looked at the new photos that had been posted. He noticed that his friends’ faces looked more grown-up now, and he realised that his Dubai life was in another time. So much had happened, so much he couldn’t talk about, and he knew he was different now too. He logged off.

  He knew he should do some study for the exams that were
coming up but he couldn’t concentrate. He kept glancing at his phone on the desk, willing Mum to call.

  Where could she be? He picked up the phone and went through all his contacts but he didn’t want to ring anyone in case Mum tried to call. He stopped at Uncle Ghazi’s name. Uncle Ghazi had two phones – one prepaid so it was easy to make calls that couldn’t be traced and the other in his own name. Zafir called the prepaid number.

  ‘Hey!’ said Zafir. He was relieved to hear Uncle Ghazi’s familiar voice answering the phone.

  ‘I … I was going to call you,’ said Uncle Ghazi. He sounded strange. Not like the usual Uncle Ghazi. ‘I’m here. In Homs.’

  ‘Really? Fantastic! Are you coming over?’

  ‘I can’t right now because … well, I’m staying with a friend.’

  ‘Is Mum there with you? I’ve been trying to get hold of her.’

  ‘No … she’s not here. Look, Zaf, I can’t talk right now but I’m going to come and see you tomorrow. I promise.’

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Sure, sure. Everything’s okay. Don’t worry. I can explain tomorrow.’ He spoke quickly and hung up.

  Mum had said she would explain later too, when Zafir had last spoken to her. Why couldn’t they just tell him what was going on?

  The day passed slowly. Tetah spent most of it watching her favourite soap operas on television. Mrs Mohammed dropped by and they made Zafir play cards with them.

  Ustaaz Farook came for supper. He talked about books and film and maybe going into the mountains and visiting the convent where his sister, who Tetah had grown up with, was now a nun. Tetah seemed to become more cheerful talking about the old days. There was still a niggling worry in the back of Zafir’s mind that Mum hadn’t rung, but there had to be an explanation. Uncle Ghazi had told him not to worry and he’d said that everything was okay – and Zafir knew Uncle Ghazi wouldn’t lie.

  Thunder woke Zafir in the early hours of the next morning. There was a boom and rumbling that went on and on. Then, there were more sounds: another boom and a muffled whoomp. Zafir looked out his window and the sky lit up. Thunder and lightning? A few seconds later, Zafir’s bed shook.

  Thunder didn’t make beds shake. Was it an earthquake? Zafir had felt similar tremors once in Dubai. But earthquakes didn’t make whoomping sounds or light the sky with flashes. Besides Pops had told him that the last big earthquake in Syria was nearly a thousand years ago, in 1202. This was something different. Something worse.

  He jumped out of bed to see if Tetah was okay, but he hadn’t got to the door before she burst into his room, holding her phone out like a torch.

  ‘Ustaaz Farook has just phoned. He said the electricity has been cut and the tanks are coming. We are being shelled! Come quickly.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Zafir.

  ‘To the basement. Ustaaz Farook says this is the safest place for us to be.’ Tetah beckoned him and then put her hand up. ‘Oh, but first run and tell Rosa. Quickly, quickly. And put on that skateboard helmet of yours. It should offer some protection.’

  Zafir pulled the helmet on and grabbed his phone to use as a torch. It was dark in the stairwell. He ran up the stone steps, his bare feet automatically finding the hollowed-out grooves. When he pushed open the door at the top of the stairwell the air that hit him felt cool but smelled of smoke. What was burning? The sky was grey but it definitely wasn’t night-time anymore. Zafir could hear the rumble of heavy machinery moving along the streets not far away.

  Boom … crack … the whistling roar. This time he saw the streak of light cross in a curving line above the rooftops. It disappeared behind the dome of the Khalid Ibn Al-Walid masjid to the north. Just after came a dull thudding sound. Black smoke rose from the spot the shell had landed and the smell of burning was stronger than before.

  Zafir scrambled up onto the roof of Rosa’s room. He looked down the sheer drop to the street below. In the distance he heard the early morning adhan, call to prayer, begin. Then he heard it start up somewhere else, and again and again in all the quarters of the city. Zafir felt relieved because the call to prayer meant that people around the city were still going about their regular business. Zafir balanced on his tiptoes and scanned the empty streets. To the west, down Faris al-Khoury Road, he saw two tanks that looked like fat toads crawling along, swivelling this way and that. Then there was a cracking boom to the south. Zafir swivelled his head and although he couldn’t see the tanks, which must have been moving along Mary Zacka Street, he heard the whistling roar again and saw the streak of light flash across the rooftops. Then came the dull thud and smoke where the shell had landed.

  Zafir realised that they were surrounded. In the strange silence that followed, he heard Rosa praying below.

