by Rafik Schami
“Only Sabri’s parents were happy about Rachel, because in marrying her their son would be converting a Jew. His father was on the committee of the Catholic Church. He thought of Jews as poor blind folk who couldn’t see that the Son of God had come long ago. So he encouraged Sabri to open Rachel’s eyes.
“However, all that came to a sudden end when the state of Israel was proclaimed two months later. The Jews of Damascus were happy, but they couldn’t say so openly. People eyed them with suspicion wherever they went. Sabri’s father was the first to take fright. He was a minor civil servant in the Interior Ministry, where he had done well under the French and stayed on after Independence, simply changing the flag on the wall.
‘You’re crazy,’ his father angrily told him. ‘What will people say if my son marries an Israeli girl?’ But he had met his match in Sabri, who was hard as granite.
‘They’ll say Sabri has married a Syrian Jew,’ the young man replied. Sabri’s father knew how obstinate his taciturn son could be.
“From then on the whole family, as if by mutual consent, set about running Rachel down. She had bad teeth, they said, her legs were much too short, and her nose was too long. Furthermore, she was always breaking into unseemly laughter, and she wouldn’t inherit anything.
“Sabri walked out on his family in the middle of their tirades and went to see his Rachel, after his daily fight with one of her many brothers, who all wanted to forbid him even to walk past their house.
“One day Sabri disappeared for two whole weeks. When he came back it was arm in arm with Rachel. He had no idea that while he was marrying her in a small town in the north, his family’s malicious tongues had turned his wife into an Israeli spy who, apparently, had abducted the naïve Sabri.
“Sabri’s family now disowned him as a traitor. His father announced it officially, so that his departmental head would be truly convinced of his employee’s patriotism. Rachel’s family wore mourning. Her father disowned and disinherited his daughter.
“Sabri wasn’t bothered what they thought in either the Jewish or the Christian quarter. I often visited him in Saliye. He and Rachel loved each other, and were happy to be left in peace in the New Town, far from Damascus, where they lived anonymously.
“But they didn’t live there long. When the first military confrontation between Israel and Syria came, someone or other accused the couple of using a device to show the Israeli bombers where to drop their bombs.
“This was nonsense, but Sabri and Rachel were interrogated and tortured, and no one would protect them, neither bishop nor rabbi, let alone their own families.
“It was a week in hell, and when they came out again, they were changed. Their laughter had died.
“Before a month was up the two of them had disappeared. It’s almost twenty years ago now. The rumours about them were vicious and unfounded. Six months later I had a letter in which they told me they were living happily in New York. Sabri went on writing for years. His children, he told me, were Jews by Jewish law, Christian Arabs by Arab law, and US citizens by American law. That was his contribution to world peace.
“Sabri was always slightly crazy,” Gibran concluded his story. Matta laughed. “Like me, like me,” he cried.
Taufik, who had been standing in the doorway of the hall all this time, watching the faces of Gibran’s audience in the table tennis room, whispered something to Gibran at the end of the evening. Late that night the seaman was seen staying on to help Taufik clear up. That same night, Gibran’s rented room was raided by five men from the special units. “They wore camouflage gear, the whole works,” one of his neighbours said, “as if they were off to liberate Palestine.”
Gibran disappeared for ever, and only one man would smile mysteriously and look pleased about it. That was Taufik. A month later the club was closed down.
239. Despair
When the school re-opened in early October the village of Shaga had changed entirely. It was on the front line now, and there were more soldiers than farmers in it.
Of the three Radicals, only Adib had survived. However, he had spent two months wandering in the wilderness to avoid falling into the hands of Israelis, Jordanians, or Syrians. His expression had turned distrustful. He said little, and never mingled with his colleagues in the evenings again.
In school and in the village the talk was all of the heroic Radicals. Any village that had hoisted their flag had been taken by the Israeli army only after a long, bitter battle for every alley and every house. The number of women who died carrying arms was astonishingly high.
