by Mike Thomson
Given the terrible danger Sara was in, it was obvious that our conversation could not continue. She needed to get to the comparative safety of her basement as quickly as possible. Sara had told me several times how much she hated the pitch-black darkness down there. Unable to read, she could do little but listen to the distant sound of exploding bombs, hoping all the time that her home would be spared. Given that she was unlikely to get a Wi-Fi signal in her basement I asked if she could record a voice message for me on her phone, and then send it to me when the bombardment had stopped, so that I would know she was OK. Then, before she had a chance to reply, the line went dead. Even though I knew Sara to be tough and resilient, a worrying few hours followed. I got out my laptop and checked WhatsApp, Facebook and Twitter, my usual channels of communication with the people of Daraya. There was nothing, no messages of any kind.
Finally, in the early hours of the following morning, my mobile phone pinged. I had a horrible feeling that this was going to be bad news and hesitated to check the message, even though I had nervously been waiting hours for it. I had a WhatsApp voice message from Sara. After the line had gone dead earlier, I had regretted asking her to record a message for me, as she surely had enough to contend with without having to bother with that. But true to form, the indomitable Sara had managed to do it. In fact she appeared to have begun recording as soon as we had finished talking: ‘I’m walking down into the basement now. I hate it down here, it is too dark and I can’t see anything. I feel like I am suffocating every time I come here. It is a different world, isolated from everything above. I can’t wait to get out again. But sometimes, when the bombing is bad like it is now, I spend the whole night in this basement. I wish it wasn’t so terribly dark.’
Unfortunately for Sara, over the years to come, she and the children she taught would face many more days and nights in such basements. There was to be no quick end to their ongoing nightmare. Yet even in the very worst of days there was light in the darkness, fuelled by an extraordinary resilience, a determination to carry on, come what may. Not just to survive but to prosper, through education and books. People like Sara, Aysha, Abdul Basit, Anas and little Amjad, led the way, through their unfaltering dedication and passion. And I was about to meet another who helped keep the flames of hope alive. Not through reading or writing, but with the help of a paint brush.
Chapter Six
Daraya’s secret library was an extraordinary creation. Its thick walls, deep underground, provided sanctuary from the horrors above. A peaceful place to read, learn and talk. To celebrate literature, poetry, science and history. A place to plan a future without bullets and bombs. But perhaps the most remarkable factor of all was not the building itself, nor the many thousands of books within it. It was the people who created it. Those who risked their lives to fill its shelves, arranged lectures and book groups, logged its titles and scrubbed its floors. The people who never lost faith in the value of culture and humanity in such terrible times.
On 3 June 2014, despite being loathed by many who were busy fighting his rule, President Bashar al-Assad was re-elected to office with a staggering 88.7 per cent of the vote. Assad’s fortunes on the battlefield had also improved the month before, when 900 rebel fighters in Homs, Syria’s third most populous city, had agreed to leave after being besieged by the government forces for two years. This was a highly significant defeat for the rebels. Homs had wholeheartedly joined the uprising and the city had once been dubbed ‘the capital of the revolution’. Yet despite such successes, Assad’s hold on power continued to be precarious, and few outside observers thought he would be able to hang on to power much longer.
Then, a week later, came news that the much-feared and despised IS had taken Iraq’s second city, Mosul. The following day they went on to capture the Iraqi town of Tikrit. These victories, which followed their conquest of Raqqa in north-east Syria six months before, shocked the world. Long convoys of machine-gun-toting men in black, faces covered with balaclavas, roared along dusty roads, their Islamist flag held defiantly aloft. IS, which had split from al-Qaeda in February 2014, was led by Ibrahim Awwad Ibrahim al-Badri, better known as Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi. On 29 June he rebranded ISIS as Islamic State and declared the return of the ‘caliphate’, a state to be run under strict Islamic or sharia law. This now stretched all the way from his proclaimed caliphate capital of Raqqa in northern Syria, to Mosul in northern Iraq. IS was opposed to anyone who did not share their beliefs, especially Shia Muslims and those of all other faiths. As a result, their targets included Assad’s regime, the Western world and even moderate Sunni Muslim members of the FSA. When IS began flooding the Internet with videos showing the gruesome executions of orange jumpsuited hostages, many of them kidnapped Western journalists and aid workers, the international media focused on little else. To the watching world this was the very incarnation of evil. Yet there seemed to be no way to stop this grim, ragtag army, whose jihadi recruits had come together from all over the globe, all united in their lust for hatred and violence. In the midst of this, the plight of Daraya received little attention. But this was soon to change.
