City of Sparrows

by Eva Nour

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Hussein,’ said a young slim man in an ankle-length shirt, whose long, dark eyelashes framed his serious eyes. He was from a village outside Raqqa in northern Syria, where white cotton fields spread out from the shores of the Euphrates. When asked about his education, he looked the soldier straight in the eye and answered calmly, in the accent typical of the northern countryside, ‘I have never been to school.’

  ‘Do you have any special skills?’

  ‘Herding sheep,’ Hussein said.

  The other recruits smiled, someone laughed, but the soldier in charge of the registration nodded curtly.

  ‘Next. What’s your name?’

  ‘Look, I don’t speak Arabic,’ a large man said in English. He had a bleached fringe that hung down over his eyes and wore a Nirvana T-shirt, apparently unaware of the regime’s views on rock music. ‘There must be some mistake,’ he continued. ‘I was at the airport. I have no idea why I’m here. I’m from Canada, I’m a Canadian citizen. I was just visiting my father’s family. You have to call the embassy.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘I don’t understand Arabic. What’s he saying?’

  ‘He wants to know your name,’ Sami translated.

  ‘Bill. Or, well, Bilal, but everyone calls me Bill.’

  The soldier flipped through his papers and said they would check his documentation again. But, he said slowly, according to the government’s information, he was eighteen years old and a Syrian citizen and therefore obliged to do military service.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Bill asked.

  ‘He’s saying he will look into your case,’ Sami replied. ‘Don’t worry.’

  The Canadian swallowed several times.

  ‘Next,’ called the soldier.

  When everyone’s names were on the list and any mobile phones had been confiscated, they were shown around the camp. It sprawled out in every direction as far as the eye could see. The division consisted of almost twelve thousand soldiers.

  The soldiers giving them their tour were patient and almost seemed sympathetic. Not too long ago, the soldiers had been in the new recruits’ shoes. It’ll be easier if you let go of the past, they said.

  ‘Forget about free time, forget about sex, forget about girlfriends. From now on, you’re going to have to get used to a different way of life.’

  Their new way of life would entail basic training, then more advanced training over six months. Then they would be given their assignments and the work would start in earnest.

  Sami and the others were shown to a bare barracks with rows of triple bunk beds. They each signed out blankets that were to be returned at the end of their service: in one year and nine months. The time could not be fathomed. Sami tried not to think about the hundreds of days and nights ahead of him.

  Before bedtime they were allowed a couple of minutes in the showers, Sami’s first since he was arrested two weeks before. He rubbed the hard piece of soap until it lathered. Afterwards, he noticed the others were no longer keeping their distance and he remembered something he had forgotten over the past two weeks: the smell of his clean body.

  Sami claimed a bottom bunk and put down his coarse blankets – two as a sheet, two as a cover. He lay down on the solid mattress and looked up at the doodles drawn on the underside of the middle bunk by soldiers who had slept there before him: genitals and women’s names, a countdown of days, a pig with initials Sami assumed portrayed an officer. The bed squeaked and moved under the weight of the Canadian, and Sami heard a short sob muffled in a pillow.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be all right,’ Sami whispered.

  The crying stopped and for a long time he heard nothing else; maybe the Canadian had fallen asleep. But then, ‘You really think so?’ Bill said softly.

  Sami couldn’t remember what he answered as he sank into the much-needed oblivion of sleep. He fell deeper and deeper, and remembered none of his dreams the next morning when they were woken up by a persistent banging on the steel door.

  * * *

  —

  Sami, Bill, Hussein and the other men shuffled out of bed, half dressed and with their blankets in a tangle. Curses rained down on them and moments later their beds were made and everyone was dressed.

  Hussein, the Bedouin shepherd, was the only one who seemed happy and relaxed. He didn’t talk much but had eaten his meagre meal as though it were a feast, praised the hot water in the shower and contemplated his bunk for a long moment before tying his arm to the frame with a scarf.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Sami had asked.

