by Mike Thomson
Then, on 12 May 2016, news reached the town that a Red Cross convoy was on its way. It was reported to be carrying formula milk for babies, vaccines and supplies for schools. Residents rushed out and scanned the horizon, and a collective surge of anticipation swept the ravaged streets. But that evening, bad news arrived: the Red Cross convoy had been turned around by the Syrian army’s 4th Armoured Division, who had refused it permission to enter Daraya. For the first time in a long while the international community voiced its outrage. Heartrending photos and videos appeared on the world’s media of near-starving children from Daraya and other besieged towns such as Madaya, Arbin and Zamalka. I remember covering this story myself at the time for the BBC and noticing how many people in Britain were shocked by the suffering in places like these. As the international outcry mounted, the UN and a variety of international NGOs stepped up their campaign against the Syrian government’s siege tactics while also lobbying Assad’s Russian allies.
Finally, just over a fortnight later, on a baking hot day at the beginning of June, the same medical convoy rolled back into Daraya. This time though, there were no excited crowds to greet it. Quite apart from the years of frustration and disappointment at the lack of tangible aid, many feared that Syrian forces might bomb any large groups that formed on the streets. This was despite word that a forty-eight-hour truce, which most in Daraya didn’t trust, had been agreed to allow the convoy in. It also soon became known that, once again, the trucks were not carrying any food, the one thing the people needed more than anything else. Instead, they brought medicines, though I was later told that many of these bore instructions saying that they should only be taken with food.
Then, just over a week later, on Thursday, 9 June, through the clouds of dust and late-afternoon heat-haze, came a nine-truck UN and Syrian Arab Red Crescent convoy. These trucks were laden with the first delivery of food aid since the siege of Daraya had begun in November 2012. On board were boxes of rice, lentils, chickpeas, beans, bulgur, oil, salt and sugar. Mothers with tears in their eyes, excited children, exhausted young men, all of them showing strain, gathered at a central distribution point organised by the local council. Food was given out in what UN officials described as ‘family rations’–each enough, they said, to see a household through one month, though a council spokesman thought the supplies would only last for twenty days at best. The UN had based its estimate of rations per household on the assumption that Daraya’s population was down to just 4,000 people, though in reality, the council insisted, it was nearly double that number. There was disappointment and concern that no fuel had been supplied by the UN to power water pumps and generators. But by the time all the food had been distributed, late the following morning, the town was a much happier, more hopeful place. The aid might not last long, but at least the world did seem to care after all.
Chapter Eleven
High above the ochre-grey debris, the sound of a young girl’s voice floated across the rubble. At times it was hushed, almost dreamy, then loud and excited.
‘Once upon a time there was a dear little girl who was loved by everyone who looked at her, but most of all by her grandmother, and there was nothing that she would not have given to the child.’
Two head-scarfed figures could be seen through a cavernous gap in the shell-ravaged wall of their home, deep in concentration. One was an older woman, who listened intently, lost in the words her small companion was reading from an Arabic version of a famous children’s story: They sat on richly embroidered, gilt chairs, complete in each other’s company, seemingly oblivious to the desolation around them.
Twelve-year-old Islam loved books. She had helped teach her mother, Um Ismaeel, to read. She lived with her family in their small, half-demolished home on the outskirts of Daraya. So far it had avoided a direct hit from bombs and mortars, but near misses had demolished parts of the living room wall. Through the gaping hole in the masonry, rows of gutted buildings could be seen, scorched shells that had once been their neighbours’ homes. But little Islam only had eyes for the words on her lap. Clearly shy of strangers, her small fingers carefully adjusted her leopard print headscarf as she continued to read aloud: ‘The grandmother lived out in the wood, half a league from the village, and just as Little Red Riding Hood entered the wood, a wolf met her. Red Riding Hood did not know what a wicked creature he was, and was not at all afraid of him.’ She paused and looked: ‘It is very exciting,’ she told me. ‘I feel like I am Little Riding Hood myself when I read it. Even though it is a little scary, it takes me to another place, a better place. When I read a good book like that I forget how hungry I am.’
I had been introduced to Islam and her mother by Malik al-Rifaii, who was a friend of the family. Given that neither Islam nor Um Ismaeel owned a mobile phone for me to Skype them on, he brought them his. Islam spoke only a little English and her mother none, so Malik also translated for us. His warm and sensitive manner soon put them both at ease, though Islam still looked a little nervous at times. I asked her what she liked reading. In a quiet voice, she replied that she liked all kinds of books, everything from the Holy Quran to medieval fairy tales. As for her favourite one, well, that she told me, was definitely Little Red Riding Hood. She held up her copy for me to see, put it back on her lap for safety, then lovingly opened the pages and began reading again. As she read, her face was constantly changing expression, turning into one of wide-eyed fear whenever the wolf was mentioned.
Her joy in the book was palpable. The trouble was that many of her friends loved the book too, and were always asking to borrow it. As her initial shyness receded, Islam, who looked and sounded so much younger than twelve, revealed how difficult life now was for her family. The biggest problem, she told me, was how little they had to eat. With a hand on her stomach, Islam said that they only had one meal a day, usually watery soup. Islam’s way of coping, she said, was to read whatever books she had, often for the third or fourth time.
