by Prue Mason
Zafir started to recognise the people around him. There was Mr Shaamas from up the lane and Mr Mohammed. Mrs Mohammed, who was dressed as usual with a scarf around her head and a long-sleeved gown, stepped forward.
‘I was once a nurse,’ she said. ‘Let me look at him.’
Zafir looked up at her kind round face. He felt his legs wobble.
‘Take him over here,’ said Mrs Mohammed, pointing to the hard blue-and-gold striped sofa. It was sitting on top of a pile of rubble, next to a wall that was standing without any other walls attached. Mr Shaamas picked up Zafir and carried him over to the sofa. As Zafir lay on the couch he saw the glass doors that led to the courtyard were still in the wall. Through them he could see the fountain and the pots of geraniums. The courtyard looked the same, except the house that surrounded it wasn’t there anymore.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Mrs Mohammed. Zafir frowned. She knew his name. She’d known him since he was a baby.
‘Tell me your name,’ she said, so he told her. She then tugged on his arms and legs and looked closely at the cut on his head. All the while she asked him other questions like how old he was and what day of the week it was. He had to think about that, because the last thing he remembered was going to sleep on Sunday night waiting for the phone to ring.
‘Is it Monday?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Good.’ She pulled up his eyelids and checked his eyes and finally pronounced that except for possible cracked ribs, a cut on his hand and the lump on his head, he was okay.
‘Thank God,’ said Uncle Ghazi. Zafir hadn’t seen Uncle Ghazi since he’d been in prison. In some ways, he looked the same – tall, thin, his hair still in a ponytail – but there were lines on his face that hadn’t been there before. They made him look older. His face was grey, his eyes were bloodshot and there was stubble on his chin like he hadn’t shaved for a week.
‘You must take the boy to Damascus to his mother,’ said Mrs Mohammed. ‘Now that his tetah is—’
‘Hush now,’ said Mr Mohammed, cutting his wife off.
Zafir looked up. ‘Where’s Tetah? And Rosa?’ He sat up, hurting his ribs again. ‘What’s happened to them?’
All of the men looked away. Even Uncle Ghazi.
It was Mrs Mohammed who finally spoke. ‘The maid has been taken away to hospital. Your grandmother was found safe in the basement but while we were searching for you and everyone had given up hope she suffered heart failure.’
‘Is she … ?’ Zafir felt a coldness in his stomach that chilled him so much it numbed the pain in his ribs.
Mrs Mohammed shook her head. ‘She was still living when she left. The professor went with her, but we don’t know where.’ She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘What did any of us do to deserve such troubles as these?’
No one could answer that question.
‘Alhamdulillah!’ Mr Mohammed suddenly called out. ‘I have discovered another miracle.’ He held up one of the red eggs. ‘The others in the basket are smashed but this one doesn’t even have a crack in it.’
‘Give it to the child,’ said Mrs Mohammed. She turned to Zafir and smiled. ‘I remember your father used to love painting eggs at Pascha as a boy. He would bring them around to all the neighbours – Christian, Muslim, Alawi. It didn’t matter to him.’ She sighed as she looked around at the rubble that had once been Tetah’s house. ‘So many memories.’
‘Come,’ her husband said to her. ‘It’s not safe to stay here. We must pack up and leave while we can and pray to Allah we have a home to come back to when all this is over.’
As Zafir held the miracle egg in his hands he remembered Mum’s words about an egg being a symbol of hope when everything was dark. He needed to believe this now more than ever.
‘Where are we going now?’ asked Zafir. It was weird. So much was wrong, but at least Uncle Ghazi had come and found him. Zafir carefully wrapped the miracle egg in an old dishcloth that he’d found and put it inside his helmet for safekeeping. He had a giddy, almost high feeling, like now everything was going to be okay. He’d survived a bomb blast, Tetah was alive, Rosa would get better in hospital, Uncle Ghazi knew where Mum was and Pops was sure to get out of prison soon. Then everyone would be happy. Tetah would be sad about her house, but Mum and Pops would find a new house and she could come and live with them. Or, maybe they’d all go to Australia.
