Syria's Secret Library

by Mike Thomson

  Not that Rateb and his colleagues were resting on their laurels. As soon as one session had finished, they were busy preparing the agenda for the next. And while all that was going on, someone else would be organising a committee to check what progress had been made on other projects. Rateb explained that this last measure was put in place because people tended to work better if they knew their achievements were being monitored. Here they were, half-starved, in one of the most dangerous countries on earth, yet organising such a host of different activities. I couldn’t help thinking how impressive this was and how efficiently this group would be at running a library–or even a business–in the West.

  While he had been a founding member of the secret library–and was now so clearly devoted to it–Rateb hadn’t always been so keen on books. ‘Before the revolution,’ he said, ‘me and my friends had little interest in reading. We only read books that we had to study for our university courses, but this completely changed after the secret library was created. And as we didn’t have any TV or other ways to connect with the outside world, reading became our only window on life beyond Daraya. The library not only made us better informed on lots of subjects, it also let us escape to another world.’

  Whenever he got a break from the front line, Rateb would always make his way to the library. There he would read, recuperate, exchange stories and celebrate still being alive. But being a single man at the time, unlike men with families, he often had to stay at his post, or very near it, even when off duty. So he decided that if he could not go to the library, the library would come with him. ‘I would take my library books with me to the front line, to the places where we would fight and often sleep for days. Most of the guys I was with did the same and we would swap books with each other. We obviously couldn’t do this in the heat of battle, but it worked well when things were calm.’

  Rateb’s image conjured up a rather surreal picture in my mind: lines of men with guns, sitting reading in their trenches. But, as I was to find out from Rateb and some of his colleagues, life on the front line was not always how many of us would imagine it. There were long, quiet periods on both sides when little happened and life was sometimes more boring than frightening. There’s nothing better to do at such moments, Rateb told me, than getting stuck into your favourite book.

  One of Rateb’s FSA colleagues, Omar Abu Anas, was a great fan of reading on the battlefield. He told me: ‘When I sit there and the front line is quiet, it’s a little like being at the library itself. I take out my bag of books, which I think of as my mini-library, and read bits of each of them. For half an hour I might read about economics, then half an hour later it might be history, literature or poetry.’ Omar insisted that he and Rateb were far from being the only ones to do this. Many other fighters brought their book collections, or ‘mini-libraries’ as Omar had called them, to the front line. This meant that when one fighter had finished with a book he could simply swap it for another from somebody else’s collection. And when there were prolonged quiet periods, fighters even got together and held what amounted to front-line book clubs in their foxholes. Given that they usually only had one copy of each book they couldn’t all discuss the same one. Instead, each would give a talk about the one he had read and then take questions about it from his comrades. Discussions would range from queries about the plot line and quality of the writing to the moral issues raised in the story: ‘On average there is an FSA front line point around every fifty metres. Each one of us has about four books or so, which we then swap and discuss. It’s a wonderful way for us to exchange books and ideas when we can’t get to the secret library.’

  The secret library was now also home to a weekly book club. However, as it was more difficult to pass books around when readers were not sitting close to each other, and because, like in the frontline foxholes, there was mostly only one copy of each title in the library, those attending would talk about the one they had borrowed. It was, Rateb enthused, all about sharing knowledge and ideas. ‘The atmosphere is wonderful. I really look forward to these sessions, even though I have a very long walk to get here. It allows me to meet with people that I would never otherwise see. These are cultivated people, intellectuals and good-natured souls, and we all look forward to getting together.’

  Rateb revealed that, after the initial book club discussion, there would often be a presentation–by which he did not mean somebody just pulling out some scribbled notes, but a well-planned talk often involving the use of a slide projector. And such evenings did not end there. Following this, there would often be another discussion, which according to Rateb was usually a fun and very lively affair: ‘We laugh and share anecdotes and sometimes we even run some small competitions. The atmosphere is wonderful. I feel so happy and comfortable spending time with these people, it makes me feel like I have everything I need and nothing is missing. We all forget that we are away from our parents, because in a way the secret library is our home. We are like a family here.’

  When Rateb said this, I was in no doubt that he meant every word. He spoke with such warmth for those around him in the library. It was through Rateb that I had first met Homam al-Toun, another fighter with the FSA. Like just about all the men there, he had the obligatory dark beard, much fuller than Rateb’s, and short thick hair. His face was rather thin but his eyes were bright and friendly. He was keen to tell me about sessions held at the library to help former students resume their education. He told me about a friend of his, who was studying to be an engineer, but who, like many others in war-torn Syria, had never been able to finish his training. The idea to help the many people in that position came about at a meeting in the library soon after it opened. Most of the people there were well educated but had younger siblings, friends and other relatives who had few, if any, qualifications. Some in the town were even worse off. Many had never even read a book and some could not read at all.

