City of Sparrows

by Eva Nour

  ‘Hey, careful…’

  Sami patted his breast pocket for dried meat but realized that it was in the military jacket in the backpack. Instead, he held out his hands and spoke softly.

  ‘Stay calm, I won’t do you any harm. Good dogs…’

  Sami took one step forward and one of the dogs began to bark, white froth foaming in its mouth, and soon the other dog followed. Sami moved back and felt the thorns penetrate his sweater. The dogs barked breathlessly and approached, glaring at him, when he heard a sound beside him. The black dog rushed out of a bush and stood between him and the two wild animals. It took only a few lunges before the wild dogs turned and left, tails between their legs.

  Sami breathed out and hugged his rescuer. The black dog panted back, its tongue lolling; if he hadn’t known better, he would have thought it smiled.

  ‘Now, we’re almost there.’

  The vegetation on the last stretch changed from jagged shrubs to trees with orange-brown leaves as if the crowns were in flames. Just before he reached the village, Sami said goodbye to the black dog, and it seemed to understand, turning back and going the same way they had come from.

  The village was small and there was a shop that sold mobiles. He just had to wait an hour before it opened. The shop was similar to the ones he used to pass on the way to school, with a similarly short, grey-haired man behind the till and a box of fresh bread next to him. Sami bought two croissants in addition to a cheap phone and a SIM card.

  ‘Are you from the military base?’ said the man, peering at him.

  Sami considered lying but realized it was obvious where he’d come from. Hopefully the man wouldn’t call and tell on him.

  ‘Yes, I’m on leave,’ he said and handed the man an extra note.

  He jumped on the first bus to Homs and called his older brother. The signals echoed and faded away. When Ali finally picked up, it felt like Sami was already there, that he was sitting in the kitchen with his family around him. And Sarah, he was going to call her too and ask her to come over. After the shooting at Clocktower Square, they had only kept brief contact. But seeing each other, face to face, they could talk things over. He would make sure she was well. Tell her that he would soon be out and they could make a fresh start. Finally, he dared to let longing swell in his chest and lungs, like rainwater filling the cracks in dry soil.

  ‘Hello, are you there?’

  But the reply wasn’t what he expected. ‘You can’t just come here,’ his older brother said. ‘Things have changed since your last visit.’

  Silence fell, only the low rumbling of the bus engine.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ali went on. ‘Of course I’m happy that you’re coming, but you’d better get off the bus before you reach the city centre.’

  ‘Why?’ Sami frowned, even though his brother couldn’t see him.

  Outside the bus window there was field after field of orchards, the fruit soon to be harvested.

  ‘Temporary checkpoints are popping up everywhere. I’ll tell you more later. It’s not safe to talk on the phone.’

  His older brother gave Sami an address where he would pick him up in what had once been an industrial part of Homs.

  For the rest of the journey, Sami tried to collect his thoughts. What had Ali really meant? But when they slowed down and Sami disembarked, he started to understand.

  * * *

  —

  It was like arriving in a foreign country. Dark clouds towered over the rooftops, as if even the sky had descended over the city. Several stores were barred and on their metal shutters were tags and graffiti he hadn’t seen before. The street vendors had disappeared. Instead of the normal commuting traffic, the streets were full of funeral processions. Instead of car-honking, there was the sound of songs, cries and tears that rose and sank like waves. People in mourning clothes gathered in groups that dispersed at the rat-tat-tat of bullets on asphalt.

  The fear drained out of Sami when he spotted his brother’s face across the street. Ali ran up to him and gave him a long, hard hug.

  ‘What’s with the rubber bullets? Seems a bit over the top.’

  ‘They’re real bullets. Come with me.’

  Ali pointed out the snipers and took Sami’s hand, since he wouldn’t have budged otherwise.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Ali tried to calm him. ‘They’re mostly to scare the people off gathering in big groups.’

  Sami looked over his shoulder and hunched down, his pulse racing. During all his target practice in the army, he himself had never been the target. It was an eerie feeling of being watched, that every step could be your last.

  * * *

  —

  It was afternoon by the time Sami was finally sitting in his parents’ kitchen, with steam on the windows from all the people in the room. Samira kissed his cheeks and stroked his newly shorn neck. Hiba smiled and moved her youngest over to his lap, took off her slippers and stretched her legs out under the table. The child cooed and grabbed Sami’s thumb. Ali was in a good mood but was moving about the room restlessly, topping up coffee cups and checking the time incessantly. Malik was the only one who seemed reluctant to hug Sami, and afterwards he sat silently on his chair with his arms crossed. He had turned thirteen but his plump cheeks and large puppy eyes made him look younger. Nabil looked across at Malik.

  ‘Well, I for one am proud to have a soldier in the family.’

  ‘Two soldiers,’ Hiba said and glanced at Ali, but their older brother shook his head.

  ‘Not any more. Not ever again.’

  ‘Like you would have a choice if they called for you.’

  ‘Please don’t argue,’ Samira said and turned to Sami, stroking his cheek. ‘Now, tell us everything. Have you made any friends? Are they hard on you? What do they give you to eat? You look thinner than before…’

  ‘Mum.’