All the locals discussed it as much and as proudly as if they themselves had been among the banned Radicals. On the other hand, it was whispered that the surviving fighters from that group had been shot by the Jordanian or Syrian security forces, for they were more of a danger to those in power in both countries than the Israelis.
Farid was in despair, so upset that he could hardly sleep. There was no prospect of any imminent change. But he also lay awake at night because he no longer had the strength to teach. He wanted to run away with Rana at long last and begin a new life, but he didn’t know how.
In the autumn of 1967, the Syrian government under General Taisan was morally finished. Captain Amran saw that this was the moment for a bloodless coup, and he carried one out with his brothers Shaftan and Badran and his two cousins. Not a shot was fired. The Syrians had long ago stopped mourning any ruler who was overthrown or greeting a new one with joy.
Farid watched the janitor taking down the pictures of President Taisan in all the classrooms, tearing up the photographs, and leaning the empty picture frames against the wall in his own little room.
“The kids will be glad they don’t have to look at President Taisan’s ugly mug any more. Let’s hope the new man’s better-looking,” he said, grinning like all the Syrians, who by now had taken to indulging in a special kind of disrespect during the period between the fall of one ruler and the establishment of the next in power. They called it their interim freedom.
“Well, he won’t look like Omar Sharif, that’s for sure,” replied Farid.
A week later the photographs of the new President arrived. He looked sombre.
“Those poor kids,” said the janitor, and he began hanging up the pictures.
240. In Flight
Since Christmas, Farid had thought of nothing but his plan for himself and Rana to disappear. Only Claire was to know where they were hiding, no one else. The best thing would be to get away to France, study there, and then emigrate to Canada, a country that had already taken in many Christians from their part of the world. Getting Canadian citizenship was never a problem for academics. Daily violence and the rise of the fundamentalists were leading to a drastic reduction in the number of Christians in the Middle East.
Claire was all in favour of this plan, and promised Farid fifty thousand dollars that she had put aside for him. “I want you to get out of this political inferno and know something other than hatred and fighting,” she said firmly.
Rana wept tears of joy. She herself had saved almost ten thousand dollars for their flight since her marriage.
From now on, Farid used every spare moment getting hold of documents that would allow him to study in France. Rana had phoned a girlfriend in Paris who was married to an influential surgeon and could get her a place at the university. After that she would automatically be granted a visa to enter the country.
Soon Farid had handed in his papers, and now he had only to face an interview at the French Embassy, where the cultural attaché would decide whether or not he could apply to Paris. But whatever happened he mustn’t let anyone at the school in Shaga know of his plans. One report to the authorities would be enough to get him banned from travelling.
On Saturday 9 March he asked the principal for permission to go to Damascus, saying that he was having severe headaches. In a private conversation, he told Husni that he had a long history of epilepsy, although he had concealed it when he applied for
teaching posts so as to be accepted because he loved teaching so much. However, he said, he always had problems in spring and autumn, when the weather changed, and he had to take strong drugs then under medical supervision. Farid had no pangs of conscience over pretending sickness. He knew that the principal had a substitute for him; Husni’s best friend was a retired mathematician who would be happy to earn a few lira on the side.
Next Monday Farid got a medical certificate in Damascus saying he was unfit to work for a week. On Wednesday, punctually at ten in the morning, he was in the waiting room at the French Embassy, elegantly dressed, on Claire’s advice. The cultural attaché was fascinated by his French, and when Farid explained that he had spent three years with the Jesuits the man laughed. “Then I can call you mon frère. I spent four years with the order too, though not in a boarding school. My father hated the Church itself, but he thought highly of the training and discipline in Jesuit schools.”
“The very part of it that gets on their pupils’ nerves,” replied Farid frankly, and the attaché nodded. At the end of the interview he shook hands with the young Syrian in a friendly way. “I’ll do all I can to see that you get a place to study in Paris,” he said, and he sounded as if he meant it. “You ought to receive notice of permission within two weeks.”