  ‘Our Father, who art in heaven …’ she mumbled.

  A screaming whistle blocked out the rest of her prayer, ending in a dull whoomp and the same shuddering and shaking.

  Zafir half jumped and half fell back onto the terrace. He pulled open Rosa’s door. She was on her knees with her hands clasped.

  ‘Rosa, it’s not safe up here. Tetah says we have to go to the basement.’

  Rosa didn’t even look up. She kept praying. Zafir grabbed her arm but she still wouldn’t move. Rosa looked at Zafir blankly, like she didn’t even recognise him.

  ‘Rosa, it’s me – Zafir. You’ve got to get downstairs. It’s dangerous up here.’

  Rosa refused to listen. She kept whispering the same prayer over and over.

  Another crack, boom and a screaming whistle. This time overhead.

  Zafir ducked and ran down the steps.

  The whistle grew shrill, hurting his ears. It was going to land close by, maybe in their street. He knew he had to get under cover so he leapt off the bottom step, raced around the stairs and ducked into the kitchen, sliding under the table. He put his hands over his ears because now the noise felt as if it would pierce his eardrums. Then it stopped and there was a thud and an explosion that seemed to crack open the air. The house shivered and lurched. The table he was crouched under did a dance and fell sideways. Plates leapt off the shelves and smashed beside him. Pots hanging from the ceiling beam clanged against each other like chimes in the wind. He watched the basket of red eggs topple off the shelf but he didn’t hear them smash because there was a tremendous roaring noise as the walls of Tetah’s house fell down around him.

  Zafir opened his eyes. There was a chink in the ceiling, creating a thin shaft of light in the darkness that surrounded him. For a minute, he didn’t move. He watched the dust particles drifting in the light, trying to work out where he was and what had happened and if this was just part of his nightmare about falling bombs and tanks in the streets.

  Far away, Zafir could hear voices. But they weren’t loud enough for him to understand what they were saying. He tried to sit up, but a pain around his ribs made him gasp. At least he knew he was awake and alive.

  He put his hand out and felt the smooth wooden leg of the table. He remembered sliding under it just before the bomb hit. He explored further, holding his breath as he moved to try to stop the pain in his ribs. The table was on its side and he was sitting with his back against the underside of the tabletop.

  He put his hand up, wincing, and felt a wooden beam that must have fallen when the walls came down. It would have crushed him if the table hadn’t been so strong.

  How long had he been there? He looked around for his phone and found it on the floor nearby. The screen was smashed. As his memory of what had happened returned he remembered it had been dawn when he was up on the roof. He couldn’t see the face of his watch properly in the darkness but it looked as if both hands were pointing at the three. But that couldn’t be right. Maybe it had stopped during the night. Suddenly he felt as if the darkness was going to close in on top of him.

  ‘Help!’ he yelled, or at least he tried to. His throat was so dry he could only croak.

  He started to crawl out from under the beam. Something sharp
sliced his hand. He put his hand to his mouth. Blood – metallic and wet.

  ‘Help!’ he yelled again. Louder this time. At least the blood had moistened his throat.

  ‘Help!’

  ‘Can you hear that?’ The voice came clearly from above. ‘I’m sure I heard something down there. But it would be a miracle after all this time if the boy is alive.’

  Tiny bits of rock trickled down. Zafir felt movement above him and the shaft of light was suddenly blocked.

  ‘I can see something glowing,’ the voice said.

  ‘Where?’ said another voice, one that Zafir knew well.

  ‘Uncle Ghazi!’

  ‘Zafir?’ Suddenly there was scrabbling above. More rocks rained down and there was a brief dazzle of light before it was blocked again and he found himself looking up at Uncle Ghazi’s face.

  ‘Stay there. Don’t move.’

  ‘Alhamdulillah, praise God! How can this be?’ Zafir heard other voices and soon the opening above was wide enough for Uncle Ghazi to lean down, drag Zafir up and crush him in a hug. The pain in Zafir’s ribs was incredible but he didn’t care.

  Uncle Ghazi finally let him go. Both of them were grinning.

  ‘I’ve never been so pleased to see anyone in my life,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘Do you know how long you’ve been buried?’

  Zafir shook his head.

  ‘At least ten hours,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘I still can’t believe you’re okay. Thank goodness for that helmet.’

  Zafir touched his head. He was still wearing the helmet. He took it off and found that his head hurt too. His hair was sticky and he felt a lump.

  ‘There’s a good dent in it,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘If you hadn’t had that on … are you okay? Are you in any pain?’

  Before he could answer someone else said, ‘Give him some water. And a blanket.’ He was handed a bottle of water and a blanket was wrapped around his shoulders.