by Mike Thomson
Meanwhile, infighting among allied rebel groups in Idlib had reached new heights. In what seems a somewhat trivial dispute in a time of war, they were rowing over what flag they should fly. One local faction, Harakat Ahrar al-Sham insisted on raising the revolution flag, widely used by anti-Assad protesters, but this angered the al-Qaeda-linked HTS coalition (Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham), who insisted that only the black Islamic flag, bearing the Muslim profession of faith, should be flown. The open warfare that followed, which often involved firefights in the streets, made life even more precarious for Idlib’s already blighted civilians. It also meant that pro-Assad forces could keep their powder dry in Idlib, and simply watch on as their rebel opponents killed each other.
While internecine war raged in Syria’s north-west, the regime used the opportunity to step up security in areas under its control. And as Sara told me, this very much threatened plans for another much-hoped-for reunion with her mother. She texted me to say that her mum’s visit had now been postponed: ‘The government is tightening control on the streets and arresting people travelling to and from Damascus. It is no longer safe for my mother to travel here. I only wish I could go to Damascus myself. It would enable me to live again. In this dirty place it is difficult to think about the future, or to imagine a better life.’
Talking to Sara again reminded me of others from Daraya who I had not heard from in a while. One was former English teacher Muhammad Shihadeh, who was also now in Idlib. I wondered how he was getting on. The voice that answered the phone was as calm and welcoming as ever, not that I should have been surprised, for this was a man who sounded just the same back in Daraya when bombs were exploding all around him, some of which were so loud that they had distorted the speakers in my BBC studio. When I had suggested to him that we should stop our conversation until he had found somewhere safer, he had softly replied: ‘There are no safe places in Daraya, Mike. Just carry on.’ I’m sure that Muhammad had his worries just like everyone else, but he certainly managed to hide them better than most. He admitted that infighting among rebel groups in Idlib was making life there tougher than ever. This, he feared, would weaken rebel defences and might tempt pro-government forces to attack this last rebel-held province. Then, his voice dropping to a whisper: ‘I hope it doesn’t get much worse but I have to say I’m worried that it might.’
Those few words were chilling. After all the people of Daraya had endured, to face yet another full-scale onslaught would be terrible. I glanced through my window in London at the frost covering the ground outside. Winter was on its way, a season that brought freezing temperatures to Syria too. Yet they did not live in centrally heated homes with hot water and three good meals a day, and with the Turkish border closed, civilians would have nowhere to run to if an offensive began. But Muhammad, as usual, was not going to sit around worrying about something he could do little to change. Instead he was spending his time trying to help his community cope with the psychological traumas they had endured in the past and the threats they faced in the future. To do this he and some colleagues had decided to learn what they could from others who had experienced such traumas before. With this in mind they had contacted the renowned American journalist Janine di Giovanni, author of the powerful book, The Morning They Came for Us: Dispatches from Syria. They asked if she could put them in contact with people in Bosnia who had survived the war there. The hope was that those who had suffered like them, but come through what must have seemed an endless darkness, could help the people of Daraya do the same. Janine had been happy to bring them together and Muhammad told me that it had been a big success: ‘We were hoping they could help us on a personal level. We talked to them in detail about our situation and the secret library and they spoke of their memories. How they had survived the terrible events in Bosnia and then moved on with their lives after the war. Hearing all this and forming these human relationships helped all of us a lot. Hopefully it will continue to help us get through what is to come.’
Life was clearly still very difficult for all those I knew from Daraya following their evacuation to Idlib, but at least all but poor Omar had survived. When you think of the terrible dangers and hardships they had lived through, that in itself was remarkable. Abdul Basit, Anas, Ayham, Malik, Rateb and Muhammad were all still close and living in Idlib city. And though clearly homesick and missing the secret library, they were still very positive about life. Abdul Basit and Anas were happily married and Amjad was at last away from the fighting. Worryingly I still had no news about what had happened to twelve-year-old Islam and her mother, but Malik promised he would try to find out. Abu Malik was carrying on painting his pro-revolution murals around Idlib, despite demands for him to stop by Islamic extremists. Sadly, though, I learned that his painting of the tree with its rifle-shaped trunk and its leaves bearing symbols of hope and peace had been destroyed, not by jihadists, but by Russian bomber planes.
Although they were now in a comparatively safe area, I did worry about their future. Part of my unease grew from the worry that with their secret library gone, this close network of friends might slowly fracture and lose touch, not just with each other, but with the inspiring ideals that spawned it. But it seems I should have had more faith, because far from sitting around lamenting their losses, the foundations were being laid for another remarkable project.
One summer day, in a small village in the Idlib countryside, a mirage appeared through the heat haze. It took the form of a brightly painted van with fluorescent lime-green sides and a pillar-box-red roof. But as it pulled up outside some bomb-damaged homes, all could see that this was no imaginary thing. Within minutes, the van was surrounded by hordes of children and curious adults, clamouring for a better view.