Elated by his success, Farid wanted to share his pleasure with someone. Josef was away with his pupils on a four-day school trip to Palmyra, so he called Laila and invited her to lunch.
“Let’s meet at the Ali Baba in an hour’s time,” she said.
“Fine, so long as you’ll let me pay. I have plenty of money and something happy to celebrate,” he told her.
“Wonderful. I can do with celebrating something happy,” replied Laila, sighing.
She entered the restaurant at the appointed time and smiled at Farid. She was more beautiful than ever, but sad. For months she had been at odds with her husband, who had come back from Athens last summer a changed man, but wouldn’t talk about it.
Farid told her only that he would be leaving the service of the state at the end of the year. “The Mushtaks don’t make good civil servants,” said Laila. “My sister Barbara is sick of it too. She’d like to leave her job, but her husband won’t hear of it.”
Laila let her cousin’s good mood infect her, and forgot her own troubles over the delicious meal, which lasted more than three hours.
As the bus home was approaching the stop near his street, Farid took a quick look down Saitun Alley, and then stayed sitting where he was. Three cars were always parked next to his parents’ house; they had now been joined by two more. One was in the middle of the road, right opposite the entrance to the building. Only secret service men parked like that. And there was a Landrover at the turning into the street, although parking there was strictly forbidden. Now Farid saw two men in it. They were extremely poorly disguised.
He did not get out until the next stop, after the eastern gate, strolled inconspicuously back and looked at the cross-country vehicle again. Yes, no doubt about it: the secret service.
So he turned down Ananias Alley. His mind was in turmoil. What had happened? Only recently a small rising had easily been nipped in the bud, so Amran was firmly in the saddle. Then why more arrests, after that insignificant shoot-out in a barracks? Two officers, allegedly financed by Iraq to lead a coup against Amran, had been arrested in mid-February by the President’s brother and his special units, and were annihilated along with their supporters.
Since his expulsion from the Radicals last summer, Farid had avoided all political activities. He wanted no more to do with any of it. Nationalists, communists, fundamentalists, Radicals, adherents of the Iraqi regime had all been arrested on a grand scale. Even Palestinians ended up in jail the moment they disregarded Amran’s orders not to encourage any anti-Israel operations on Syrian soil. Some called the dictator a coward, but he didn’t want anyone or anything endangering his power. So in those early years, he avoided any confrontation with Israel, and the Palestinians had to keep their heads down and stay quiet.
But why was the secret service on Farid’s trail? Had old communist or Radical documents fallen into the hands of the police during one of their many raids, and had his name featured there? Or had someone informed on him? He was sure he hadn’t committed any crime, but how was he to explain that to the men who were after him?
A thousand questions were racing through Farid’s mind when he unexpectedly found himself standing at Matta’s door. His friend had just been making tea.
“Brother, how pale you are! Come in. Faride and I will be happy to drink tea with you – come in!” Matta said in friendly tones.
“They want to arrest me again,” said Farid, and he didn’t know why his tears were falling.
“You can stay here, brother, and anyone who touches you had better watch out,” replied Matta.
“No, that won’t do me any good, or you and Faride either. They know that we’re friends and come from the same village. But you could do me a favour. Can you go to our place on the quiet and see if my suspicions are correct? Here’s a hundred lira, buy two sacks of potatoes and one of onions at a vegetable dealer, phone Claire and tell her you’ve bought what she wanted. Just to be on the safe side, so that she won’t show any agitation while the secret service men are in the house. Our own Fiat is parked outside it, Dr. Rahbani’s Ford, and the pharmacist Sadek’s new Renault. Do you know him?”
“Yes, of course. His beautiful wife Hanan is a good customer of mine,” said Matta proudly.
“Good. And right now there are two strange cars there too, not by chance, I’m sure. I’d like you to look at them carefully, but be sure not to say anything. They’re not fools.”
“Don’t worry, brother,” said Matta, and he turned to Faride. “And you look after my dear brother, little pigeon, and calm his fears.”