I asked Islam if she knew about the secret library. She said she did and would love to go there, but that it was too far away. The only books she had managed to read from the secret library had been lent to her by friends whose parents had been there. Looking a little sad, she asked me if I knew whether many other children went to the library. I told her that I wasn’t sure about that but added that it was run by a fourteen-year-old boy called Amjad, and that he seemed to adore books as much as she did. Islam looked most surprised at this–so much so that I wondered if she thought I was making Amjad up. Then she smiled and said, ‘I would love to go there.’
She told me that each day, when the light began to fade, she would play as energetically as she could around the house. This helped her forget the gnawing pains in her stomach, which often stopped her getting to sleep.
As Islam finished her sentence her mother, who had six children in all, put her arm protectively around her daughter’s shoulders. As she spoke, Um Ismaeel’s face reflected the anguish of her words. ‘I feel pain all over my body when I hear her talk like this. Islam taught me to read and now I can’t do anything for her. The other day I thought I was having a stroke because of the worry over my children. They’re my life. I spend all my time now thinking where am I going to get their next meal from. I hardly eat anything any more. I give my portion to them. It is a truly terrible life.’
As her mother spoke, Islam buried her face in her book. I got the feeling that by looking elsewhere she was trying to give her mother some kind of privacy. But her daughter’s touching concern went unseen by Um Ismaeel. She was lost in despair. ‘Until recently I wouldn’t let the children leave the house because of the danger from bombs and mortars,’ she continued. ‘But that has changed now. I have two married daughters here in Daraya and I encourage my other children to go and visit them. It’s really just to stop them saying, “Mummy I’m hungry, Mummy I’m hungry.” I can’t cope with that any more.’
Um Ismaeel said she even let her children play indoor football with their neighbour’s children,
something she would never have allowed before the siege. It would have made a mess of the home she was so proud of. Now such things were of little concern. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘it is everywhere. How can you bother about your home being a mess when parts of its walls are missing?’
As she gestured around the room, Um Ismaeel suddenly stopped talking. In the background I made out the faint sounds of an engine. As it gradually faded away, a very relieved-looking Um Ismaeel, who had evidently thought this was an approaching plane, composed herself.
‘When the bombs start falling,’ she told me, ‘we rush to a big shelter outside, which has enough room for us all. Sometimes we have to stay there for hours. When all is clear, I encourage the children to carry on playing in the shelter, anything to keep them from saying they’re hungry.’
As if the world’s media was listening to our conversation, what sounded like a news jingle boomed from a small radio next to Um Ismaeel’s chair. Either Islam had just turned it on or Daraya was enjoying a brief respite from its almost permanent power cuts. In clipped tones came an announcement, which Malik translated, that a temporary ceasefire had been agreed. This news would be a huge relief to many. But not, it appeared, to Um Ismaeel. Instead, a weary scepticism swept across her face. ‘Hearing this, I’d like to believe it is true and be happy,’ she said. ‘But I don’t trust the Syrian government. They’ve constantly lied, over and over again. They have long been making statements like this. But it always ends the same way. What do they take us for, fools? This is what life has come to now. We keep being promised peace, but it never comes.’
Holding up a photo of her children, she demanded to know if the outside world cared about their lives, whether the deaths of such innocent youngsters, who had no role in this war, were of concern to anyone. ‘Does the international community believe,’ she continued, ‘that Syrians have always lived like this, or that they deserve to have their homes and families destroyed? How would you feel?’ she asked, angrily. ‘Do you think this is really a life?’
The siege hadn’t only stopped Islam from getting to the library, it had also ruined her education. Islam’s school had been shut for many months due to intense bombing, but had recently reopened for a few hours a day. At first she was delighted, because she loved the few books they had there, but when she went back she discovered that there was not enough light in her basement classroom to read them. Islam told me that trying to read in such poor light was making her eyes ache. This, she said, made her want to visit the secret library more than ever. She had heard that there was usually plenty of light there, as well as numerous books to read. Um Ismaeel listened sympathetically to her daughter, and then explained again how it was unfortunately too difficult and dangerous to take Islam there. The library, she said, was always a big talking point in Daraya, and it was great that others were able to make such good use of it. ‘I think the secret library is very good for all those who use it,’ she told me. ‘It’s wonderful that they have a place like that to keep themselves occupied. It not only educates them; it also helps them escape for a while from the terrible world we’re living in. Everyone is talking about how valuable education is for the future of our country and I wish more children could get to the library.’
Um Ismaeel told me how sad it was that so many young people had given up on their schooling because of the war. ‘Most no longer even think about their studies because there are hardly any books to read,’ she said. ‘It’s so hard for children to study properly now and I wonder if they are really learning anything. It makes me heartbroken. My daughter was one of the top students in her class, but now she is really struggling.’ She told me that Islam had taken to memorising the few books she had by heart, just as a way to occupy her mind. She had even memorised passages of the Holy Quran.
