Syria's Secret Library

by Mike Thomson

  Rateb recalled how, in an effort to break the deadlock, some of the pro-regime soldiers had tried to sneak into the rebels’ room in the dead of night. But having suspected this might happen, Rateb’s comrades had set booby traps outside their door. ‘When we heard sounds of footsteps approaching we retreated a little and let them walk into the trap. When we knew they had crossed the line we threw ourselves on the floor and detonated the explosives.’

  It seemed callous, but as Rateb had pointed out, the enemy would have had no qualms about killing them. In addition to each other, another enemy facing both sides, especially the poorly equipped rebels, was the weather. Regularly outgunned, they were often forced to abandon their positions at short notice and take up new ones. This meant they could find themselves in some very inhospitable areas, often open spaces or bombed out-buildings which lacked roofs and sometimes walls. Such places were exposed to the baking sun in summer and the freezing winds and rain in the winter. Rateb told me that when it was cold, lighting fires to keep warm was out of the question as that would expose their position to enemy snipers. ‘So to help fend off the cold we would wear as many clothes as possible,’ he said. ‘And when it was really hot we’d dig tunnels and ditches. These would offer a little shade. But surviving the hot and cold wasn’t our biggest worry. That was simply staying alive.’

  On 30 September 2015, Russian planes bombed targets in Syria for the first time. President Putin declared that this was part of a pre-emptive strike against Islamic State terrorists, aimed at hitting them before they hit Moscow. Yet, in reality there were few if any IS jihadists in the places targeted in these attacks. The rebel-held city of Homs, in western Syria, was a case in point. It was an FSA stronghold, rather than an IS one. It soon became increasingly clear that Russia’s military campaign was really aimed at other rebel groups–some of them moderate, and partly armed by Washington–who opposed the rule of President Bashar al-Assad. Assad had become Putin’s new ally in the Middle East, taking the place of Libya’s Muammar Gaddafi, who had been set to spend billions of dollars on Russian arms before he was toppled by an uprising in 2011. After a string of defeats to both rebel and IS forces earlier that year, Assad needed such a powerful ally. Moscow was acting out of self-interest too. It had an eye on protecting its two military footholds in Syria: an airbase in the western province of Latakia, and a Russian naval base just to the south, in the port of Tartus. This intervention would go on to tip the balance of the war firmly in Assad’s favour.

  Those sitting quietly in their secret literary sanctuary, deep beneath the streets of Daraya, had some measure of protection from the continuing onslaught. Like all basements, it kept its occupants safe from flying debris and shrapnel, snipers’ bullets and most mortar fire and small missiles. Its rows and rows of books offered mental respite too. A friend of Anas’s, who for security reasons did not want to be named, summed it up like this: ‘The books themselves help us forget all the troubles around us. When we are reading, the author takes us away to a different world. That’s something we really need, it gives us peace of mind.’

  But that peace of mind came close to being shattered early one winter’s morning in December 2015. As Anas, Abdul Basit, Ayham and some friends rounded the corner of the small street that led to the library, they were faced with a scene of utter devastation. The entrance to the secret library had been badly damaged by a barrel bomb dropped the night before, and the house next to it was almost completely destroyed. It was hard to tell from where they stood whether their precious library had survived. Grabbing broken slabs of concrete and stone, they began pulling what rubble they could away from the door. But, as Ayham told me, it soon became clear that this was a hopeless task: ‘There was so much debris that it completely blocked the entrance. The rubble was so heavy that we couldn’t move it away from the door, or find any way through it. Our only option was to break into a shop in an adjoining building, and then try to make a hole in the wall. The hope was that we could then crawl through that into the library.’

  Armed with whatever implements they could find, the group set about forcing their way into the abandoned shop next door to the library. Many hours later they finally succeeded in tunnelling through into their literary sanctuary. To their enormous relief, most of the books seemed to have survived the impact, though many lay scattered across the floor, some of the ruined shelves they had sat on beyond repair.

