Son of Syria

by Schafer, Ben

  I tapped my fingers on the table as I considered other options. I glanced at Azima. “You said your hus—” Azima glared at me and I corrected myself, “your ex-husband works with pro-regime militias. Could that have been one of them?”

  Azima shrugged. “It’s not like they invited me to attend the mosque with them. Most of what I know is just hearsay from the other officers’ wives.”

  “But is it possible?” I asked.

  She sighed. “Definitely possible. But that would mean that he knows that I’m here. If that was the case, he would have been there himself.”

  “Do you think he would try to kill you?” Nadir asked.

  “I stole the most precious thing in the whole world from him,” she tilted her head toward her son. “Of course he wants to kill me.”

  Silence reigned at the table as everyone digested that bit of information. Omar was the first to speak. “The important thing is that we escaped.” He looked at me. “Now we just have to get to whatever alternative exit you have planned.”

  “Who said that I have an alternative exit?” I asked. Omar, Azima, and Nadir all pointed at Jamil. Hashim noticed the movement and began pointing, as well, though it was obvious he was just copying his mother.

  Jamil wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “They asked what we were doing out there for so long. All I said was that you were cooking up some master plan on your satellite phone.”

  I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “I’m afraid it’s not good news. I contacted the man who will be providing our ride out of the country. He has to deal with a bunch of red tape and it will take longer than I had anticipated for him to get into position.”

  Azima frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that we’re stuck here for God knows how long with no way to escape,” Khamilah said.

  Nadir scrunched up his face. “Oh, please, woman. Stop being so dramatic.” He looked at me. “I don’t understand why we cannot drive across the border.” Nadir pointed out the window at the Land Rover. “We still have plenty of fuel. It would not take too much effort to blend in with the refugees that are fleeing like rats from this sinking ship. Besides, we would be much safer waiting in Lebanon, the international situation being what it is.”

  “Maybe if the Lord is gracious, we could reach Beirut and your contact would not even have to leave the port,” Azima offered, though we both knew she was just trying to put on a good show of optimism for Hashim. If the boy was listening to our conversation, he didn’t show it. He was too busy poking at the food on his plate.

  Jamil shook his head. “I’ve heard stories about what happens on those roads. We’d just as likely get robbed and left for dead. Or worse.” He paused, and we all unconsciously leaned a bit closer to hear what he had to say.

  “An old—” Jamil twisted his lip. “Well, he’s not a friend, really. More of an acquaintance from my old life. Anyway, he was still plugged in to the smuggling scene, especially to Lebanon. And he told me that the government started laying landmines along the border to herd refugees and keep them in the country.”

  Khamilah looked incredulous. “That’s ridiculous. More propaganda from the revolutionaries, trying to paint the leadership of our great nation as monstrous and cruel.”

  “Hey, we don’t need propaganda to tell the world this regime needs to be removed,” Omar protested. “The truth stands well enough on its own. Barrel bombs, chemical weapons, mass executions; when will it end?”

  Khamilah’s look could have melted steel. “Insolent boy,” she spat. “What happened to your respect for elders?”

  Omar met her gaze. “What happened to your respect for the people?”

  “For the record,” Jamil leaned forward to break eye contact between Khamilah and Omar in an attempt to ease the tension, “it’s not just a rumor. The last time I saw the man he was lying on a hospital bed in extreme pain. There was nothing left of him below the knees.”

  The color and confidence drained from Khamilah’s face, and she sagged in her chair. To his credit, Omar did not press his victory. Nadir looked like he was going to be sick. Azima appeared to take the news in stride. Maybe she had overheard conversations about this topic before because of her former husband’s position in the military.

  I cleared off a space on the table, then grabbed the map that I had taken from the glove compartment and unfolded it. “For now, let’s just figure out our next move. We need to plan our route. Does anyone have any contacts in Tartus? Someone they still trust to help us lay low until tomorrow?”

  Omar raised his hand. “Not Tartus, but I do know some people in Rastan that could provide food and shelter for the night. We could refuel and make the rest of the journey tomorrow morning.”

  Nadir rolled his eyes. “And would these people happen to be rebels?”

  Omar didn’t look away from me, but his voice took on a wary tone. “What of it?”

  “Do you honestly think that it is wise to trust that rabble?” Nadir asked. Omar opened his mouth to argue, but Nadir didn’t give him a chance as he continued. “Even if they are not interested in trading us to the government, it does not automatically make them our allies. Especially considering that I used to be a part of the very government they seek to overthrow. Can you say with certainty that none of them will try to take revenge on me or Khamilah? And why would they trust you, if you were willing to help us?”

  “Do I even have to point out that the military will be watching all the known rebel groups?” Jamil asked. “We are in enough danger as it is without attracting the attention of the secret police.”

  “Danger you put us in because of your criminal associates,” Khamilah retorted.

  “And the men your husband worked with would just let him walk out of the country with all of the state secrets he has in his head?” Omar shot back. “You said they threw a brick through your window. I’m surprised it wasn’t a grenade.”

  “You know nothing about us, child!” Khamilah shouted. “My husband should be hailed as a hero for the things he did to keep his country stable and safe.”