Books! Stacks of them lined the van’s windows and covered the shelves on its walls, more than 2,200 of them in all. This was a mobile library, filled with reading material, mostly for children and young people. The books ranged from traditional children’s stories and simplified science to texts on history and personal development. Given the absence of any public libraries, in an area where few could afford to buy books, this mobile library was a joy to behold.
It may come as no surprise to learn that the project was the brainchild of Malik al-Rifaii, Muhammad Shihadeh and other evacuees from Daraya. After being shocked to discover how hard it was to get hold of books since arriving in Idlib, they decided to set up a library. Initially the idea was aimed mainly at children from Daraya who were missing the town’s secret library, but it was then extended to serve local youngsters too. Honing his resourcefulness and extraordinary ability to get things done, Malik told me: ‘We had learned the enormous value of reading after creating our secret library in Daraya. The way it helped build openness among us all, and filled the gaps in our knowledge which had widened during the siege. We saw how it had also brought benefits to the wider community, too. So we thought, let’s try and help local children and youths by creating a library here.’
Malik told me that they had initially planned to compile the small library in one of three particularly isolated areas of rural Idlib, all of which were home to poor families who could never afford to buy books. But when more exiled people from other parts of Idlib began asking if they could have access to books too, Malik and his friends began looking at ways to expand the reach of their scheme. Many of those who contacted them were fellow evacuees from Daraya, who had been settled deep in the countryside. They, along with most locals in such isolated places, had little money and no access to transport. So, Malik told me, the solution was obvious. If they could not get to the library, the library would come to them.
To make this plan work they needed to find a vehicle to convert into a mobile library and then fill it with children’s books. The problem was they had no van, no books and no money. The first obstacle was less of a problem, as the ongoing scarcity and high price of fuel meant old vans had become quite cheap. Getting hold of books was a much bigger challenge.
Malik began by a
sking the owner of a bookshop in Idlib if he would be willing to act as a broker and buy in a long list of titles for him. The man agreed and contacted a range of libraries and bookshops in Damascus and other regime-controlled areas of the country. A few days later, he called Malik back and told him that a deal could be done, but the books would cost more than normal and getting them to Idlib would not be cheap either. Malik had no money for the books, van or fuel but, never one to give up, he went online and searched for NGOs and charities who might be willing to fund the idea. Several weeks later, after much trawling, many failed attempts and some lengthy negotiations, the ever-resourceful Malik struck gold. A Brussels-based organisation called ‘The European Endowment for Democracy’ had agreed to fund the mobile library. ‘Our next task,’ a delighted Malik told me, ‘was to order the books and then get a van to put them all in. After finding one which was just the right size, we painted it in bright colours, decorated it with stickers and installed shelves and lighting. After that we filled it full of books, and were ready to go.’
Unlike the secret library in Daraya, the fluorescent mobile library was not hidden or camouflaged; it was designed to be seen and adored. But, Malik told me, with many Islamist extremist groups in the province who disapproved of giving non-religious books to children, some precautions did have to be taken. ‘We avoid visiting places where these groups are and make sure that we have the support of the local council of the town or village. We also try hard to avoid going through the extremists’ checkpoints by driving along the route the day before in a normal car to see where they are.’
The first mobile library trip got on the road in July 2017 and, Malik told me proudly, it had been busy ever since. ‘It is a great feeling to visit places you have never been to before in such a colourful vehicle, which brings joy to the hearts of the people after all these years of war. Every time the van turns up in a village it gets a great response, especially from children. They all get very excited when they see it arriving at their school with all these books. We open its doors and let them come over and choose whichever ones they want. I remember a child called Ghassan who lives in Kafr Halab, a village in the countryside near Aleppo. We took the mobile library there four times and on each occasion he was there. Ghassan particularly loved a book called Atlas of the Universe and Space. He told us that he has a passion for the planets and every time he borrows that book he learns new things which he passes on to his friends. The last time we saw him we gave him the book to keep in the hope that it will help him reach the stars someday.’
Not content to rest on their laurels, Malik and his friends invited experts on all sorts of subjects to tour with the mobile library and give talks in the villages they stopped at. He admitted that the idea was inspired by the many popular lectures held in Daraya’s secret library. The speakers, he told me, would be society activists, members of the local civil defence, or career teachers and doctors, who could speak about the work they did. They also planned to hold public speaking classes for children and English lessons, as well as organising various competitions for them. ‘This project,’ he said, ‘enables us to give something back to the local community which has helped us so much. We know that the mobile library can only give a small number of people here the chance to read, but at least it’s something. Maybe the books in it will help young people here retain their hopes and dreams for the future, just like our secret library did for us in Daraya.’
I had the feeling that Amjad would have loved this project. He would have adored the children’s burning enthusiasm for books and their unbridled joy as the fluorescent van pulled up before them. I can just imagine Daraya’s Chief Librarian opening up the back door, clutching bundles of vividly coloured volumes, wildly extolling the delights of each one. Then, after scurrying back inside to get his pen and notebook, carefully recording who had borrowed what and when, before bidding them farewell and heading off cheerfully to the next location. All, just as before, under the ever-watchful eyes of Malik, Anas and Abdul Basit. Adored as it was, this small mobile bookstore could never truly rival the secret library in the hearts of those from Daraya, but it did help spread the same joy. In some of the villages the library went to, schools had been deprived of new books for years and many parents were illiterate. Yet out of nowhere, in the midst of war, came this library on wheels, bringing stories of adventure, fun and hope.
