Zafir

by Prue Mason

  ‘I can’t think like this.’ Zafir spoke out loud to break the silence and stillness of the apartment.

  ‘When Uncle Ghazi comes back I will find out about Mum. I’ll make him tell me where she is. I have to know the truth.’ With that intention in mind, Zafir started to feel stronger again.

  Now what to do? He picked up the basketball but his ribs hurt too much to throw a hoop so he put it back down. He glanced at all the electronic equipment. There was a laptop, a printer and scanner and passport-sized backup drive. The laptop had a battery. It would still work even without power.

  Zafir stared at it. If he could get online he could check out Mum’s Facebook page. It might give him some clue as to where she was. He could also send Rami and Eleni a quick email and let them know what had happened.

  Zafir glanced around. He knew he shouldn’t touch someone else’s computer but there were only the names of the martyrs on the wall to see what he was up to. He quickly sat down, opened up the laptop and pressed the return key. The computer screen came alive.

  The wi-fi was off, but when he clicked on the icon the small bars started radiating. Yes! There was a signal.

  He went straight to Facebook and logged on but he didn’t bother going through all his messages. He found Mum’s page but her last entry was months ago. She had kept her promise to Pops even after the ban on Facebook had been lifted. Disappointed, he logged out.

  He then opened his email. There was a message from Rami, not even in code, saying that the family were going to the States and he was hoping that he would finally get to meet his real father. He didn’t ask anything about how things were for Zafir in Homs. It was like Zafir had thought: the longer people are in another world, the less their old world matters.

  He sent a short reply saying that he was really pleased for Rami and to keep in touch. He didn’t even tell him what it was like to be buried in rubble after a bomb had hit the house you were living in.

  There was also a message from Eleni. She said that her father had told her the Bishop had ordered him to stay at his house in Damascus for the next few weeks until the siege in Homs was lifted. He said that life in the capital was quite normal but that the news in Homs wasn’t good. Eleni said she was worried about Zafir and she begged him to write back soon so that she would know he was okay.

  He hit ‘reply’ and started writing. It was easier than he thought it would be to tell her everything. He was busy describing what sort of noise the bomb had made before it hit when he heard a scraping sound. The door in the wall next to the basketball hoop opened and Azzam Azzad appeared wearing shorts and a singlet, a towel draped over his shoulder. Inside the room Zafir could see a mattress on the floor. When he saw Zafir at the desk his face went dark.

  ‘Get away from my computer!’ he yelled.

  Zafir quickly pressed ‘send’ and jumped up. ‘I was only checking my emails,’ he said.

  ‘You stupid kid! Do you want us all rounded up by the security police?’

  At that moment, the door of the apartment opened and Uncle Ghazi came in carrying a couple of blue plastic bags filled with food. He looked at Azzam Azzad and then at Zafir, who was still standing at the desk.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Ask your little spy here,’ said Azzam Azzad, striding across the floor and closing the lid of the laptop.

  ‘I was just trying to find out about Mum,’ said Zafir. ‘No one will tell me anything.’

  ‘I told you not to worry,’ Uncle Ghazi said. He frowned at Zafir before he turned to Azzam Azzad. ‘I’ve got footage of the damage done on Al-Korniche last night. It looks bad.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Azzam Azzad. ‘If you download it, I’ll write it up and post it after my shower. I just hope they haven’t cut off the water again.’ He headed for the bathroom without saying anything else to Zafir. Uncle Ghazi ignored him too. That made it worse. Zafir felt guilty at being caught out but he was angry too.

  ‘You’ve got to tell me about Mum – now,’ yelled Zafir. ‘You say you tell the truth to the world but you won’t tell me. Where is Mum? Is she okay? You’ve got to tell me. I’m not a kid.’

  Uncle Ghazi dumped the bags and looked over at Zafir. ‘I know you’re not a kid, but after everything you’ve been through I wanted to wait until I had some better news. And,’ he sounded sad and tired, ‘I’m still trying to deal with … things that have happened too.’

  The way Uncle Ghazi looked at him, Zafir suddenly wasn’t sure if he really did want to know the truth. What if …? But he had to know.

  ‘Is she …?’ He hadn’t even been this scared during the bombing. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel the throb of the pulse in his head. He couldn’t bring himself to say the word ‘dead’.