‘Are we going to Damascus?’ Zafir asked.
‘No. We’re not going to Damascus. Oh God! What am I going to do?’
Zafir looked up at Uncle Ghazi. He’d started walking in circles.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Zafir. His dream of their happy future was evaporating faster than steam.
Uncle Ghazi gave a short, hard laugh and there was a look on his face that Zafir had never seen before.
‘Look around you, Zafir, and you ask what’s wrong. Your grandmother’s house is rubble, there are tanks on the streets, people are being shot at, injured, murdered … and the world just sits on its hands and looks on. And now you’ve got nowhere to go and I promised …’ He stopped and squatted on the ground with his back to Zafir and put his hands over his face.
Zafir stared at Uncle Ghazi’s back. All the high feelings of a minute ago were gone. He felt as if he were on the edge of a cliff and that one more step, one more word, would send him hurtling down into a dark place. All the same he knew he had to ask. He took a deep breath.
‘Where’s Mum? She’s okay, isn’t she?’
‘She’s safer than we are right now,’ Uncle Ghazi answered but avoided telling Zafir where she was.
‘Where is she then?’
‘We don’t have time to talk now. We’ve got to get you out of here.’
‘But I want to know!’ Zafir was angry now. Uncle Ghazi was treating him like a kid. Why wouldn’t he tell him the truth?
‘Just leave it!’ Uncle Ghazi shouted at him. Zafir was stunned. Uncle Ghazi had never raised his voice before. Not even when Zafir was little and had been much more of a pest.
Uncle Ghazi took some deep breaths and then spoke in a calmer voice.
‘As I said before, we haven’t got time to talk now. We need to get back to the apartment where I’m staying without being shot at in the street.’ He glanced around as if a police truck might come up behind them.
‘Look, I found some of your things earlier.’ He pointed to a small pile and Zafir saw his schoolbag that still had his books in it, the solar cap, his sports gear, a toilet bag and his school identity card. There was also a small suitcase of clothes, but, best of all, Uncle Ghazi had found his trainers and his skateboard.
Zafir grabbed the board and examined it. It had a split along the deck, and underneath the trucks were all twisted and half the screws had come out. It was useless. Zafir felt a horrible scratchiness in his throat and a tear he couldn’t stop trickled down the side of his nose.
‘I’ll get you a new one,’ said Uncle Ghazi, putting his hand on Zafir’s shoulder. ‘A better one. When all this is over.’
Zafir sniffed and nodded. It wasn’t just the skateboard. He looked around and saw things as they were. It was hard to think of a time when it would all be over and impossible to believe anything would ever be the same again.
‘Come on,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘We’re going to have to go. Let’s hope there are some taxis around, because it’s too far for you to walk in your condition.’
‘I’m okay,’ said Zafir, but as he stood up the pain in his side grabbed at him. He grimaced but didn’t say anything. He had to be strong now.
Uncle Ghazi looked up at the sky. ‘It’s nearly salat el aser, afternoon prayer time. We must hurry.’
When Zafir looked at his watch he saw it was just after four o’clock. He was pleased his watch hadn’t stopped after all but it was still hard to believe he’d been buried for so many hours.
Uncle Ghazi picked up the suitcase and the bag. Although it hurt his ribs to carry it, Zafir couldn’t leave his skateboard behind.
Zafir and his uncle hurried around behind the mosque and up Bab Houd Street where some shops had dented shutters and others were blackened with smoke. They managed to catch a taxi there, but the driver shook his head when Uncle Ghazi asked him to go to Baba Amr, a poorer district to the west of the new city area.
‘It is dangerous there,’ the driver said.
‘Can you get us at least to Al Karama Street?’ asked Uncle Ghazi.
‘One thousand, five hundred pounds,’ said the taxi driver.
‘But that’s the price for tourists and it’s less than ten minutes’ drive from here,’ protested Uncle Ghazi.
The taxi driver gave a shrug. ‘These are difficult times and there are not so many taxis on the street.’
‘Okay,’ said Uncle Ghazi.