  It is hard to imagine how they must have felt on rounding that corner, seeing the rubble and fearing that their beloved library, the lifeblood of their community, had been destroyed. Time and time again different members of the group had told me how devastated they would be if this ever happened. It would have been the end of so very much more than a basement and some books. Fortunately nobody had been inside the building at the time. Had young Amjad been buried under the rubble, I dread to think how they would have coped.

  Later that day rumours began to spread that the secret library had been targeted by the Syrian air force after they were tipped off where it was. Though completely unsubstantiated, these reports caused widespread alarm. If the regime now knew where it was, surely they would bomb it again? There really was no way to know the truth, but everyone decided just to hope for the best.

  Chapter Nine

  In the weeks after the near destruction of the secret library, Abdul Basit and his friends worked flat out to restore it to its former glory. First came the clear-up. Piles of books lay on the ground caked in dust and bits of masonry and all of them had to be cleaned up and sorted into the right categories again. Some shelves could be repaired but many new ones were needed. The wood had to be found, then cut and shaped, before being slotted into place. Repairs were also needed to the walls and ceiling of the library and heavy rubble cleared from its half-collapsed entrance.

  Amazingly, when I called Abdul Basit at the secret library via Skype a few weeks after the near miss, all seemed back to normal. Tranquillity had returned, and the shelves looked as well stocked as ever. There was even a pile of newly rescued books stacked by Amjad’s chair. Some of these, I was told, had been found in a gutted shop only a couple of streets away, while others had been brought to the library by a family nearby. I asked Abdul Basit about the titles that had been given in this way. Smiling, he got up from his chair and walked over to a section of books behind him, brushing his hand gently along the spines of a row of elegantly lettered titles on the middle shelf. ‘All of these books were donated to the library by my grandfather,’ he told me. ‘This one here is one we used to read together. I really enjoyed hearing my grandfather’s thoughts on it. It talks about civilisation, and how this manifests itself around the world. It discusses its effect on humans across time, looking at such things as equality, religious tolerance and the ethics of war. God bless you, grandfather. I hope we will read together again soon and be happy once more, just like we used to be.’

  Abdul Basit spoke so movingly and personally to his grandfather that I wondered for a moment if he was there in the library with him. He was not. This was clearly another Abdul Basit moment. He speaks in such a poetic way. When we first talked and he told me that his university education had been stopped by the war, I asked him what he had been studying. Having expected him to say something like philosophy or literature, I was surprised to be told that it was business and economics. He was obviously a man of many talents and it turned out that one of these was spotting the works of Shakespeare during his book-salvaging missions. On seeing one volume among a bag of freshly rescued volumes, he remembered that it had once been recommended to him by his uncle. The book in question was an Arabic version of Shakespeare’s Hamlet–one of his favourite books of all time. A besotted Abdul Basit would often read it during spare moments. ‘Shakespeare’s style of writing is simply beautiful,’ he told me. ‘He describes every single scene so vividly that it’s like I’m in a cinema watching a film. Among many other things, I adore his wonderful use of metaphors in this story. The play is amazing. It is such
a deep and remarkable book that it should be read by everyone, everywhere. Once I started reading it, I just couldn’t put the book down. In fact, I became so obsessed with it that I began reading it at the hospital where I work. At first this only happened during quiet times, but then I began reading it at almost every opportunity. In the end I said to myself, Abdul Basit, this has to stop! I mean, it just wasn’t fair on the patients.’

  Hearing these words made me think of the saying that people around the world have far more in common than the things that set them apart. We may have different religions, languages, houses and clothes but many of our aspirations, hopes and fears are much the same. Our love of great stories, like Hamlet, that deal with human nature in all its forms, need no translation beyond the language they are told in. The joy Abdul Basit talked of when reading that particular book, rang so many bells with me. The fact that Hamlet was set so long ago in a country he had never seen did not in any way lessen his enjoyment of it.

