Son of Syria

by Schafer, Ben

  “We like to travel in style,” I told him, keeping my expression earnest.

  The man shrugged and led us to the shed Omar had pointed to a few moments earlier. “Which one of you claims to know Sharif?” Omar raised his hand. “You will come inside with me. The rest of you will return to your vehicle and will not move unless directed to do so by myself or another member of the People’s Army for a Free Syria.”

  “As appointed guardian of these people I would like to meet with Sharif, as well,” I stated.

  Our guide considered my request. “Agreed. But you must adhere to our rules.” He pounded on the wooden door three times. “Remain silent at all times unless he asks you a direct question,” he directed. “If asked such a question, answer quickly and honestly. At no time are you allowed to touch or take anything out of this room. Any form of recording is forbidden. No pictures, no video, no audio. Do you understand these conditions?”

  “We understand,” I told him. “I take full responsibility for those under my protection.”

  The rebel stared at me. “So be it.” With one meaty hand he pushed the door open, and with the other he waved for us to enter. I traded nervous glances with Omar, then stepped through the doorway.

  The interior of the building was spacious, a fifteen-foot by fifteen-foot square with little clutter. A single aluminum shelf filled with tools stood by the wall in front of me, and to the right were what looked like shipping crates covered by a green tarp. A single bare light bulb illuminated the space, casting bizarre shadows on the walls. The far wall was covered by a flag consisting of horizontal green, white, and black bars with three red stars in the middle of the white bar. I recognized it as one of the flags flown by the rebellion.

  But it was the other occupants of the room that captured my attention. There were four bulky men wearing matching brown leather jackets standing in a semi-circle in front of their flag. None of them wore visible weapons, but from their composure I could tell they were seasoned fighters, maybe defectors from the Syrian Army. In the middle of these warriors stood a tall, spindly man with close-cropped black hair who easily rose head and shoulders above everyone else in the room. Unlike the other rebels, he wore khaki slacks and a turquoise silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows.

  These fighters were focused on the two men kneeling on the dirt floor. These men were blindfolded and bound with thick, rough rope. Judging from the abrasions on their wrists, they had been restrained for some time, long enough to lose hope of escape. The prisoners had been stripped of most of their clothing. Reduced to nothing but underwear, socks, and sweat-soaked undershirts, the poor men shivered in the cool night air. As I looked closer, I could see patches of drying blood mingled in with the perspiration on their bodies.

  I looked to Omar for some sort of explanation. He didn’t even notice me. His eyes were fixed on the prisoners and I could see him trembling, not from the cold but from white-hot rage. This was something new to Omar, and he didn’t like it one bit.

  Our guide stepped forward and whispered something into the ear of the man in the middle. The man snapped his head to look at Omar, then gave us both a broad smile. He gestured toward the door and walked toward the exit. The man who had served as our guide stepped into the tall man’s place at the center of the room. As we left the shed, I watched him slough off his jacket then squat down to interrogate the prisoners face-to-face.

  The shed reeked of pain and fear, and I was glad to be back in the fresh air of the central courtyard. After taking a few deep breaths, I turned to look our host in the eyes. Or chest, as it turned out. Like I said, the guy was a giant.

  “Kyle, this is Sharif,” Omar said.

  I took a step back so I could properly meet Sharif’s gaze. “Nice to meet you. I hope we didn’t interrupt something important back there.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Sharif replied as he pulled his sleeves to their full length. “I’ve always got time for Omar.”

  I smiled. “Well, it’s nice to know someone with friends.”

  “Friends? Is that what Omar said we were?”

  A sick feeling settled in my stomach. “So you’re not Omar’s friend?”

  “Furthest thing from it,” Sharif chuckled.

  Omar rolled his eyes. “Sharif is my brother, one of the earliest leaders of the People’s Army for a Free Syria.”

  I craned my head back. “I’m guessing he’s not your little brother.”

  Sharif let out a booming laugh and slapped me on the shoulder so hard that it almost sent me to the ground. “Little brother! That is funny. Brother, you have good taste in friends.”

  “Yeah, great, glad you approve,” Omar muttered. “So what the hell was going on in there? Who were those men?”

  “Come now, dear brother. You mustn’t use such language when we have guests.”

  Omar smirked. “You have guests. This is no longer my home. Or hadn’t you forgotten?”

  I held up a hand to get both men’s attention. “Guys, I’m sure there’s a fascinating story here. Rich drama, compelling family conflict, just all-around great TV. Unfortunately, we do have five other people waiting for food and shelter.”

  “I was told that your friends had been escorted into the main house while you came to see me,” Sharif replied.

  I frowned. After the misunderstanding at the checkpoint, I was hesitant to trust Sharif and his men without reservation. This new development only compounded the problem. I didn’t like the idea of someone moving the people under my care without alerting me first. That did not strike me as the actions of a true ally.

  Sharif led the way to the house. The building was old, much older than the rest of the compound. This was the sort of home that had seen generations pass through its doors. But suddenly this family refuge was preparing for battle, surrounded by the sudden appearance of the architecture of war. It was a fitting tribute to the crisis as a whole. The Syria of my youth, my home, had become a battleground which threatened to tear itself asunder.