They drove through the back streets, avoiding Al-Korniche, the taxi swerving around all the corners. Zafir started to feel sick. He was glad to get out.
‘It’s maybe five minutes’ walk from here,’ said Uncle Ghazi after he had unrolled a wad of notes and paid the taxi driver. ‘Are you okay?’
Zafir nodded but nothing felt okay. All the shops had their shutters firmly closed and the streets were gloomy as the sun had dropped behind the buildings. The taxi’s tyres squealed as it took off.
‘Keep close to the buildings and as much out of sight as you can,’ said Uncle Ghazi. He set off at a fast pace. Zafir was gasping by the time they got to an apartment block with a tailor’s shop underneath called ‘Qik and Fast Sewing’. Around the side of the shop was a narrow lane littered with blue plastic bags and yellowed pages of old newspapers and other rubbish. The lane led to a door in the wall and behind that were concrete steps to the apartments above. They stopped on the second floor at apartment number seven.
‘I’ve been staying here in Homs with a friend since Friday,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘He and I are working together. We’re doing something that’s important, but it’s dangerous too.’
Zafir nodded. His ribs were hurting and his head was aching. He just wanted to sit down.
‘Anyway Zaf, you’ll have stay out here for a few minutes. I need to talk to my friend about you being here and why you have to stay with me until—’
Zafir didn’t want to make Uncle Ghazi mad again but he had to say what he’d been thinking about on the way.
‘Can’t I just go to Damascus and stay with Mum and her friend? If she’s still there.’ Uncle Ghazi didn’t answer straight away and Zafir went on quickly. ‘I can take the bus. I won’t be scared.’
‘I know you wouldn’t,’ said Uncle Ghazi. He put his arm around Zafir’s shoulder and gave him a quick hug. ‘You’ve been such a brave kid with everything that’s happened. But I can’t let you go by yourself and it’s not a good idea for me to go with you right now.’
As he spoke, strange sounds from inside the apartment distracted Zafir: a slapping and a squeaking and a thud.
What was going on in there?
‘That’s a good sign,’ said Uncle Ghazi. He put the key in the lock and turned it, pushing open the door. Zafir got a glimpse inside before the door fell shut. Through a large archway he’d seen a room with only a desk covered with electronic equipment. On the other side of the desk a man was dribbling a basketball and shooting it at a hoop that hung from the wall. The ball had whooshed through the hoop and the man had raised his fist in victory.
After the door had closed, Zafir put his ear up to it to try to hear what was being said. He only heard murmurs although he was sure he heard Uncle Ghazi mention Mum’s name. The slapping, squeaking and thuds stopped.
A few minutes later, Uncle Ghazi pulled the door open. ‘It’s okay. Azzam Azzad said you can stay.’
‘Azzam Azzad?’ Zafir asked. It meant, ‘determined to be free’.
‘It’s not his real name,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘But it’s the only name he’s known by now.’
Zafir looked around at the room. The marble floor was dusty, like it had never been mopped. In a corner lay a thin mattress. Uncle Ghazi had dropped Zafir’s bags by it. Near that, through another archway, Zafir could see a small kitchen and on the wall with the basketball hoop was a door that probably led to a bedroom. Curtains were pulled across the windows and everything smelled sour.
‘Azzam Azzad, this is my nephew, Zafir.’ Uncle Ghazi introduced him to the man who was now sitting back at his desk.
Azzam Azzad looked Zafir up and down. ‘The last thing we need here is a teenager. If he starts whining about anything you’ll have to find somewhere else for him to stay. I shouldn’t have agreed to this.’
Zafir stared at the man. Instantly, he disliked him. He was probably a year or two older than Uncle Ghazi and he had a tight, closed face with a dark shadow of stubble over his cheeks and chin. What sort of important work would make Uncle Ghazi put up with someone like this?
‘Zaf will be good,’ said Uncle Ghazi quickly. ‘And it will only be for a little while until …’ He turned to Zafir. ‘You need to get cleaned up. I’ve only got a headache tablet for your pain now but I know somewhere I can get stronger medication tomorrow. You’ll be feeling it then.’