  ‘… alive?’ It came out as a whisper.

  ‘Yes.’

  Zafir let out his breath and closed his eyes, picturing Mum holding out her arms to him.

  ‘But …?’ Zafir blinked his eyes open.

  Uncle Ghazi looked grim. ‘She’s in a hospital in Beirut.’

  ‘Beirut? What’s she doing there? What’s wrong with her?’ Zafir was bursting with questions.

  ‘Sit down, Zaf,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘I’ll have to start at the beginning. Firstly, I was going to tell you that I had a phone call today from Eleni’s dad.’

  ‘Father Papadopoulos?’

  Uncle Ghazi nodded. ‘Yes. Through a bishop in his church he has found out where your dad is being detained.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He’s in the same prison where I …’ Uncle Ghazi stopped and turned away. Zafir saw his fists clench and unclench and only after a few deep breaths did he continue. ‘Father Papadopoulos is in Damascus now and was allowed to visit your dad.’

  ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘The prison is overcrowded and the conditions aren’t good but Father Papadopoulos paid a guard some money to buy a mattress and food.’

  ‘Will he be out soon?’ asked Zafir.

  Uncle Ghazi frowned and put his hand on Zafir’s arm. ‘Father Papadopoulos doesn’t think it’s likely. He’s concerned that he may even have to face a trial for treason.’

  Zafir looked away. He felt sick in his stomach.

  ‘But,’ Uncle Ghazi went on, ‘I believe that if the world finds out what’s going on here in Syria then there’ll be some international pressure to release prisoners like your dad. That’s why I’ve got to keep on taking photos and videos.’

  Zafir nodded. He could see now why the work that Uncle Ghazi and Azzam Azzad was doing was important.

  ‘And Mum. What’s happened to her?’

  ‘When I told your mum I was leaving Damascus and coming to Homs on Friday to stay at Azzam Azzad’s place, she decided she’d come with me to see you.’

  Zafir nodded. He remembered she’d sounded excited on Thursday night when he’d spoken to her.

  ‘When we got here, there were no taxis and as your mother and I were looking for one to take to your tetah’s house we got caught up in a group of protestors who wouldn’t let us pass. They said they would consider us as supporting the government if we didn’t join them. Your mum didn’t need much persuading. She said she wanted her voice to be heard calling for the downfall of the president. I tried to tell her how dangerous it was …’ He stopped and his fists clenched and unclenched again before he could go on.

  Zafir’s mouth was dry.

  ‘We ended up in the square, among so many. It was a sniper. Thank God he wasn’t aiming to kill but the bullet hit her in the arm.’

  Zafir felt sick. He remembered standing up on the roof of Rosa’s room last Friday and hearing gunshots. Had he heard the one that had hit Mum?

  ‘We couldn’t take her to a hospital. Not after what had happened to your dad and the guy he was operating on, but luckily Azzam Azzad knew about this house where some medical students are helping people with gunshot wounds and we got her there. Her arm was smashed badly.’ Uncle Ghazi stopped and gulped.
>
  Zafir’s whole body went cold. He shook his head, too shocked to speak.

  ‘They were scared she would get an infection and they didn’t have enough antibiotics. I stayed with her overnight but she was getting worse on Saturday. One of them had family who was leaving to go back to Beirut and she offered to take Nadia with her. I tried to call you on your mother’s phone to tell you, but I … I just couldn’t say the words.’

  Zafir nodded. Now it all made sense.

  ‘Fadhila, that’s her name, the medical student, called me on Saturday night and said that Nadia is being looked after in hospital there. She said they’d tried to save her arm, but in the end they had to amputate it. It’s still touch and go. That’s all I know.’

  ‘But why aren’t you there, then?’ asked Zafir, suddenly angry with Uncle Ghazi. It was Uncle Ghazi’s fault. If he had got Mum back to Tetah’s house safely everything would be okay.

  ‘What could I do for her, if I was there?’ asked Uncle Ghazi. ‘I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m a photographer and the best thing I can do for her, and for your dad, is what I’m doing. And,’ he added, ‘I have to make sure you’re okay. I promised Nadia I’d be there for you if … if I was needed.’