On a clear and humid night in August 2014, the town of Daraya lay asleep. For the first time in weeks, the skies were clear of bomber planes and shells, and the streets below were quiet. But on a small side road, near the centre of the town, a shadow moved to and fro, its presence betrayed by the light of the moon. A tall, slim figure clutching a paintbrush was hard at work. In the near darkness, it was hard to make out who he was or what he was doing. All that could be seen was the shadowy shape of a ladder propped against a wall and the movement of his hands arcing from left to right. When dawn came he was gone, but the result of his night’s labour remained for all to see. There on a large concrete slab, hanging from a shattered building, was the image of a little girl. Standing on a pile of skulls, she was writing the word ‘hope’ high above her head.
Later, this simple image, with its one word caption, inspired people across the world. I was one of them. I was sent a photo of the picture by a contact in Daraya, not long after it was painted. The version on my phone had no text beneath, no message, just the picture of the little girl and that single word, ‘hope’. I remember crying when I first saw it. Not tears of sorrow, but of relief, joy and deep admiration. This was a country at war, a town under siege, a people starved, yet here was the image of a child, writing about hope, not hate or revenge. It gave me hope too. Hope for Syria’s future. What a riposte this was to the posters elsewhere in Syria of men in masks, pointing guns, endless drawing of explosions and soldiers, arms aloft, basking in the death of those who opposed them. It reminded me of seeing an interview on BBC television several decades ago. In 1987 a young nurse, Marie Wilson, was killed by an IRA bomb in the town of Enniskillen, Northern Ireland. Before she died her father, Gordon Wilson, had held her hand as they both lay in the rubble. When asked of his response to the bombing by a reporter, he said simply: ‘I bear no ill will. I bear no grudge,’ and he called for forgiveness and reconciliation between both sides of the conflict. His words were reported around the world and came to symbolise what was coined the ‘spirit of Enniskillen’.
I was so captivated, so moved by the image in Daraya that I set out to contact the artist behind it. Initial enquiries brought little success. Many of the people I spoke to there knew about the painting but not the person responsible for it. Some appeared to know a little more, but had heard that the artist wanted to keep his identity secret. That didn’t surprise me, given that many supporting the uprising against Assad feared, not only for themselves, but also for their families. But finally I did manage to make contact with the mysterious painter, and we began a conversation by email. In answer to my question as to why he had chosen to put the young girl at the centre of his painting, he wrote: ‘To me, she symbolises much of the Syrian population. Although most are innocent, so many of them are suffering. Yet despite the war, despite the deaths, despite the terrible siege we live under, we still have
hope.’
Over the following weeks, the young artist sent me photos of other work he had done around Daraya. He was in some of the photos himself, though he always wore a mask over his face in order to keep his identity secret. Overnight, this sensitive nineteen-year-old youth had helped transform the image of Daraya. The Syrian government had long insisted that the town was a hotbed of terrorists, who threatened the survival of all decent people living in Syria. Yet with one painting the artist known as Abu Malik al-Shami–not his real name–had shown what a lie that was. Abu Malik’s gentle image spoke of life triumphing over death, and hope over hate. But while his painting became recognised around the world, few know much about the artist himself, not to mention his dozens of other works dotted around Daraya. Largely because of this fact, the Western media labelled the town’s mysterious, fly-by-night creator, the ‘Banksy’ of Daraya. It is a nickname that stuck.