  The rest of the group was waiting for us in what appeared to be the dining room. I say appeared to be because the long, low wooden table at the center of the room was covered in papers, photographs, and maps. It struck me as odd that Sharif would leave this intelligence lying around. My suspicions were peaked further when I noticed that, despite all the cars outside, the only people in this room were my refugees. Why would anyone have gathered all this data and then just let it sit abandoned?

  Unlike in an American dining room, this room didn’t have chairs. Instead, wide cushions of various colors and shapes surrounded the table. The members of our little group reclined on these cushions or sat cross-legged facing the table. Azima was propped up on one elbow and had her face to the door. Her eyes lit up when I walked into the room, but I gestured for her to stay still. Until I was sure who I was dealing with in Sharif, I wanted everyone to stay on their guard.

  Most of them were talking in hushed tones among themselves, but I saw Nadir stealing what he must have thought were clandestine glances at the documents on the table. I don’t know what, if anything, he intended to do with the information, but if Sharif noticed what he was doing we could all be in serious trouble.

  I turned to Sharif, moving myself into his line of sight to divert his attention from the rest of the group. “Okay, Sharif, you’ve had your fun.” I swept my arm across the table, sending papers flying. “Now are we going to talk honestly with one another, or do we just walk out of here right now?”

  Sharif laughed. “I am sorry, Kyle. I had to make sure.”

  I met his gaze. “And are you?”

  Sharif nodded. “Reasonably. My brother and I know many secret methods of warning the other of danger: body language, hand signals, subtle phrases; that sort of thing. He gave me no such warnings when we spoke, and I know that he would never willingly betray his people.” He pointed to the space on the table that I had cleared. “However, a spy could have slipped into your group without your knowledge.
”

  “So you had to separate us for this test.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Do you mind telling us what is going on?” Jamil asked.

  “Sharif here still doesn’t trust us. So he placed you all here, apparently without supervision, to see if any of you closely examined or took any of these documents.” I made sure not to look at Nadir when I added, “Doing so would have proven that we are here with less-than-honorable intentions.”

  “And if any of us had done something suspicious, a hidden guard would have come swooping in to catch us,” Jamil concluded. To answer him, Sharif simply snapped his fingers. At his signal, two men with shotguns slung over their backs stepped out of a concealed alcove at the other side of the room. They took a few steps toward us, then stopped with their hands clasped in front of them.

  “Huh.” Jamil looked at them for a moment, then turned back to Sharif. “But none of this stuff is hidden. I know that we all glanced at it a few times, just out of boredom if nothing else. If we were spies, wouldn’t we still be able to report what we remembered?”

  “I suspect that none of these documents are legitimate or, if they are, the information is out of date and useless.” I glanced at Sharif, but he was too busy brushing dust off of his shirt to give me any confirmation. “Anyway, given that none of you have been bound, gagged, or beaten it would seem you have made a good impression.”

  “Come now, Kyle,” Sharif said. “I think that is an exaggeration.”

  I met his gaze. “Really? Is that what the business in the shed was about? Just another ‘exaggeration?’”

  Sharif’s voice turned cold. “You forget your place, Kyle. I am your host, and whatever business I conduct in my home is not something I have to explain to you.”

  “What about me, Sharif?” Omar asked. “This is my home, too, or at least it used to be. Furthermore, I am still a member of this movement and I deserve some answers.”

  Sharif alternated glances at me and his brother, then heaved a great sigh. “If you must know, those men are with the Syrian Army.”

  “Soldiers? Here?” Nadir asked, his voice was shrill. “What happens when they return to their unit? How do you know that they will not report everything they have heard and seen to their commanders?” His face paled. “Unless . . .”

  “Unless you intend to execute them,” Jamil finished. In contrast to Nadir, Jamil’s tone was calm, even conversational, like he was making small talk about the weather. “Of course that would violate a number of international treaties, but this is a rebellion we’re talking about here. The regular rules don’t really apply anymore, do they?”

  “What else do you expect from degenerate thugs?” Khamilah muttered.

  “Khamilah—” I started, but Nadir beat me to it.

  “We are guests in this man’s home,” he admonished. “Can you please show some gratitude to your host?”

  “I am grateful,” Khamilah replied, looking past her husband to Sharif. “But my gratitude does not make my assessment any less valid. The entire time we’ve been in this town we’ve been harassed, threatened, groped, and pushed around like a flock of sheep. You can understand how I could come to such a conclusion.”

  Omar opened his mouth, but Sharif held up a hand to silence him. “She is not wrong. The circumstances of our meeting have been unfortunate. Despite your feelings toward us, we are not thugs.” He turned his gaze toward Jamil. “Nor are we murderers. But those men represent a clear threat to our people. They are scouts for a much larger force massing to the north. The army is poised to enter the city at any time now.”

  “Then the rumors are true,” Omar whispered. “I didn’t want to believe it.”

  Sharif nodded. “Sadly, yes. Dozens of troop transports and tanks have assembled near the dam, essentially cutting off any reinforcements we could have gotten from the north.”