  Zafir turned away. He felt confused and angry. Would Mum be okay? Could Pops end up in jail for years for treason? What if Uncle Ghazi was caught being a citizen journalist? He’d end up in jail too and how would that help anything?

  For the last three days, since Uncle Ghazi had told him the truth, Zafir had hardly done anything but lie on the mattress and think. At least it gave his ribs a chance to heal. Uncle Ghazi and Azzad Azzam came and went but he was never left in the apartment alone. And Azzam Azzad always locked his computer away when he went out now.

  As Zafir lay on the mattress trying to find a comfortable position he tried to work out what he should do. Maybe he should make Uncle Ghazi take him to Damascus so they could visit Pops. Or should they go to Beirut and find the hospital Mum was in? And where was Tetah? Was she okay? At least Ustaaz Farook was with her. And if they left Homs, then what about Uncle Ghazi’s work? Zafir could see now that it was more important than ever. Homs was being called the ‘Revolution City’. Uncle Ghazi had to be here so he could let the world know what was going on.

  Zafir’s thoughts flew around and around, trapped inside his head like small birds in a cage.

  ‘The news is getting worse,’ Azzam Azzad said, speaking to no one in particular as he sat at his desk. ‘The army has control of the city now. Ya Allah, it’s taken them less than a week.’

  ‘They’re making sure of it too,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘With those shilkas patrolling the streets and randomly shooting at shops and houses it’s impossible for anyone to go about their normal business here.’

  Zafir had heard the roaring engines of the trucks with the machine gun on the back that Uncle Ghazi called shilkas and he could often hear the ratatat of their rapid fire in the distance. Especially at night. As the days went by, more names were added to the martyr list on the wall. One was the name of a soldier who had been executed for refusing to shoot at civilians. Fadhila rang Uncle Ghazi to say that Mum’s fever hadn’t abated and the doctor was worried. There was no news about Pops or Tetah. Was that good? Or bad?

  Zafir’s thoughts rose up flapping and whirling. Azzam Azzad had put on some music. It was Fairouz, a Lebanese singer Mum liked to listen to.

  Maybe that was a sign they should go to Beirut?

  Zafir listened to the words of the song. It was a soppy one about seeing the first wirwar, bee-eater bird, that announced the arrival of spring and sent greetings from loved ones.

  If only.

  A loud rumbling sound suddenly started competing with the music.

  ‘Get down!’ yelled Uncle Ghazi. Azzam Azzad dropped and hid under the desk but Uncle Ghazi ran to the window with his camera. He tweaked back the curtain and began taking photos of what was happening in the street below.

  Zafir wanted to scream at him to get down too, but his mouth was dry and he realised he was shaking. He put his hands over his head but he couldn’t block out the noise of the rapid gunfire. It drowned out the music and ratatatted so fast he couldn’t count the number of shots.

  It seemed to take forever for the rumbling and shooting sounds to move further away, but it couldn’t have been more than a minute because the song about the wirwar was still playing. Fairouz’s voice rose as she wailed out the last few lines. There was a moment of silence as the song ended, then another began about the moon being a neighbour.

  ‘Any damage?’ asked Azzam Azzad. He crawled out from under the desk and turned down the music.

  ‘Only a few chips off the balcony,’ said Uncle Ghazi, peering out.

  ‘You know,’ said Azzam Azzad, pulling a comb out of his back pocket and running it through his greasy hair, ‘I think we should leave the windows open because I’ve heard that the compressed air of an explosion can force the glass out of its frame and make it shatter. It’d be a good precaution to take, because I’d say things are going to get a lot worse here.’

  Zafir realised he couldn’t stop shaking. He put his knees up to his chest and put his arms around them, interlocking his fingers and squeezing his body as tightly as he could, not caring about the pain, but the shuddering went on.

  ‘Zafir? Are you okay?’ Uncle Ghazi knelt in front of him and tried to unlock his fingers.

  ‘It’s shock,’ said Azzam Azzad, the instant expert on everything. ‘Keep him warm.’

  Uncle Ghazi draped a blanket around Zafir’s shoulders. ‘I’m going to have to get you out of here,’ he said. ‘You’re only thirteen years old. You shouldn’t have to go through all this. Not after everything that’s happened.’