And then came a harrowing revelation that brought tears to my eyes. A few months earlier, Islam had been injured when out looking for food with her mother. A rocket had landed near them in a field on the edge of Daraya, and Islam had been hit in the left arm and hand by flying shrapnel. Her arm had been broken and was covered with deep lacerations. Since then, she had feared going anywhere and rarely left her family’s house. In fact, aside from walking to and from school, she never went out at all. The ongoing pain of her injuries, which had yet to fully heal, also made it difficult for her to sleep at night. While Um Ismaeel had managed to get some medicine for her, the drugs were way past their use-by date and were supposed to be taken with food, which they had so little of, three times a day.
But something other than her own injuries was clearly on Islam’s mind. Now looking morose, she began telling me about her father and how much she and all the family loved him. Given that she was speaking about him in the past tense, I was prepared for what was coming next. ‘My dad went to get us all food from al-Moadamyeh but he never came home. He was shot in the head by a sniper.’
Sensing that Islam was finding it hard to continue, Um Ismaeel took over. On the day it had happened, she had been sitting with her husband in the early hours of the morning, discussing how they would feed their children that day. They had no food of any type left in the house, so her husband said he would go out and look for anything edible. They both knew it would be a dangerous trip, as there had been a lot of mortar attacks in their area of Daraya that week, but they agreed there was no other choice. Without dwelling on this any longer, Um Ismaeel’s husband had grabbed his bag and set off. ‘By midday,’ Um Ismaeel continued, ‘there was no sign of him and I started to become concerned. The children were getting very worried and kept asking me, where’s Dad, where’s Dad? It was not like him to stay away so long.’
Finally, distraught with worry, Um Ismaeel phoned her brother-in-law to ask if he had seen her husband. He said he hadn’t, but on hearing how long his brother had been gone, he set off immediately to look for him. ‘A few hours later,’ said Um Ismaeel, ‘after searching all the places my husband usually went to find food, my brother-in-law found him and then brought me to the scene. He was dead, just lying there on the ground. I have been left with this horrible image. It is hard to get it out of my mind. My dear husband lying there alone, without a breath in his body. That sight has never left me. I would not wish such an awful vision on anybody.’
‘He was very, very caring,’ said Islam, taking over from her mother in a tearful but determined voice. ‘I loved him, we all loved him. He was so caring that he would do everything he could to get us food. He hated seeing us going to bed hungry.’ Um Ismaeel sighed deeply, tears welling in her eyes as she told me she couldn’t think of a single happy moment since he died. It was not just the grief, she explained, but the stress of trying to feed and care for the children by herself. She worried about what would happen to them if she was killed when out looking for food for the family. What would happen if she survived, but came back with nothing to give them. She would never forgive herself, she told me, if they were hurt or killed while she was out. Before, she had taken Islam with her when she went to search for food, but after her daughter was injured, she had been afraid to do that. ‘I go by myself now, but always tell her where I’m going and remind all my children that they must go down to the basement if the planes come. The airstrikes and shelling have destroyed everything. We used to have wheat, we used to have crops but they’ve left us with nothing.’
While Um Ismaeel was speaking, pictures of the war’s various political and military leaders came to mind–middle-aged men making finger-jabbing threats, promising victory to come, while pledging to fight to the death. Meanwhile families like Um Ismaeel’s were being torn apart. It is one of the saddest facts about most modern conflicts that civilians seem to suffer the most. Wars these days are rarely waged on faraway battlefields. Instead they come to the hearts of towns and cities. Homes, schools and hospitals mark the modern front lines. Women, children, the sick and the elderly all become casualties, ‘collateral damage’ in the push for victory. None are consulted, and many probably do not even know why the
war is being fought, never mind why they are dying in it. I asked twelve-year-old Islam if she knew why people were fighting. ‘I honestly don’t know,’ she told me. ‘I mean, I’ll be looking out of the window and seeing some place being shelled and I think, why are they bombing this place? Sometimes I hear that someone has died because of his injuries and I ask myself, why did he die, what did he do?’
In the past, Islam told me, her life was beautiful. Her family had lived such a happy life, but it had changed so much. Now she had nothing to eat, she went to bed being bombed and woke up to that too. Sometimes, she continued in a whisper, weeks would go by when there was no shelling or bombing but nobody would celebrate. They all knew, deep down, that it would not last and the bombs would come back. Islam and her family had lived with fear for a long time. Now there was anger in her eyes, as well as in her voice. She crossed her arms tightly, and shouted: ‘Children are dying of hunger and being killed by bombs. I’m so sick of it.’
Islam, who had clearly been doing so well at school, who loved reading, loved stories, loved life, had been enjoying a happy childhood. Now her life was reduced to almost constant terror and alarm. Seeing the enormous potential in this young girl, with so much of her life yet to come, I desperately wanted to hear her talk of her hopes for the future. ‘Islam,’ I asked, ‘When you grow up, and this terrible war is finally over, what would you like to be?’
She took a while to reply. ‘I used to think about that, but not any more. I don’t think I will get much older. I will probably die here.’