  “Enough,” I said. “This bickering is getting us nowhere. Omar, I don’t think I’m comfortable staying with radical Islamic militants. Are you sure there’s no other option?”

  “These guys aren’t like those crazies up north,” Omar countered. “I may have fallen away from the movement, but I still know the leadership. They aren’t like that.”

  “And you’re sure we can trust them?” Azima asked.

  “Absolutely,” he replied without hesitation. Then he added, “As long as we don’t overstay our welcome.”

  “That’s probably the best option we could hope for at the moment.” I looked at the map. “Rastan is a bit out of our way, but if we stick to the M5 we should make it in a couple hours.”

  “Careful,” Jamil said. “Rumor has it that the Daesh have carved out territory on either side of that area. It’s gonna be dangerous, but the army has been pushing them back. If we stay close to the main road we should be fine.”

  I had seen what happened when Daesh, better known as the Islamic State, took territory. Violence and savagery were their calling cards. I had a score to settle, but I wasn’t looking forward to a rematch while hauling a truckload of civilians. “Yeah, let’s avoid that.”

  Omar shook his head. “The M5 is no good once you start getting close to Homs. The regime has been keeping tabs on all the major highways: roadblocks, armored convoys, the works.” He pointed to an empty spot on the map. “There is a dirt road here that would enable us to bypass army checkpoints around Homs. From what I’ve been hearing, the army checkpoints stop past Talbisah. But we need to be careful because the army is shelling that entire area. After that we turn here, and then again here. From there it’s a straight shot to Rastan.”

  “If we take that route, will we get stopped by Daesh patrols?”

  “Unlikely, but it is possible.”

  “If there’s a choice between getting stopped by the army
and stopped by Daesh, I’d pick the army every time,” I told him. “We need another path.”

  “There is no other path. But I’m not worried. The People’s Army for a Free Syria is the big muscle in that area, not Daesh. And they should let us pass without harrassment.”

  “If the army is watching the roads into Rastan, is there a chance your friends have been compromised?” Nadir asked.

  “Again, it’s possible but I doubt the army has been able to get reliable information from within the city. Government types aren’t greeted with much warmth in Rastan.”

  Nadir rolled his eyes and Omar continued, “I realize this isn’t ideal, but we don’t have a whole lot of options right now. Rastan is a haven for people fleeing government oppression. Even if my friends are no longer there, it is probably the safest place for us to lie low for the night.”

  I glanced at my watch then at the darkening sky. “Okay. These back roads are going to add some time to the trip. We need to get moving if we want to get off the road by nightfall. Everybody finish your food and use the restroom. We aren’t stopping again until we reach Rastan.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  HOPE began to creep into my mind that we might make it out of the city without getting funneled into one of the army’s chokepoints. A few blocks north of the cafe, that hope died. We rounded a corner and encountered a long line of cars. At the other end of the line was a small group of soldiers backed up by the intimidating presence of an old Soviet BMP armored personnel carrier. The sheer mass of the BMP forced all traffic into a two-lane opening that was blocked by a black-and-yellow boom arm with a bright red Stop sign placed in the center.

  “We need to turn around,” Omar said.

  “There’s got to be a road out of town without an army post,” Nadir agreed. “We just have to find it.”

  I looked over my shoulder just as a large gray delivery truck pulled up behind us. We were boxed into this space. “It doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere, guys.”

  “At this point, turning around would attract too much attention, anyway,” Jamil observed.

  As if to emphasize his point, we saw a dust-covered Kia minibus two spots ahead of us jerk to the left in an attempted U-turn. But the space was too tight for a vehicle of that size. Its rear tires hopped off the road as it tried to back away and got stuck in loose dirt, spinning and spraying more dust into the already dirty air. The driver, a bearded man in a loose white tunic and flip-flops, threw the door open and attempted to escape on foot. He made it maybe twenty feet when a pair of soldiers appeared. They caught him by arms and slammed him into the side of our Land Cruiser.

  The man shouted and screamed and cursed as he thrashed in the grip of the soldiers. His flailing fist caught one of the soldiers, a stern-looking man who looked to be about my age, in the mouth. As his partner restrained the captive on the ground, the injured soldier wiped blood from his lip. The soldier spat at the bearded man, then drove his foot into the man’s ribs. He repeated the attack again and again until the captured man started coughing up blood. Then the soldiers seized the man’s arms and legs and dragged him off the road and into a nearby building. The man’s screams took on a wet, sickly sound, but were no less desperate because of it.

  And in a moment, it was over. And no one said or did anything about it. Traffic just kept moving, with the driver ahead of us leaning out of his window to shout at the minibus partially obstructing his path.

  It was a chilling reminder of how our journey could end if we made the wrong move. “Just stay calm and let me do the talking.” I looked to the back seat. “Omar, will they recognize you on sight?”

  He hesitated. “They shouldn’t.”

  Khamilah rolled her eyes. “Wonderful.”

  “The government will know me by name, but I’ve been careful to avoid any public demonstrations,” Omar clarified. “I served as the voice of the revolution. I’ve never had trouble letting someone else be the face of it.”