  ‘It would be for the best,’ said Azzam Azzad. ‘It’s crazy having a kid here. If we get caught no one will care what age he is. He’ll be thrown in prison too. How long do you think a kid like that would last?’

  ‘I know … I know. But where will he go? He’s got no papers, no passport, nothing official except a school identity card. There are military checkpoints everywhere. Oh God. Somehow I’ll have to get him out of here.’

  ‘You can’t go to Damascus,’ said Azzam Azzad. ‘You’ve been warned they’re rounding up activists. They’ll put you back in prison as soon as they spot you.’

  The blanket was thin and hardly warmed Zafir and the conversation wasn’t helping either. Zafir felt his teeth begin to chatter. He shut his mouth firmly to stop it and started to rock backwards and forwards. All he wanted was to be left alone. He tried to shut out their voices.

  ‘He’ll need papers even to get to Damascus and there’s nowhere for him to stay anyhow,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘Gulnaz’s family have got her out of the country. Nadia’s friend Rasha might help, but her husband wasn’t sympathetic and Nadia had been finding it uncomfortable there. Father Papadopoulos is staying in the bishop’s house. I can’t ask him to take on Zafir as well. And we still don’t have any news of his grandmother. If only I had the phone number for her neighbour, the old gentleman who took her away. I’ve tried to find out but all the neighbours have vanished since the bombing.’

  ‘What about schoolfriends?’ suggested Azzam Azzad.

  Although they were discussing his future Zafir felt detached, as if they were talking about someone else.

  ‘Nadia said Zafir only had one friend at school and he’s gone away. I’ve been trying to think if there’s anyone else since I brought him back here but there’s just no one.’

  ‘Maybe there is someone,’ said Azzam Azzad, tapping his fingers on the desk. ‘A whole family, actually. I was speaking to Mr Al Hamra, the tailor who’s got the shop below. He said he and his brother are planning to take their families into Wadi Khaled, just over the border in Lebanon. Their brother-in-law has a farm in the valley. They’re planning to leave tomorrow and stay there until it’s all over. The kid could go with them – if you can pay his way.’

  ‘But what abo
ut a passport?’ asked Uncle Ghazi.

  ‘You said he’s got an ID card so I presume that’s got a photo on it. It’s not hard to forge an official paper that he can travel with. That, and a bit of money, will get him across the border without a problem. He’d be safer out of Syria and on a farm until things settle down here and he can come back.’

  ‘But I can’t just send my nephew off with strangers. What if they’re stopped and his false papers are discovered?’

  ‘What if he’s caught here with us?’

  At that moment Uncle Ghazi’s phone beeped and he checked it. ‘Hey!’ He looked to Zafir. ‘It’s Fadhila and there’s some good news at last. Your mum is out of danger. She’ll have to be in hospital for a few more weeks and then … well, who knows, but at least she’s okay. What do you say to that, Zaf?’

  Uncle Ghazi turned to Zafir.

  Zafir stopped rocking, opened his mouth and found he could speak again. ‘Mum wants to live on a farm,’ he said, remembering her dream. ‘When she gets out of hospital she could go there too. She could even have a donkey like she’s always wanted.’

  Uncle Ghazi nodded at Azzam Azzad. ‘You’re right. The farm will be safer than here,’ he said. ‘There’ll be goats and grapevines, not bombs and bullets. Let’s go and see Mr Al Hamra.’

  ‘That’s a perfect plan,’ agreed Mum when Uncle Ghazi rang her that night. Zafir finally got to talk to her. She sounded tired but okay. ‘I can’t wait to see you,’ she said. ‘But until I feel better it will make me happy to know you are safe.’

  ‘Uncle Ghazi has given me one of his phones so I can call you anytime,’ said Zafir.

  ‘What happened to your phone?’ she asked. ‘I got Fadhila to call you but she said she got a message saying it was switched off. I was worried.’

  ‘I … I lost it,’ said Zafir. Uncle Ghazi had said not to tell her yet what had happened to him. It was enough of a shock for her to hear about Tetah’s heart attack.

  Zafir had agreed that the plan did seem a good one when they were talking about it on the phone, but the next day, when the reality of leaving Uncle Ghazi and heading off with strangers to a place he’d never been started to sink in, he wasn’t so sure.