  ‘Making sure I don’t fall,’ Hussein said as he made himself comfortable.

  ‘From now on, no lie-ins,’ said a soldier standing in front of them with his feet wide and his arms crossed.

  He looked like a soldier from the movies. A caricature of a strict officer, with a neat moustache and rolled-up shirtsleeves that fitted snugly over bulging muscles. Everything felt cinematic and surreal. At any moment, someone would step through the backdrop and say, Cut, let’s try again. They were given heavy boots, thermal underwear and green camouflage uniforms. Outside in the yard, barbers were waiting to shave their heads, cheeks and chins. Bill’s bleached fringe fell to the ground, as well as Hussein’s dark beard. They both looked younger and somewhat naked afterwards, even if the uniforms added some years.

  Sami’s own hair fell on to the dirt in soft tufts. There and then, the events of the past few days and weeks sank in, the open fields in al-Nabek and the meandering journey to the camp. There was no going back. From now on, he was a soldier.

  * * *

  —

  The second morning they were woken up at half past four by the same banging on the steel door. They put on their uniforms, tied their boots and assembled in the yard. The lower edge of the clouds showed a glowing fringe. The sky turned a rich red and pink, which was then watered down by the light of the rising sun. It was as though someone was taking a firm hold on the blanket of clouds and lifting it up, and underneath was the dawn, cold and clear like spring water.

  The morning began with a workout: push-ups, lunges and squat jumps. The Canadian asked when was breakfast. Soon, was the answer, they just had to go for a run first. The run was two miles through forest and over hills and then the same way back. Hussein was the only one who managed with ease. Bill threw up in the bathroom and Sami saved some breakfast for him: two eggs, bread and bitter tea. He felt like he had barely eaten at all, his body not yet recovered from his weeks in prison. Hunger was like a wild animal, tearing at him from the inside.

  Their first class was weapons training, then they duck-walked for four miles, which entailed moving at a squat with their hands raised behind their heads. Lactic acid started pumping through their legs after just a few steps. The morning was wrapped up with a double session of martial arts and military strategy.

  ‘You are the pride and backbone of this country,’ said their instructor.

  He told them Hafez al-Assad had joined the Baath Party at sixteen and shortly thereafter become a fighter pilot. He quickly rose through the ranks.

  ‘As we hope you will.’

  Everyone knew that was a lie because in practice only Alawites were able to advance into the highest echelons. Their instructor continued by telling them how the Baath Party had saved the country from annihilation by assuming power in 1963. Hafez al-Assad had become head of the air force and later the country’s defence minister. Then he seized control of Syria, through a corrective revolution, in order to get the politics and the country back on the right track.

  ‘Finally, Christians, Sunnis, Alawites and Druze could live in peace and security together,’ their instructor concluded, leaving out the Kurds, since they didn’t exist in his eyes anyway.

  Their instructor was called Bassel and was named after Hafez’s eldest son, who had been e
xpected to take over the rule of Syria one day. Bassel al-Assad had been famous for his love of fast cars and horse racing. But Bassel never got to take the reins as the leader of the regime. One foggy January morning in 1994 he was driving his Mercedes to Damascus’ international airport. There was a car crash on a roundabout and Bassel, who was not wearing a seatbelt, died instantly.

  There had been three national days of mourning. Schools, shops and offices had closed. Luxury hotels had abstained from serving alcohol. Bassel was declared a national martyr. Hospitals, sports arenas and an airport were named after him. When the confusion and grief had subsided, people started looking around. Who would now shoulder the burdens of governing if something were to happen to Hafez? It was Bassel’s less well-known brother Bashar al-Assad, the British-educated ophthalmologist, who stepped up. Granted, he lacked charisma and gravitas, but one day he was going to follow in his father’s footsteps.