She kissed him on the forehead. “Look after yourself, dear heart. I’m very proud of you,” she told him.
Matta came back two hours later. The secret service men weren’t in the house but sitting in their cars. They had searched him and tried to intimidate him with trick questions, but Matta had acted dumb. Finally he was allowed to take the potatoes and onions into the house, but not to speak to Claire. When he insisted that he wanted to be paid, and started shouting, the men allowed her to give him the money under their supervision.
Farid kissed him and Faride as he left, and went to Straight Street, where he took a taxi and gave the driver an address in the Midan quarter.
He was a hunted animal now. And the hunters after him were invisible; any civilian, including the taxi driver, could be one of them.
Why had everything gone wrong? Who was pursuing him?
“Hotel al-Nasim,” said the driver, rousing him from his thoughts.
The hotel belonged to a distant cousin of Josef’s. He was discreet. When he saw Farid he understood without any need for words, and made no difficulties.
Farid had ten such addresses stored in his memory. People who could be relied on, who hated dictatorship, and who weren’t directly connected to him in any way. But he couldn’t stay anywhere for long. His best camouflage was to keep moving. Only the time between one and five in the morning was peaceful, and he would lie down to sleep exhausted, desperate, and often hungry.
He fled through Damascus, a hunted man. The secret service had men checking all the ways out of the city. Farid soon forgot to think about his bad luck. He didn’t think of Rana or Claire either, he thought of nothing at all, as if he had lost every idea except one: survival.
On the run, he came to know all the streets very well. Damascus, that beautiful, light, and spacious city had become an overpopulated village. Hundreds of thousands of peasants had fled to the metropolis. The men who had seized power were peasants like them, and that attracted people. Tenement buildings were going up everywhere, and the government turned not just one but two blind eyes to illegal construction work in the slums on the outskirts of the city.
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Again and again Farid found friends who would quietly take him in, and in time he found that he could spot the secret service men sitting in cafés, pretending to read the paper. Reading the paper in a café is an art, and Farid could tell whether a man was doing it for pleasure or in the line of duty.
His money was beginning to run low, and after three days without food he called Laila from a café. It was a risk, of course, in spite of all his precautions. Who could tell whether informers didn’t know everyone’s secret signals by now?
She had told him a way to ask her for help in case of need, without saying a single give-away word: he was to let her phone ring three times, hang up, then let it ring five times, and finally three times again. That meant they were to meet at the Café Fredy near the Central Bank in an hour’s time.
Laila appeared punctually at the appointed place, and inconspicuously approached his table. She was as pale as on the day of her father’s death, and kissed Farid on the cheek.
“I’ve missed you,” she said. “How are you?” Then she felt ashamed of herself for asking such a question.
“Wretched. I have to find some way out of this,” he said. “I have three or four problems to solve at the same time. I must leave the country, and I want to get away to France with Rana as soon as possible. Claire has given me enough money for that.” Farid hesitated. “You might be able to help me by reassuring her, bringing me my papers from the embassy, and getting a good forger to make me a passport. Josef knows a brilliant man. He’s expensive but he does good work. When I have all those things I must get across the mountains to Beirut somehow. Once I’m over the border and I have my papers for the university, I can get a visa in the French Embassy there.”
“That wouldn’t be difficult to start with, since no one’s after me. The only thing is that as soon as I set foot in your house I’ll be kept under observation, though surely not for long. When they see it was just a family visit and I’m going home again like a good girl, not acting as a courier, they’ll leave me alone again. But you’ll have to be patient. I won’t get back to you until I’ve rustled up all the things you need. Meanwhile you can lie low in an apartment belonging to one of my best friends. She’s in the US on a lecture tour at the moment, she won’t be back for three months. Change your appearance, grow a moustache, let your hair grow longer than usual. And mingle with people. No one will recognise you. Go shopping, get some good clothes, cook yourself something nice, and relax. It will be all right.