  Syria, or its antecedents, has also been home to many remarkable writers over the years. The year 64 BC marked the birth of Nicolaus of Damascus, who was to become a revered historian and author. Nicolaus became a close friend of Herod the Great and tutored the children of Mark Antony and Cleopatra. And when it came to putting pen to paper, few were more prolific than Nicolaus. Among his achievements was a history of the world in 144 volumes, several plays, as well as various biographies and works on subjects as diverse as philosophy and botany.

  Over 800 years later, in AD 788, came the birth of the poet Abu Tammam. A Christian who later converted to Islam, he is best known for a ten-book anthology of Arabic poetry. It contains more than 800 poems which Saladin himself, the first Sultan of Egypt and Syria, is said to have learned by heart. Perhaps they were all very short. I am not sure if this book was on the shelves of the secret library, but if it was the founders might have taken exception to the following lines:

  The sword is more veracious than the book,

  Its cutting edge splits earnestness from sport.

  The white of the blade, not the black of the age,

  Its broadsides clarify uncertainty and doubt.17

  When it comes to fascinating and controversial Arabic writers from this period, few can compete with Al-Ma‘arri (973–1057), a blind poet and philosopher hailed as one of the greatest classical Arabic writers. His Epistle of Forgiveness is considered to be the precursor to The Divine Comedy by Dante. He had a rather irreligious world view and was as scathing about Muslims as he was about Christians and Jews, which has earned him enemies right up to this day. In 2013 the al-Qaeda-linked extremist group Jabhat Fatah al-Sham (previously known as Jabhat al-Nusra) beheaded a statue of him in his home town of Ma‘arrat al-Nu‘man in north-west Syria. I would imagine that today’s pro-life lobby would not be too fond of him either. The great writer was an anti-natalist, who believed that children should not be born in order to spare them the pains of living. Al-Ma‘arri, a rationalist who called for social justice, was also one of the world’s first celebrity vegans, on ethical grounds. Here is one of his poems on the subject:

  I No Longer Steal from Nature

  Do not unjustly eat fish the water has given up,

  And do not desire as food the flesh of slaughtered animals,

  Or the white milk of mothers who intended its pure draught

  for their young, not noble ladies.

  And do not grieve the unsuspecting birds by taking eggs,

  for injustice is the worst of crimes.

  And spare the honey which the bees get industriously

  from the flowers of fragrant plants;

  For they did not store it that it might belong to others,

  Nor did they gather it for bounty and gifts.

  I washed my hands of all this; and wish that I

  Perceived my way before my hair went grey!18

  Given the lack of almost anything to eat in Daraya in 2015, there would have been little to offend his vegan sensitivities there.

  Still thinking about favourite authors I called Sara to find out what she liked to read after finishing a day teaching school children. The answer I got surprised me: ‘I like a lot of different kinds of books and authors,’ she told me, ‘but I’m particularly keen on Agatha Christie. I love her writing. I think the book that I have enjoyed most by her is The Body in the Library.’ I really did think she was joking at first. But no, that truly was one of her favourite books. Sara’s English was so good that she had even read it in the original version. ‘The way it’s written is so compelling and I really relate to it,’ she continued. ‘Perhaps this is because of the circumstances I’m living in at the moment.’

  It really touched me that Sara found Agatha Christie’s writing so appealing and that she could get so much enjoyment from it. The old-fashioned style, never mind the subject matter, could not be further removed from bombed and besieged Daraya. Sara, who also loved books by George Bernard Shaw and John Stuart Mill, told me that she strongly identified with what she had read: ‘I like the way Agatha Christie’s books always carry a moral message,’ she said. ‘It’s basically that crime and violence don’t pay, they achieve nothing. I see the sense of that all around me here. And that’s what I would love everyone to understand. Killing, fighting fire with fire, doesn’t get anyone anywhere.’