  When Hafez al-Assad died at the turn of the millennium, people didn’t believe it at first. He, the eternal father of the nation, couldn’t just die. Bashar was given the epithet ‘Son of Hafez’ in an attempt to have some of his father’s radiance rub off on him. At first, Bashar banned the public posting of pictures of himself and ruled more as his late father’s proxy. In time, however, he assumed his new role wholeheartedly and then some.

  Naturally, their military instructor didn’t tell them all that. He also didn’t tell them that Assad, which meant lion, was an assumed name: Bashar’s grandfather had been a farmer who changed his surname from Wahesh, which meant savage or monster. Their instructor did, however, say that from now on, whenever they were asked where they were from, they should answer ‘Assad’s Syria’.

  The afternoon and evening were conducted at the same tempo. Theory and training, a final lesson until eight o’clock, then dinner and rest until ten. Sami’s feet were red and swollen and full of blisters from his shapeless boots. He sent his parents a loving thought for having packed plasters for him.

  Darkness engulfed the barracks when they fell into their beds. Snores ebbed and flowed in the dormitory until the banging and shouting woke them at half past four, and everything started over again.

  15

  SAMI SOON REALIZED the officers were targeting the weak. Either the physically weak or the ones who didn’t have the mental stamina to do the drills. And then there was Bilal, or Bill, who didn’t know Arabic. He had been given language teaching back in Toronto but only knew a few phrases he had practised with his grandmother. One of the other recruits was always with him, translating the officers’ commands, but sometimes it didn’t help.

  ‘Where are you from, soldier!’

  ‘Canada,’ said Bill.

  The officer smiled and paused to draw the situation out.

  ‘Where did you say you were from?’

  ‘Assad’s Syria,’ Sami whispered, but Bill had already repeated: ‘Toronto, Canada.’

  ‘Wrong answer. Go to the shit pit.’

  Bill went over to the shit pit, which was exactly that: a hole full of mud mixed with excrement from the latrines. The smell was putrid and sickening and a swarm of flies hovered above it. A fever had recently devastated their division and the officer had pointed out in their previous class how important personal hygiene was: wash your hands, don’t share cutlery, keep your feet dry and clean.

  ‘In the shit pit, you piece of crap.’

  No translation was necessary because the officer was pointing with his whole hand. Bill hesitated for a second, then started unbuttoning his uniform with trembling hands. When he bent down to unlace his boots, the officer stepped in and gave him a kick in the behind. Bill fell head over heels and the mudhole swallowed him with a splash.

  On the fourth night, they were woken up at two. From now on, a new element was added to their training: punishments. This usually started with them being forced into the yard in nothing but their underwear. Nine! Everyone did squat jumps. Seven! Everyone dropped to the ground and pushed their chests up and down. Buckets of ice water were poured over their backs if they didn’t work hard enough.

  Some were broken by the training. One morning during the first few weeks of training Sami was woken by loud cries from outside. He quickly put on his uniform and ran out, and saw that several other soldiers had gathered in a circle on the yard where they had their morning assemblies. In the middle stood one of the newcomers, dressed only in his underclothing, dark with sweat or some other fluid. Sami recognized him as one of the young men he had taken notes of on the first day. It was the first and last time they had talked. Now the young recruit stood shaking on the frosty ground. Beside him lay a big, empty can.

  ‘Stay away. Don’t get any closer.’

  Despite his shaking, his face was strangely still. Wet hair stuck to his cheeks. The young man lifted his hands but Sami couldn’t see what he was holding. A needle? A tiny box?

  ‘I swear, I’ll do it…Anything but this.’

  It was then that Sami smelled the petrol. He took a step closer and released a sound that he didn’t know came from himself. The young man struck the match and the flames rose up.

  Sami found he couldn’t move, couldn’t comprehend how quickly the body became black, how fast the smell of burnt meat spread. From a distance, he saw how Hussein and two other recruits threw themselves over the burning soldier and tried to quench the fire with their own bodies. Paramedics were summoned but it was too late.