  Homam recalled how at that meeting, one of the young men at the back became very emotional. He said how terrible it was that more educated people, like himself and the others gathered in the library, had ignored those who were much less fortunate. Such people look up to us, he had said, yet we have done nothing for them. Then, after moving to the front of the room, the man had added: ‘Whatever we are doing, we should be passing on our knowledge to others. We should be generous with what we know, as well as what we have. We must stop thinking only of ourselves.’ Homam went on to tell me that the young man was in tears before he had finished speaking. He evidently cared so much for others and was one of the most ardent supporters of the secret library. This story did not have a happy ending: ‘Sadly he was killed by a missile only a short time ago. He was just twenty-two years old,’ Homam said. ‘His death made me so very sad.’

  Again, given the carnage happening night and day, I wondered how locals felt about these young men sitting around reading books. What did Anas, Abdul Basit and the others say to those who demanded that they pick up a gun and go out to help people like Rateb defend their town? When I asked him this, Anas listened patiently to my question and paused before replying. When the answer came his voice was steady.

  ‘There’s an old Arabic saying, “He who lacks knowledge will turn into a highway thief.” I see no point in young men going to fight if they don’t know what they’re fighting for. We have to be educated. Also, when this war is over we will have a country that will desperately need rebuilding. We, the more educated ones, will be a big part of that. This is accepted here.’ Anas added that many of those who used the library, such as Rateb’s friend Omar, also spent some of their time fighting on the front line. At this point an old saying came into my mind. It was the old British one, about the pen being mightier than the sword. I asked Anas if he agreed with that sentiment. ‘I don’t think that even needs discussion,’ he replied. ‘My answer is yes, 100 per cent!’

  Homam also strongly rejected the suggestion that reading books was any less worthy or valuable than bearing arms against the regime. ‘I was surrou
nded by people who had fought on the front line for years,’ he said, ‘and am a fighter myself, but most of us can only do that for a while. I really don’t think that working at the library and fighting with weapons are two contradictory things. Some of us fight to save our beloved town of Daraya, while others concentrate on building this library and improving people’s education. We all support the revolution and share the same goal.’

  I knew, of course, that members of the FSA had helped set up the library. Many of their fighters were not professional soldiers, and had also been university students before the war. They held the library in high regard and were delighted it had been created. Omar had told me just how much he loved the peace and tranquillity there and how this basement home had offered him respite from the front line, the war and the baking heat above. Its calmness also freed his mind, and reading and discussing books had opened him up to new ideas. When I had talked to Omar, he had been sitting in the library with his rifle and dust-caked boots, looking very at home among the shelves of books. I’d mentioned this to him and he’d said: ‘I’m not a career soldier and neither are many of the people I fight with. I was a second-year engineering student at university but I had to give up my education to protect Daraya. Most of those involved in the revolution didn’t want to pick up weapons. But the brutality of the regime left us with no other choice.’

  There were dissenters, however. It took a moment but then Homam admitted what I had long suspected. Namely, that there were those who believed that reading was a complete waste of time. In fact, he told me, some resented the library so much that they had threatened to destroy it. ‘There were some FSA fighters who weren’t educated and were totally against the library project,’ he told me. ‘They used to say, “Here we are, doing all this fighting and all you can think about is books.” Things came to a head when we heard that some of them were threatening to blow up the library! I was utterly horrified.’

  Homam went on to explain that most of those who made these threats had never appreciated libraries and books. Some even despised such things. The hotheads among them began saying the best thing to do with the library, which its organisers had initially called ‘Dawn of the nation’, was to have it bombed. Homam believes this decision may have been influenced by the name it was given. ‘In Arabic the word dawn is very much like the word for a bomb, just a couple of letters different. I think this is what led them to suggest this form of destruction.’

  Determined to keep their treasured library in one piece, Homam invited those who thought this way to visit it. They were reluctant until he pointed out that if they came they could listen to talks being given there by fellow fighters. That seemed to make a difference and Homam became optimistic that the detractors would come. All he needed, he believed, was to get them through the door. Once they saw what was really going on, they would change their minds and eventually come to love the place. ‘Ignorance is always the enemy of humanity,’ he said, passionately. ‘The worst enemy facing a man is someone who knows nothing of what he speaks. When they had said that they didn’t like what was happening in the library they actually had no idea what was going on there.’

  Homam’s efforts bore fruit. When the critics finally accepted his invitation and came to visit the library, most were very impressed. They listened to speeches from FSA leaders with great interest, regularly erupting with rounds of applause. Homam added: ‘It really helped to change their minds and inspired many of them educationally, personally and spiritually.’ It then became clear why some of those who came had been so against books and libraries before. They were illiterate. Many had signed up there for classes in reading and writing, and began coming to the library regularly.