  “Hey, can you keep quiet with all that ‘revolution’ nonsense?” Azima hissed.

  She had a point, but I had another concern. “Am I right to assume you have a forged ID?” I asked. Omar nodded. “Is it good enough to pass close inspection?”

  “I’ve lived in this city for months. Do you think I would be free to walk the streets in daylight if my paperwork didn’t hold up under scrutiny?”

  “They’ve got to be looking closer now,” Jamil said. “You’re trying to leave the city in an expensive vehicle that would be perfectly clean without all the bullet holes in it. That’s bound to make them a little suspicious.”

  With the minibus still stuck in the dirt, the two-lane road cut down to one, and I had to slam on the brake as a green panel van in the other lane swerved to cut ahead of us. That prompted a chorus of honking from the vehicles behind me. I ignored them. “We have to take our chances and pray that the Lord will protect us.”

  “Uh, some of us are new to Christianity,” Nadir said. “We might not be good enough at prayer for that to work.”

  “Just keep quiet and follow my lead. If things go south, keep your head down.”

  It took us twenty minutes to move roughly one hundred yards to the checkpoint. I took a quick scan of the setup and saw four men at the post. The two men operating the boom arm were dressed in khaki camouflage uniforms with thick Kevlar helmets on their heads. It wasn’t a hot day, but their thick uniforms were stained with sweat. As we drew closer, I noticed that they wore the emblem of the Republican Guard, not the regular Syria Arab Army. There was one man in the turret of the BMP who wore a beret in place of his helmet. The turret gunner was terrifyingly young, hardly out of his teens.

  The last man was about fifty pounds too heavy to last long in actual combat. He had two stars on his shoulder, indicating that he was a lieutenant. From the weary look of his features, he wasn’t any happier to be here than we were. The boom arm lifted to let the car ahead of us pass through, then dropped once more in front of our radiator grill.

  One of the men by the boom arm circled around to the rear of the SUV. He had a long pole in his hand that he shoved under the Land Cruiser. I knew that he was checking for anything we would be smuggling in the undercarriage of the vehicle, particularly explosives. When the soldier finished analyzing our SUV, and waved an All Clear, the lieutenant waddled to the driver’s side window. I rolled it down and smiled. “Peace be upon you, brother.”

  The lieutenant gave a lethargic wave. “Uh huh. State your business for leaving the city.”

  I tilted my head toward the boxes in the back. “We have textbooks to deliver to a school in Homs.”

  “Homs, huh?” The lieutenant frowned. “That’s close to rebel territory.”

  I shrugged. “All the more reason for the children to be taught the truth instead of rebel propaganda.” I thought I heard Omar choke in the back seat, but it could have been my imagination.

  The officer examined our vehicle, then pointed to the bullet marks on the side and the plastic sheeting over the window. “Looks like you people have run into some trouble.”

  I tried to keep the anxiety out of my voice. “We had to pass through some dangerous neighborhoods. Not everyone appreciates the value of education.”

  “I see.” I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t buying my story. “You have a lot of people in there for delivering textbooks,” the lieutenant said, not quite making it an accusation. “Roll down the rest of your windows so I can see their faces. I also need to check your papers.”

  I did as he asked, but my stomach dropped a little. I knew the government would love to get their hands on Omar. If the authorities discovered that his documents were forged or if his assumption was wrong and he was recognized, we would all be in trouble. I studied the lieutenant’s face and did some mental calculation. If I timed it right, I could smash through the wooden boom arm and make a break for it. With any luck, it would be unexpected enough to give us an extra few seconds before the soldiers opened fire.

/>   I shook the thought out of my mind. Even if we could avoid the small-arms fire, the BMP’s cannon would turn us into a smoking crater if I tried something stupid. It was time to be smart. Jamil gathered the identification paperwork from the others in the back and handed them to me. Before I passed them to the lieutenant, I reached into the interior pocket of my jacket and slipped a little something extra in the mix.

  The lieutenant snatched the papers from my hand and began circling the vehicle, matching each face to the proper identification. I watched him in the mirrors. When he stopped, I knew he had found my surprise: a small envelope filled with cash. I was offering him a month’s pay, the equivalent of a few hundred US dollars, to expedite the process and maybe look the other way.

  I saw his eyes flick up to look at me, then back down to the cash. He casually slid the envelope into his pocket, then continued to check the faces in the vehicle. I noticed, however, that his examinations were much quicker now. After another tense minute, he signaled the men to raise the boom arm.

  “Sorry for the inconvenience,” he said with a sly smile. He slid the identifications through the window. “Stay safe. There are a lot of dangerous neighborhoods out there.”

  I nodded in acknowledgment, then raised my window. Soon the checkpoint, and the city, were safely behind us. I slumped back in my seat. If I had tried that trick in America, I would have been caught. Merely attempting to bribe an official would arouse suspicion. But things worked differently in this part of the world. In a place where the soldiers and police could make your life very difficult with little provocation, it was common practice to provide a little “gratuity” to everyone from a traffic cop to a health inspector to ensure that things continued to operate smoothly.