  That night, Sami heard Bill sobbing from the bunk bed over his. Sami lay silently and listened, then sat up and walked over to Hussein’s bed.

  ‘How are you?’ Sami whispered.

  He could see that Hussein’s eyes were open. He lay on his back with his arms crossed over his chest, white bandages covering the worst burn marks.

  ‘You know,’ Sami continued, ‘I think everyone’s in shock. It’s OK to feel sad or angry or afraid, or whatever you feel…’

  It was as if Hussein didn’t hear him. Sami turned and took a few steps in the dark, then heard Hussein’s muffled voice behind him.

  ‘Fear is like poison. If you let it grow roots, you will be lost for ever.’

  * * *

  —

  Not long after the fire incident another soldier died of a heart attack. In both cases their trainers explained it away as personal weaknesses, physical or mental. Sami no longer felt as if the pain penetrated into the depths of him. He woke up, he did what he was told and then he slept. But it was as though something happened to him at night, a slow transformation.

  Gradually Sami started to consider it a challenge to break the rules. To drink a bottle of contraband wine, just to see the look on the sergeant’s face when he didn’t react to the ice water. Sami and Hussein also made a habit of stealing from the pantry, and Bill happily shared with them, even if he was afraid of punishment. They would take a carton of eggs or tinned beans. Once they got their hands on an entire chicken, which they roasted and ate in silence, an unadulterated joy.

  During Sami’s first night watch he started smoking cigarettes, and it soon became one of his few pleasures. The night watch was otherwise a psychological challenge. All sounds were amplified in the dark, from the barking of wild dogs to the hissing of hyenas in the distance. One time a soldier came running back to base camp, white as a sheet.

  ‘What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Sami said.

  ‘Not far from it,’ the soldier mumbled.

  He couldn’t speak until he had sat down and collected himself.

  ‘Do you believe in jinn?’ the soldier asked. ‘I thought they were made up, myths. But after tonight…’ He shook his head to cast off his unease. ‘I was sitting by the fire, smoking, when I spotted a cat slinking along the tent wall. A cat in this cold, can you imagine? You won’t believe me but it’s true, wallahi. The cat crept closer and closer and in the end it was so close I could touch the tip of it
s tail. The fur was stiff with frost. And then…then it got up on its hind legs and opened its mouth so I could see its pink, coarse tongue. And it said, “Pardon me, but do you have the time?” Get it? The cat was talking to me!’

  Sami laughed and asked what he’d been smoking. But there was no question the soldier was serious; he had a wild look in his eyes and his hands were shaking.

  Nocturnal spirits or no, the soldier was sent to the clink for abandoning his post.

  ‘My advice is simple,’ their commanding officer said when the soldier was released. ‘When a cat asks you for the time, just answer her. Tell her the time. But whatever you do, don’t leave your post.’

  * * *

  —

  Sami slept in double layers of clothing and thick woollen socks at night. In the morning, they blew smoke rings and pretended they were from cigars. The temperature was below freezing almost year-round up in the mountains, but on some spring days their bodies thawed in the pale sunlight. Like nocturnal insects, they would all turn to the sun and stare into the blindness.

  During one drill, in a frosty field, Hussein rubbed his hands together and said, ‘A cup of tea or coffee would really hit the spot right now.’

  Sami looked around and said: Sure. He walked over to the flatbed truck and pulled out a handful of cables they used for the tents, which he twisted together with a few thinner cables to stabilize them.

  Bill watched in shock. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  ‘Put the kettle on the ground here, with the cable there. Then we’ll lift the other end up with two sticks and touch it to the powerline.’

  ‘Do you know how many volts are in something like that? You’re going to fry like a piece of charcoal.’

  ‘Fine, so don’t then.’

  An hour later, even more cold and hungry, Bill suggested they try again. Hussein and Sami balanced the stabilized cable against the powerline. It took them less than a second to get the kettle boiling.