  “Or any escape into friendly territory,” Omar added.

  I frowned. “And so your men are extracting vital intelligence from those scouts by any means necessary.” Just then a thought struck me. “You singled out those men in particular as a threat to your survival. Why those men more than the rest of the army?”

  “Very observant. One of our patrols caught those men scouting locations for artillery strikes. I admit that my men may have gotten a little overzealous. But we need to know exactly what the scouts have reported back to their command.”

  Sharif looked to his brother. “Hundreds of lives are at stake. The bulk of our forces are located near the hospital in the western section of town preparing for a counter-attack. I would hate to give up that location if I don’t have to. It has a great view of all approaches and is sturdy enough to withstand the impact of tank shells. A barrage of heavy artillery, on the other hand, is another matter.”

  “Only cowards would launch artillery shells into a city full of innocent people!” one of Sharif’s men shouted. The men around shouted agreement.

  Sharif smiled, encouraged by the zeal of his forces. “Yes, indeed. It may be a coward’s tool, but it is highly effective. If the scouts discovered our staging ground and reported it back to their commanders, any hope we have of holding this city would die with my men.”

  “And what did the doctors say when you took over their hospital?” Nadir asked. “Or did you pretend to give them a choice?”

  Sharif snorted. “That hospital has been abandoned for weeks now. The few doctors that have not fled do what they can while hidden in basements and cellars, but it is not enough.” He closed his eyes. “I have seen children dying because the government is cutting off medicine to the city. I have heard their cries as they suffer for hours or days at a time without reprieve. I have looked into the faces of parents who must stand helpless as their sons and daughters beg them to make it stop, to make the pain go away.”

  When Sharif opened his eyes once more, he stared at Nadir. “Who gave those children a choice?”

  For a moment no one spoke. Then I asked. “Why not fade away in the night? You and your men have a chance to get out. Why stay behind when there’s nothing but death and destruction waiting for you?”

  Sharif’s eyes flashed with anger. “Because this is my home. Once we lose this ground we may never regain it. Rastan is not the only city under siege. Aleppo, Homs, and even Damascus itself have seen intense fighting. How could I keep my honor if I would not be willing to stand and fight, as well?”

  “Do you really believe a handful of fighters can stand against the might of the Syrian army?” Omar asked.

  “Our families have already been evacuated. The men who remain with me are volunteers. We have made precautions, you see, but at the end of the day this is a war. Sooner or later it affects all of us. But that is not something you need to concern yourself with, dear brother. You all have been on the road for far too long. You must be tired and hungry. We have very little in the way of food, but I assure you that whatever we have is yours.” He swept a long arm out to one of the adjacent rooms. “If you follow me to the kitchen, I’m sure we can find something for you.”

  Everyone stood and began following Sharif into the other room. I put my hand on Omar’s shoulder. “Stay back a moment with me, will you?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  I waited until the room was empty. “I need an honest assessment. Are we safe here?”

  “Here in Rastan, or in my hou—” He stopped himself. “In my brother’s house?”

  “Here with your brother. You had a chance to meet with him and get a feel for the situation. You know these people a lot better than I ever would.”

  Omar took a moment before answering, “Honestly, no. We are not safe here. But, also honestly, we would not be safer anywhere else in the country right now.” He gave me a thin smile. “At least here we know where the enemy is.”

  “Yeah.” I stared out the window at the men assembled outside. “If you say so.”

  We gathered for a bizarre meal composed of beans, rice, and something that had been p
ainstakingly molded into the shape of chicken but tasted like motor oil. At the moment, I didn’t really care what they put in front of me. My attention was focused on our host and his heavily-armed “friends.”

  Sharif and several of the men from the shed joined us for the meal. I assumed from their presence that the interrogation was over, at least for the moment. I wondered if the captives were being provided any food, but as I took another bite of my petroleum-based poultry I concluded that this meal would probably be considered cruel and unusual punishment.

  I shifted my attention away from my so-called “food” and listened to the conversation Sharif was having with Jamil and Omar across the table.

  “Your ideals are noble in theory,” Jamil said, “but a bunch of nice talk and brave men won’t stop an armored division when it comes crashing through your streets.”

  “We have been training for a whole month for this very event. The city itself is our greatest ally,” Sharif replied. “We know the streets, the hills, every inch of Rastan. That is an advantage I intend to press to the fullest extent possible. We will prevail, Allah willing, or we will die. But we will not concede one more step to the dictator and his dogs.”

  “What about the civilians who will be caught in the cross-fire?” Omar asked. “What good does all of your lofty talk do for the families that get torn apart in this attack?”

  “This war touches everyone. I wish it were not so, but I will not bow to a wicked tyrant in the hopes that he will leave my family alone.” At that statement, a round of cheers went up from Sharif’s men.

  If I hadn’t been sitting right next to Omar, I wouldn’t have been able to hear him tell his brother, “Sharif, what happened to you? When did you decide to play warlord?”

  “Listen, Omar,” Sharif replied just as quietly. “You can’t disappear for weeks and then pretend to be deeply involved in this fight. I was here organizing these men while you ran away and hid in Damascus.”