  They inundated him with questions and Sami tried to answer but it was as though their voices were echoing underneath the surface. He was still short-circuited from the snipers and funeral processions. Being home was like opening a door to the past. All the furniture stood as before, each item had its place. The black leather sofas, the crocheted cloth on the TV, the remote control in its plastic case. On the stairs to the front door stood a plate with leftovers in case one of the neighbourhood’s stray cats passed by.

  ‘Don’t you drink coffee any more? Maybe you prefer it with sugar these days?’ Samira said and pushed the sugar bowl towards him.

  It fell to Hiba and Ali to tell him about what had happened since his last visit, while Nabil stroked his moustache and looked displeased. In July, a demonstration had been organized in Damascus and a number of famous actors, musicians and authors denounced the regime. One of the most powerful voices belonged to the actress Mai Skaf, who had subsequently been forced to flee the country. Ibrahim Qashoush, the man who wrote the popular revolutionary song ‘Yalla irhal ya Bashar’, was said to have been killed the same month. His body had supposedly been discovered in a river with its throat slit and vocal cords ripped out. In August, the well-known satirical cartoonist Ali Farzat had been pulled into a car by regime supporters by Umayyad Square in Damascus and had his hands and knuckles broken.

  But the violence had crept in closer than that. Their cousin and a friend of the family had been killed at checkpoints controlled by regime-friendly militias. And regime soldiers had forced their way into their neighbour’s house and raped the daughter in front of her parents.

  ‘To dishonour the family,’ Samira said.

  ‘Isn’t the daughter’s pain worse than the family’s shame?’ Hiba said and stirred her cup violently. The child began to cry and Hiba took her back, rocking and shushing.

  Samira told Sami about a newlywed couple further down the street. They had still been in their wedding clothes when they were stopped at a checkpoint and the man was told to leave his wif
e with the soldiers.

  ‘So, what did he do?’

  ‘What choice did he have?’ His mother lowered her voice. ‘They would have shot them both on the spot.’

  Samira glanced at the baby. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to…’

  ‘Don’t worry, she’s too young to understand.’ Hiba kissed the child on the forehead, then turned to Sami. ‘Why aren’t you saying anything? Is this the kind of behaviour they teach you in the army? To act like animals?’

  ‘I’ve never heard anything like it,’ Sami said.

  But he wasn’t really surprised. Not once had their commanding officer talked about protecting the civilian population. Ethics and good behaviour extended only to fellow soldiers and the leaders of the land, as fighters in Assad’s Syria. Every story intensified his shame at the army he was a part of.

  ‘Sleepwalkers without any will of their own…’

  Sami looked up and met his little brother’s eyes. It was the first time Malik had opened his mouth since he’d come home. Sami was about to answer him but then Ali said he had to go.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘There’s a small demonstration down the street before dusk.’

  Sami looked again at Malik, who was tilting his chair back and staring out of the window.

  ‘I’m going with you,’ Sami said.

  Hiba shot him a crooked smile and put a hand on his shoulder; his little brother stopped tilting his chair. Nabil shook his head, leaned on the kitchen table and stood up slowly. Samira asked if anyone wanted more coffee.

  ‘Me too,’ Malik said. ‘I’m coming too.’

  20

  IT WAS THE first time Sami moved in a group of his own volition. A group that was not ordered to line up in the schoolyard, in military formation or in mandatory manifestations of support for the president. A group that was not united behind a leader, but united nevertheless. Someone began to chant and someone else joined in. Then the shouts grew louder and the group found a collective rhythm.

  ‘Freedom!’ they shouted. ‘Dignity! Democracy!’

  There were about a hundred of them in a small square, surrounded by residential buildings with revolutionary flags hanging from their windows next to flower pots and washing lines stretching over balconies. He remembered jumping rope with his sister here when they were younger, and old women ordering him to help carry their food bags.

  ‘Hey, boy, don’t be lazy. Do you want me to break my back?’

  He smiled at the memories and looked in amazement at the transformation of the square. A couple of armed rebel soldiers from the Free Syrian Army kept a lookout, ready in case the military tried to break them up, but none of the protestors seemed to be armed. It was an intoxicating feeling to stand up as a group. They were naive and at the same time strong. Their bodies were the body of the people and their voices were the voice of the people.

  On the bus to Homs, Sami had called Sarah, who had promised to try to make it into the city centre. Now she called back and Sami pressed the phone to his ear.

  ‘What did you say? I can’t hear…’

  The shouting escalated, a stereo was turned on and the protestors joined in the singing.

  ‘…impossible to get past…completely surrounded…’

  ‘Sarah, I’ll call you in a bit, OK?’

  He had never experienced anything like it. All the frustration that had built up inside him during his military service, all the punishments and days stolen from his life. All the stolen lives.

  ‘Yalla irhal ya Bashar,’ they sang. ‘Get out of here, Bashar.’

  The demonstration lasted about an hour. Then the sky crackled with lightning; at first the rain fell in big, gentle drops but it soon turned into sharp needles. People scattered and smaller groups splintered off until only Sami and his brothers remained. They were brothers in a different way now, overcome with adrenaline, participating in something bigger than themselves.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Malik said, his big eyes beaming.