Chapter Sixteen
Through the window of Abdul Basit’s spartan apartment in Idlib, there was no fighting to be seen, though the scars of war were everywhere. Cracked and crumbling homes, some without roofs, others without walls, dotted the skyline. Once-pleasant tree-lined streets, now blighted by ugly gaps, like missing blackened teeth, where smart shops and offices once stood. Continuing infighting between rebel groups brought danger to the streets, while pro-Assad planes dropped horrors from the skies. Yet frightening as such perils were, they bore little comparison to the former terrors of besieged Daraya. Traffic still flowed, people walked the pavements and shops were open, even though few could afford to buy the food they passed.
Abdul Basit was not alone as he stared at the scene outside. After years of waiting, his twenty-one-year-old fiancée, Zohour, had managed to join him in Idlib and they had married near the end of 2016. Although we had been in regular contact since soon after he had sent me that joyous text declaring the happy news, our calls had become less frequent and I often couldn’t get through. He had explained that until very recently the Internet where he lived had been very poor and his rather battered old phone had also been faulty, so it had been difficult speaking to anyone outside Idlib. But now, finally, we were able to talk properly, and I had never heard him sounding so cheerful. Nothing, I’m sure, could wipe the many horrors he had seen from his mind, nor erase his despair at the state of his country, but there was a smile in his voice, a spring in his step, a contentment, that hadn’t been there before. He told me: ‘The first thing I must say is that thanks to God I’m a very happily married man. The main reason for this is my wife. We share the same burdens and the same goals.’
I soon learned that Abdul Basit’s joy was not derived solely from his beloved wife because, just a few days before, he had become a father. Little Muhamad, I was told in a whisper, was sleeping in the other room. How Abdul Basit’s life had changed. When I asked him to tell me about his wedding day, he laughed shyly. Not because it was a silly question, or that anything funny had happened, but more because he felt I might find his description of it strange. Having seen so many Western weddings in films, he said, he knew his big day wasn’t much like those, the biggest difference being that there were two ceremonies rather than one. Men celebrated in one place and women at another, so while Abdul Basit was dancing with his friends his wife was doing the same somewhere else with hers. Though, happily, they did get together in the end: ‘After spending a couple of hours at the male ceremony,’ he told me, ‘I jumped into a car, which I’d decorated with flowers and balloons, and drove to the party where my wife was. She was wearing a lovely white dress and looked so very beautiful. I remember taking off the headscarf that brides wear, kissing her hand and then carrying her upstairs to her room. I can honestly say that I have never been so happy in all my life.’
As we talked I looked at a wedding photo Abdul Basit had sent me a few months before. He was dressed in a lightly patterned greyish-blue jacket, over what looked like a white polo shirt, smiling at the camera in an endearingly self-conscious kind of way. Like many bridegrooms on their wedding day, he seemed to be loving every second while simultaneously wishing it was over. It was strange to think, looking at him standing there so smartly, that this was taking place within a country devastated by war. A nation where more than 400,000 people lay dead and around twelve million more had been forced to flee their homes, he and his wife among them. Thankfully that day there was happiness, a welcome respite from the hatred and slaughter.
Abdul Basit wasted no time in telling me about one of the biggest joys he shares with h
is wife. ‘Like me, she’s an avid reader, she absolutely loves reading. We’re already planning to read a huge number of books together. We’re even planning on setting a target for how many books we will read in a month. So, yes, we both really love reading, especially novels.’ Delighted to hear this and eager to know more about Zohour, I asked Abdul Basit if I could speak to his wife. A short conversation between them followed and it transpired that Zohour was a little shy and would prefer to let Abdul Basit do the talking for now. I got the feeling that Abdul Basit was concerned about her security, so this was possibly his decision as much as hers. This, if true, was hardly surprising, in a country where the higher your profile, the bigger the risks you face. He pointed out that Zohour’s family had endured a traumatic time under President Bashar al-Assad’s regime. Her father had been a political prisoner for more than four years and her older brother had died in Daraya during the siege. But Abdul Basit was still enthusing about a much happier topic. ‘As for Zohour’s love of reading,’ he told me, ‘as I said, this is something very special between us. I remember the first conversation we had about books, after I told her about the secret library. She thought it was wonderful. In the months that followed, I would send her updates about it. As you know, couples like to share pictures, and she would ask for photos of me in the library. We would then talk about the writers each of us loved. I realised then that this was the woman I wanted to be with for the rest of my life.’
As for the secret library, it seemed from what Abdul Basit told me, that Zohour loved it as much as he did. Even though she couldn’t get to Daraya, so had never been able to set foot in it. ‘During the siege she always encouraged me to go to the library and spend as much time as possible there. She thought of it as the only place that could keep me sane at such a terrible time.’