The bathroom was worse than the rest of the house. It was a small tiled room next to the kitchen with a hole in the floor and a bucket and hose to clean yourself after going about your business. It had a cracked basin and the shower hose only gave out a trickle of water. Zafir stood under the shower, shocked by the dark bruises that had appeared on his body. It was good to wash off the dust and grime and get changed into clean clothes. When he came out, Uncle Ghazi had made some toasted cheese sandwiches and Zafir realised that he was hungry.
‘What are you doing here?’ Zafir asked him as he sat in the small kitchen and munched on the sandwiches.
‘We write blog posts and put photos and comments and posts on Facebook and Twitter to let the world see what’s happening here in Syria,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘Azzam Azzad does the writing and I take the photos. People are calling us citizen journalists. We’re doing the job because foreign journalists have been banned from coming to Syria and any Syrian journalist who writes about what’s happening gets put into jail.’
‘But what if you get caught doing this?’ asked Zafir.
Uncle Ghazi shrugged. ‘It’s important work,’ he said. ‘Getting the truth out to the world is what I have to do. Especially now …’ He looked away.
‘Does Mum know you’re here?’
Uncle Ghazi nodded, but before he could say anything else Azzam Azzad let out a yell. ‘Hey! Guess what? An email has just come in from the New York Times. They’re interested in a series of exclusive articles about what it’s like here in Homs. That YouTube clip I made with your video of the shilkas, anti-aircraft tanks, rolling in has gone viral.’
‘Ya ilahi, wow,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘That is big time.’
‘I said we’d make a good team,’ said Azzam Azzad. ‘If they like my articles, then this could be my ticket out of this country when all this is over. This could be my lucky break.’
‘But the best thing is that we’re here on the ground telling the world what is actually happening in Syria right now,’ said Uncle Ghazi. As he spoke he stared at the wall opposite the kitchen. He looked grim.
‘Yeah, of course,’ said Azzam Azzad, also looking at the wall.
Zafir was starting to feel drowsy. The food and headache tablet had dulled the pain. He glanced up though and saw that on the wall was a list. At the top was the word ‘shaheed’, martyr. Underneath was a list of names written in thick marker. There were a lot of names on the list.
‘I started the
list when my first friend was killed,’ said Azzam Azzad.
Zafir shivered and looked away. He didn’t want to see the names of all those dead people on the wall of the room where he was going to be sleeping. Sleep. He looked across at the mattress on the floor. It was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open. His eyelids blinked closed and he was barely aware of Uncle Ghazi guiding him to the mattress. Dimly he heard the call to prayer and Azzam Azzad saying that he was going out to find out what was going on. After that came blankness.
Zafir was starving. Uncle Ghazi had left the apartment hours ago after the electricity got cut again. He’d said he’d be back about lunchtime and would bring some supplies. Zafir couldn’t wait but there was hardly anything in the fridge except for some stale bread, a dried-up falafel on a plate and some wilted lettuce in a container that said ‘Damascus Grill House’. If Uncle Ghazi had bought it in Damascus then it had to be at least five days old but Zafir didn’t care. He ate everything. It wasn’t much but at least it stopped his stomach growling and he could think more clearly.
He was pleased Azzam Azzad wasn’t around. Uncle Ghazi said he usually went out for early morning prayers but both of them had slept in and hadn’t heard him leave.
Without any lights on it was dark and quiet in the apartment. Outside Zafir could hear the hum of cars in the distance.
Because there was nothing else to do he went through his bags. The first thing he pulled out of his schoolbag was the solar cap. It was less than three months ago that Rami had given it to him. At the time it had just seemed like a clever invention but if Rami were here now he’d be able to make a fortune selling them since the electricity kept on being cut. Not that it was any use to Zafir right now. He wished he hadn’t left his smashed-up phone behind. He might have been able to make it work. The stupid thing was that he hadn’t even thought of getting the chip out of it. It was weird not having a phone and knowing he couldn’t ring anyone and that Mum couldn’t call him. It made him feel more alone than he’d ever felt before. What if Uncle Ghazi didn’t come back?