Abu Malik told me he had been worried that his art would not go down well, especially with locals. ‘In the beginning I was very afraid of what people would think about my drawings on the walls,’ he explained. ‘I mean, many of them have had their homes destroyed, and here I was drawing on the shattered remains of where they had once lived. I felt this would look rather cruel and heartless. So I did these murals after dark, usually in quieter streets where few people pass by. I didn’t want anyone to know who I was in case it made them angry and they stopped me from doing any more.’
For these reasons, as well as concerns about his safety, Abu Malik wanted his identity kept secret, although he did agree to tell me a little about his background. He is from Damascus and one of a very large family of seven brothers and three sisters, all of whom had studied at university. While none of them had ever picked up a paintbrush, art had always been a central part of Abu Malik’s life. He first used his creative skills in 2011 after joining demonstrations against President Bashar al-Assad, aged just sixteen. ‘I was a great believer in what the people were calling for and decided to join the rallies on the streets. Back then, these protests were all peaceful. I soon worked out the best way I could help was by using my artistic skills. I contributed by drawing illustrations for the revolution as well as writing many slogans.’
As the security forces became more violent, several of Abu Malik’s friends were arrested and later tortured. He carried on protesting on the streets until police seized him too, along with one of his brothers. Although he was later released, this spelled the end of both Abu Malik’s studies and life with his family in Damascus. Convinced by this point that peaceful protest was getting nowhere, he decided, with great reluctance, that Assad’s regime could only be defeated by force. Early in 2013 he joined the FSA. ‘I felt the time for shouting at the regime was gone,’ he told me. ‘Now I had to fight them.’
Abu Malik chose to join the FSA in Daraya for two reasons. Firstly, he greatly admired Ghiath Matar, the prominent non-violent revolutionary, who had been arrested alongside his brother, Hazem, and then killed by the security forces. Secondly, one of Abu Malik’s older brothers, who went by the nom de guerre Abu Omar al-Shami, was already in Daraya, having joined the FSA some months previously. Before the war Abu Malik had been to the town occasionally with his father to visit relatives. Even back then it wasn’t easy to get to Daraya from Damascus by public transport but in March 2013, with the town surrounded by hostile pro-Assad forces, it was almost impossible. Making sure he was carrying nothing that might reveal his links with anti-government groups, Abu Malik chose what looked like the best route. This took him through the neighbouring town of al-Moadamyeh, just to the west of Daraya. He wrote: ‘I vividly remember the regime checkpoint I had to go through to get to Daraya from there. It was one of the most feared checkpoints in the whole area. The post was run by local committees who were known for being very cruel to civilians. They’re reported to have killed on the spot anyone they suspected of being involved in the FSA. Women were often raped. They had a terrible reputation. So I was really lucky to get through and make it to Daraya.’
Abu Malik was deeply shocked when he got there. The level of destruction was beyond anything he had imagined; the whole town seemed to have been completely destroyed and a couple of days after he arrived, Daraya came under ferocious attack. During this airstrike, thirteen out of fourteen members of one family were killed. The building they lived in was near where Abu Malik was staying. ‘It was the first time I had seen blood splattered everywhere and people dying right in front of me,’ he told me. ‘Never before had I walked though streets littered with fragments of people after air raids and mortar fire.’ He then told me that some members of that family might have been saved if it had been possible to get them to hospital quickly. But the building they were in was so badly damaged that it had taken hours to get them out. After a long silence, he added: ‘I’m still overwhelmed by those first memories of Daraya. It was all so terribly shocking to me. I had never seen anything like it before.’
After being introduced to his FSA unit by his brother, he began his military training. Given that the town was fighting for its very survival, Abu Malik imagined that thousands of fighters would be defending it. But when he got to the front line, he was surprised to find that there were only a few hundred, and many of them seemed very young and inexperienced. On seeing this he felt that he had been right to choose to fight here, as they clearly needed help, although, he told me, ‘I have to admit, I did occasionally think of getting out of the place and saving my skin. But with so many people dying here and so few fighters defending the city, I felt I had to stay and help.’