  This was a library for everybody. On its polished shelves were books on just about every topic you could think of, each one either an education, an escape or entertainment for the reader, and often all three. They came in all different sizes, shapes and colours. From thin satin-covered poetry books embossed with delicate gold lettering, to sturdy encyclopaedias, richly embossed history books, sombre religious tomes and colourful works of literature. There was another category of titles that might easily have gone unnoticed by the casual eye. While often the plainest, least interesting-looking of all the books housed in the library, these were perhaps more valuable than any: specialist books on engineering, medicine, mathematics, chemistry, plumbing, law, teaching–all the subjects needed to keep society running. Such tomes were pored over by former university students, thirsty for the knowledge and tuition they had been deprived of by the war. Then there were visionaries such as Sara and Aysha who, in the absence of school books, used the library’s resources to distil knowledge for their pupils. There was also the remarkable story of Ayham al-Sakka, who used the library’s textbooks to continue his studies.

  Ayham had been studying dentistry at Damascus University when the conflict brought a premature end to his education. In normal times, his failure to graduate with a certificate would have disqualified him from practising dentistry. But these were not normal times. All qualified dentists had left Daraya, along with the majority of other residents, when the terrible violence began. This meant that Ayham was the only one left with any idea of how to care for people’s teeth. With the help of medical books from the secret library, he was able to step into the breach and provide a valuable service.

  I was first introduced to Ayham, the dentist of Daraya, by Abdul Basit. ‘Ayham is a very outgoing person. He is always smiling and has a very loud laugh. In fact, a smile hardly ever leaves his face. He is very good natured and liked by just about everyone he meets. One of the things I most love about Ayham is his wry sense of humour, and I mean that in a nice way. He’s physically very tall and well built, but is saved from looking threatening by his childlike face.’ The following day Abdul Basit texted me Ayham’s WhatsApp number, along with several photos of him at work. There, deep in the bowels of what looked like some kind of clinic, was a man in a surprisingly crisp white medical coat. The walls surrounding him were covered in deep gouges and holes. In pride of place, bang in the centre of the room, was a rather antiquated-looking dentist chair in which lay a bearded young man in a check-shirt, pain etched all over his face. Bending over his open-mouthed patient was twenty-five-year-old Ayham.

  When I managed to get through to the dentist of Daraya, the character I encountered was quite different to the one painted by Abdul Basit. He was not in any way unfriendly, but seemed rather reserved and a little intense. On being told how he had been described by his friend, a warmth came into his voice. He told me that Abdul Basit’s words were very flattering, but he saw himself quite differently. ‘I am quite a quiet person, a bit of a loner. Somebody who is often happier in his own company rather than going out socialising.’ Ayham told me that he had time to talk because he had fewer patients in his surgery due to intensive bombing earlier in the day, although he said: ‘Even if there is heavy shelling and people are scared to go out, this does not put everyone off. Some people have such severe toothache that not even bombs and snipers will stop them coming here for help. They’ll risk anything to get treatment, including their lives.’

  Ayham went on to explain that he could have left the country and finished his dental training abroad, but had decided to stay after hearing that he was the only person with dental training left in Daraya. The fact that he was not yet qualified for the job had been a worry at first but when the library opened, he quickly saw a solution. ‘I realised that I could fill the gaps in my knowledge by borrowing medical books from the secret library,’ he told me. These weren’t specifically about dentistry; they were more general medical textbooks. But they had been a big help nonetheless. ‘I consult them a lot. I’ve also managed to download some specialist dental books from the Internet and these have been invaluable too.’ He pointed out a bookshelf at the other end of the room, with a row of much-prized medical books, all borrowed from the secret library.

  Ayham’s tools of the trade were clea
rly far from cutting edge, though they looked better than I had expected. After all, this was a surgery that had been built up in the midst of a siege, where everything but courage was in short supply. Ayham, like many I had talked to in Daraya, was clearly resourceful. He explained that when he decided to set up a dental practice he had little in the way of specialist equipment. He went all over Daraya looking to buy some, but there was none for sale, as every dentist who had fled the town appeared to have taken their instruments with them. But then, Ayham told me, he had a stroke of luck. He came across a dentist who was just about to leave and persuaded the man to sell him his equipment. However, when he got it all home, he discovered that some of the instruments were badly damaged and would have to be replaced. That was when he decided it was time to start taking risks. ‘On asking around,’ he said quietly, ‘I discovered that it was possible to buy most equipment I needed from people who had contacts in the government forces. This was a very difficult and dangerous thing to do. Some people I know have been arrested trying to get equipment and medicine in this way. I didn’t like doing it, but there was such desperate need here and it is the only way now.’

  It wasn’t only a shortage of dental tools and equipment that Ayham was grappling with, he also lacked most drugs and other basic medical supplies. Many of the materials he had, especially the ones he used for fillings, were way past their sell-by date. This meant that there were many dental procedures that he could not perform. He was also short of sterilisation products, and the generators providing electricity for his surgery only worked for about an hour a day. ‘As for anaesthesia,’ he added, ‘I don’t have much of that. There’s little I can do to ease the pain my patients suffer during some procedures.’