  Another of the library’s books that Sara had very much enjoyed was The Alchemist by Brazilian novelist Paulo Coelho. The book tells the story of a young Spanish boy who has a dream about travelling from Spain to Egypt in search of treasure. On his way he keeps losing hope when encountering obstacles and difficulties, but he is told that eventually he will be sent a sign from the gods. This encourages him to continue. Sara initially thought the book sounded a little highbrow and dull when it was suggested to her by a friend but her view soon changed when she began turning the pages. ‘As I started going through it,’ she recalls, ‘I began to forget everything around me, even the constant bombing went from my mind. This book always gives me great hope. Every time I feel that I can’t take life any more, I repeat some of the words in this book to myself, and it lifts me up again. I have reread it so many times. It inspires me, especially since I’m an introverted person. I don’t socialise much, so books are my friend. This book is a very good friend. My favourite passage shows that to be afraid of suffering is worse than actually suffering. And that it’s impossible to suffer when in search of a dream, because every moment of the search is to meet with God. Any new pursuit requires entering uncharted territory–that’s scary. But with any great risk comes great reward. The experiences you gain in pursuing your dream will make it all worthwhile.’

  Reading, Sara explained, helped her make better sense of the trauma her country was going through. Then the room went quiet.

  On another of my ‘visits’ to the library, Ayham and Rateb were sitting together reading on the large and rather comfortable-looking couch. When I asked them what their favourite books were, both smiled and nodded, as if each was about to reel off a long list of titles. Instead, what followed was a lot of scratching of heads and rubbing of chins. I did sympathise. It reminded me of times when I have been asked what my favourite piece of music is. There are just so many possibilities, many of them dependent on mood and genre. Finally Ayham piped up: ‘I love being here. The trouble is that I’ve read so many fascinating books in this library that it’s become hard to pin down which ones I like best. Having said that, one of my favourite authors is definitely, Ali al-Tantawi from Damascus. He is very famous in Syria. I have read so many of his books, memoirs and other publications. You ought to read his books too.’

  Meanwhile, Rateb had managed to crystallise his thoughts: ‘I still remember the first book I ever borrowed from the library,’ he told me. ‘It was by the Egyptian journalist Ahmed Mansour. I think the title was something like, Under Fire in Afghanistan. It was the story of a man during the war in Afghanistan. I definitely identified with the main character in the book, who was a news correspon
dent for Al Jazeera. There seemed to be so many similarities between the underground tunnels he talked about there and the way the war is fought here.’

  By this time Homam had joined us. Unable to contain himself, he began reading out a long list of authors and books that he loved, most of which he and his lifelong friend, Omar Abu Anas, had shared. He admitted that some were challenging reads, but insisted that the effort was worth it in the end. Most of them were about religion. Among his favourites were Religion by Dr Abdallah Draz; A Marxist Interpretation of Islam; An Introduction to Islam; The Story of Faith by Nadim el Jisr and History of Religions by Muhammad Abu Zahra, which Homam described as ‘a very important book to read’. Another of his favourites, which elicited an enthusiastic thump on the table, was How to Reach Out to People by Muhammad Qotob Abou. ‘It is one of the best books you could ever read,’ he said. And, from what he had been telling me, there had been many of those. ‘I’m also very keen on titles about personal development,’ he added. ‘The author Stephen Covey has written several memorable books on this subject which I found in the library. The only subjects I can’t find much on in our secret library is philosophy.’

  Inspired by the enthusiasm for this wide range of subjects, I called in at an independent bookshop near where I live in London to see if I could buy some of them. Perhaps, I thought, I could then join one of their regular book clubs via Skype. Hamlet and Agatha Christie’s The Body in the Library were obviously no problem, along with Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist, Under Fire in Afghanistan by Ahmed Mansour and The Story of Faith by Nadim el Jisr. But, when asking for a title such as How to Reach Out to People by Muhammad Qotob Abou, I was met with blank faces. Some of the titles suggested to me by people in Daraya were available only in Arabic, a language I have yet to master. But reading the books I could get hold of, especially those by Syrian authors that I had never come across before, was a very rewarding experience.