  Ali put his arms around their shoulders.

  ‘Now, my brothers, we go home.’

  * * *

  —

  They found their mother and father still in the kitchen, though they had swapped the coffee cups for tea glasses. The flame of the kerosene lamp made the shadows dance playfully on the walls but their parents’ faces were grey and furrowed. They clutched the gold-rimmed tea glasses like they needed something to hold on to. How did you endure it for so long? he wanted to ask them. Why didn’t you put your foot down ten, twenty, forty years ago? Were you really trying to protect us or were you simply clinging to your own comfort and security?

  ‘Our neighbour just stopped by,’ Nabil said. ‘The army is planning to go in tomorrow morning and arrest all suspects.’

  So that was what Sarah had been trying to tell him. New checkpoints had been erected around the city. She hadn’t dared make her way to the centre, afraid somebody might recognize her from the protests. His father hid his face in his hands and Samira stroked his back.

  ‘You have to leave, my son.’

  ‘I have a travel permit. I’m OK.’

  ‘You have a counterfeit permit and you’re a soldier,’ Ali said.

  He was talking to him like an older sibling again, an older brother, not as though they had just walked side by side, sharing their first demonstration. But Ali was right. At best the army would think he had tried to sneak out for a few days of leave; at worst, that he had deserted.

  ‘I’ll stay the night and get out in the morning.’

  As he said it, something was extinguished inside him. He had seen this as a chance to stay. Not to take up arms like Ahmed but at least to leave the army. He hadn’t realized how much he missed his family until he had come back and felt the quiet everyday life in between the walls. The city was changing but his home remained. Now that the soldiers were poised to go in and search the houses, he wouldn’t even have a chance to escape. He would be arrested the moment he deserted.

  ‘You have to leave,’ Ali announced.

  ‘I’ll call the general. He can talk to the guards at the checkpoint so they’ll let me through.’

  ‘You really want to take that risk?’

  He was annoyed at Ali for making it sound like a choice. It was midnight and the soldiers would start going door to door at dawn. It was already going to be complicated, if not impossible, to get past the checkpoints.

  ‘Call Muhammed,’ his father said and walked over to stand next to Sami by the window.

  Nabil put a hand on his shoulder. That he had to reach up reminded Sami how much his parents had aged over the past year, how they had deflated. The soft honey light of the streetlamps fell on young men with packed bags and cars. They were saying goodbye to family and friends. The people who were staying behind wiped their tears with handkerchiefs and went back inside.

  His father was right. If anyone could get him out of this situation, it was his childhood friend who’d always been at his side, ever since the walks to school.

  Muhammed’s familiar, languid voice exuded calm on the phone.

  ‘Pack your things, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,’ he said.

  It took almost an hour, but then there he was at the door, his hair as unkempt as ever. Muhammed ran a hand through his fringe, pushed his glasses up with his index finger and politely greeted Sami’s parents.

  Nabil took both of Muhammed’s hands in his. ‘Make sure he’s safe.’

  ‘Of course. I promise.’

  Sami turned away, embarrassed, but Muhammed kept a straight face.

  ‘How did you afford this?’ he said when they had climbed into his car, a red BMW with the smell of pristine leather.

  ‘Borrowed it,’ Muhammed replied.

  He scrolled through the radio channels until he found one playing classical oud music. The
strings of the lute vibrated and darkness engulfed their vehicle, which was no longer a car but a javelin hurtling through the night. This was a different beast from the Pink Panther, which had long since drawn its last, rattling breath and stopped in the middle of a steep incline. They drove past their old school, the ice cream café they went to as children, all the well-known streets that had turned foreign. Muhammed explained that the regime still believed the rebels were mainly members of the lower classes; driving a car like this through the rich neighbourhoods minimized the risk of being pulled over.

  ‘But where did you get it?’

  ‘We have a couple of showroom cars at work. It just took me a while to deactivate the alarm.’

  Once they had left Homs, Muhammed let Sami off at a bus stop. He rested his arm in the open window and gave him a wry smile.

  ‘Good luck, my friend.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I always get by.’

  Sami didn’t doubt it. Moreover, Muhammed had completed his military service before the revolution began and was not in danger of being drafted. At least not right now. He had launched into a long monologue in the car, unusually long for Muhammed, the message of which was that their time had come. To make a difference, he meant. They were twenty-something and what had they really achieved in life? These were the years they were going to look back on. The tipping point people would say changed everything.

  ‘For the better?’ asked Sami.

  ‘Of course for the better,’ Muhammed said. ‘Of course.’

  And so, less than one day after secretly leaving his division, Sami was back. He had failed to desert, but he had heard stories of the revolution, taken part in his first protest and fled from his own hometown.

  Back on the base, the other soldiers swarmed around him. Were the demonstrators outside FSA really unarmed? Then why did the regime want soldiers to shoot at them? Was it true what they said, that the only thing they were asking for was freedom? Other soldiers turned their backs on him. The less you knew, the better. One sergeant threatened Sami in front of the others.