Abu Malik was part of a group tasked with defending Daraya. The job of launching attacks against Assad’s forces was, at that point, left to others. The front line was a scary place, especially for a young man not yet out of his teens who had only recently picked up a gun. In some areas, the two warring sides were only a few metres apart. Nothing had quite prepared Abu Malik for this. ‘I had been at college,’ he recalled, ‘studying books, going to lectures and living with my family. Yet here I was now, just a stone’s throw away from people who were trying to kill me.’ Every day Abu Malik witnessed death and destruction. He admitted that at times he found it difficult to cope with. But there was no way back. He feared that had he returned to Damascus, he would have been arrested and killed.
It was during the summer of 2014 that Abu Malik first picked up his paintbrush in Daraya. ‘I hadn’t done any artwork, including graffiti, on walls before I moved to Daraya. In fact, I didn’t start doing this until around a year after I got here. It was when the fighting calmed down for a while that I suddenly got the opportunity. With time on my hands and surrounded by such terrible destruction, I decided to do my first painting on a wall in the town.’ He modestly described one of the first paintings he had done as graffiti. Working in the darkness of a summer’s night in 2014, he painted the flag of the revolution with his rifle next to it, adding some poems he had written alongside the image. After that, he painted copies of art he had seen and admired in other besieged towns in Syria. His main aim, he told me, was to help cheer up the people who were living in such a terribly depressing environment. ‘Most of the town was completely destroyed. It’s devastating for people to live amid all this destruction. Nothing but crumbling debris and pale, fading colours. I thought I could make life much more colourful with my big, bright paintings. Above all, I wanted to remind everyone that there was life here as well as death.’
On 2 December 2014 pro-Assad forces broke through rebel lines and captured four blocks of the city. Rebel forces then counter-attacked and swiftly took all but one back. Although positioned a fair way back from the front line, Abu Malik admitted to finding it all ‘very frightening’. Intense fighting carried on for just over two months until, suddenly, the guns fell silent once more. A ceasefire deal brought the people of Daraya a welcome respite from the carnage. For Abu Malik it presented the opportunity to get back to work. Before too long he was once more painting and drawing on the wall
s of Daraya, though just as before, he only did this at night.
It was at this point that Abu Malik began to realise the importance of his art to the local community. Though valued for his courage in joining the FSA, in that role he was just another man with a gun. But when it came to using his paintbrush to promote the revolution against Assad, Abu Malik was in a league of his own. His work was beginning to spread the message of the rebellion around the world. It was also lifting local morale. Seeing his paintings daubed on walls around Daraya, people felt that at last somebody was articulating their thoughts, as well as brightening their environment. It was the same for the work done by Anas, Abdul Basit, Amjad and their friends in creating and maintaining the secret library. Had they decided to join the FSA and fight full time, their extraordinary sanctuary would never have existed. The inspiration this provided, the encouragement and will to carry on that it gave to so many, would have been sorely missed.
One day a local photographer, Majd Mouaddmani, nicknamed ‘the eye of Daraya’, noticed one of Abu Malik’s drawings on a wall. Impressed with what he saw, he asked one of the artist’s friends to introduce him. At their first meeting, Majd immediately suggested that Abu Malik should do more of his painting and poetry around town to help make demoralised Daraya look a much brighter place. Sensing that Abu Malik still felt a little nervous about doing the paintings openly, Majd, who was known for his fearless photography on the front line, suggested that they work together. He offered to get the materials they needed and to act as Abu Malik’s assistant. When the paintings were finished, he would photograph them and then post them online. That way people in the town would get to see them too, and know that their sacrifices for the revolution were not being forgotten. Abu Malik, meanwhile, wanted to use his wall paintings to send out a message of his own: ‘One of optimism rather than sadness, he said. ‘Hope seemed a good theme. So I started thinking deeply about how I could best illustrate that.’