Son of Syria

by Schafer, Ben

  “You know me,” I replied. “Always sweeping women off their feet.”

  The faint hint of a blush tinged her cheeks but she said nothing. Below me on the stairs, I heard Jamil cough. The moment broken, Azima bent down to check on her son. I took another deliberate second or two before I turned my attention to the windows to see what had happened.

  The armored vehicle was on fire, its crew lying dead around it. They had been cut down as they tried to flee the burning tank. On the rooftop of a building across the street, three men stood silhouetted in the dawn light. One of the men had a rocket launcher of some kind, probably the classic RPG-7 that could be found just about anywhere in the Middle East.

  The rest of the group gathered around to stare at the scene unfolding below. “Just one rocket did that?” Omar asked.

  “That was a mobile anti-aircraft platform,” Jamil said. “They weren’t meant to be used on the front lines, so the armor is much thinner than a main battle tank.”

  “You’re an expert on tanks now?” Khamilah asked.

  Jamil shrugged. “I like vehicles. Some of the mechanics at the depot were trained in the army, so I picked up a lot of information.” He raised a hand to cover his eyes as he surveyed the damage. “I never thought I’d actually see one in real life, though. What is it doing here?”

  “The only aircraft here are dropping bombs on our heads,” Omar observed. “It seems like a waste of resources to use a weapon like that.”

  “The army likes to use those big cannons in urban environments,” Nadir explained. “The cannons are more powerful than standard machine guns but not as expensive as missiles or tank shells. Plus, there’s a huge psychological advantage when the army can cut a building in half with one of these monstrosities.”

  “We have prepared for this very attack,” Sharif said as he ascended the stairs once again, his entourage conspicuous by their absence. “Several officers who defected from the Syrian Army explained this tactic to us and provided us with the training and equipment to combat it.”

  “That’s great, Sharif. But what are we supposed to do now?” I asked.

  “Your only option is to remain here,” he said. “I swear that the women and the child will be safe in my home. In the meantime, we need every capable fighter we can get. I don’t know much about you, Kyle, but I know you fit that description. Perhaps Allah has presented us with a blessing in disguise.”

  “Screw that,” I replied. “Look, Sharif, you seem nice enough but I’m not going to die for your cause, especially when there are people under my protection who need help. So thanks, but no thanks for the offer. If I have to, I’ll head out on foot until I find a car we can use.”

  Sharif snorted. “You refuse to die for the cause of freedom, but you will throw your life away on a fool’s errand?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have to,” Omar said. “What about Mosab? He’s bound to have something in his garage.”

  Sharif shook his head. “It’s too far for you to travel on foot. Mosab’s auto shop is in the northern section of the city. In case you hadn’t noticed,” he pointed out the window toward the flashes in the hills, “the army will be crawling all over that neighborhood. If he has any sense, Mosab won’t even be there.”

  “When have you ever known Mosab to have any sense?” Omar smirked.

  “And what happens when, by some miracle, you arrive at his shop only to find that you are locked outside of it? You will be trapped and surrounded by soldiers and I will not be able to send anyone to rescue you.”

  “Mosab gave you a spare key for emergencies.” Omar spread out his arms toward the city. “I think that this qualifies.”

  Sharif sighed and walked into his room. A few seconds later, he returned with a single brass key in his hand. Omar reached for it, but Sharif pulled it back. “If I give you this key,” he said, “I will be signing your death warrant.”

  “No, Sharif, you won’t. If you give me that key, you will let me take charge of my life.” He ran a hand through his hair. “When will you realize that you can’t be there to protect me forever? I don’t need you to hold me back and I don’t need you to rescue me. I just need you to let me live and make my own choices. If you can’t let your brother run his own life, how do expect to free a whole nation?”

  “Omar, please reconsider,” Sharif begged. “Don’t throw your life away like this. There is nothing for you out there.”

  “You’re wrong, brother. There is nothing left for me here. Until last night I had some lingering doubts about leaving.” There was an edge to Omar’s words. “But there is no way I can stay here and be part of a movement that has grown so far out of control.”

  Sharif took a deep breath, then straightened to his full height once more. “So be it.” He threw the key and it clattered on the floor at Omar’s feet. “My men have set up a checkpoint a kilometer to the north. After that point, I can no longer guarantee your safety.”

  I tilted my head to the burning husk in front of Sharif’s gate. “I don’t think it’s our safety you need to be worried about.”

  Sharif dismissed my comment with a wave. “That was an aberration. The tank crew must have pushed far beyond the rest of their lines and breached our perimeter before we were fully prepared. If the army was really that close, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I can assure you that our battle lines are set and my men are hungry for a fight.”

  He looked back to his brother. “If you change your mind, one of my men can escort you back here. I won’t make the choice for you. But if you walk past that checkpoint, I’m finished taking responsibility for you. You are on your own.” He turned his back on his brother. “There is some food and water downstairs, if you want it. Allah be with you.” He lingered for a brief moment before returning downstairs.

  Omar didn’t budge, so I bent down and picked up the key. “Well, that was dramatic. You okay, Omar?”

  “No. But that’s something I can worry about if we survive this nightmare.” He tore his gaze from the staircase and looked at me. His eyes were red and watery. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

  “Right. Everyone grab your bags and meet me downstairs in two minutes. We have to travel light, so if you can think of anything you don’t absolutely need to bring with you leave it behind.”

  Everyone walked back to their rooms to collect their belongings. Everyone, that is, except for Omar. His face was expressionless and his eyes were unfocused. I waved a hand in front of his face. “Hey, Omar, are you still with me?” He blinked, then nodded. “Get your stuff and let’s get going.”

  “I’m leaving it behind. Everything. This is not my home any more, and anything I bring with me will only remind me of just how far my brother and my cause have fallen.” He gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Like you said, we have to travel light. If we want to have any chance of reaching our new life, we have to let the old one go.”

  I searched for the right words and came up empty. I decided to change the subject. “Where is this garage?”

  “A little over two kilometers to the north-east. Normally not a long distance, even with a child in tow. But in the middle of all this, it might as well be the other end of the earth.”

  I put on my best professional smile. “Come on, buddy. I’ve gotten us this far, haven’t I? We’ve come across half of Syria. What’s two more kilometers?”

  Omar tried matching my smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. To tell the truth, neither was mine. But someone had to be the optimist here.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs,” Omar said as he descended the staircase. “The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  WE walked out of Sharif’s compound and into an entirely different city. The undercurrent of tension that I had felt the previous night had exploded into outright fear and anger. The chilly night air gave way to an oppressive heat. The sun beat down mercilessly upon Rastan, and heat waves rippled up from the pavement. Only the barest of clouds drifted
in the sky, far too slender too provide any hope of relief.

  The physical landscape changed, too. Artillery and tank shells pounded the northern edge of the city and, as the day wore on, would proceed steadily southward. There were no aircraft visible in the wide-open skies, but I knew that attack helicopters and bombers would be sent to drop their deadly payload on the city. I had no idea how much of the city would be left standing by sundown. My estimation of Sharif’s chances dropped with every dull, distant roar.

  I wiped sweat from my forehead. I was miserable in this heat, which was made even worse by my leather jacket. I would have removed it, but I could use all the protection that I could get on our exodus out of Rastan. I could survive a little discomfort.

  Hashim wasn’t happy with the weather, either. Azima handed him one of the water bottles Sharif provided. The boy emptied the whole thing in thirty seconds flat. I had to imagine that Khamilah felt like she was in an oven with her full-body attire, but I didn’t hear her complain. She probably just didn’t want to admit that she made a bad fashion choice.

  We marched in a sloppy and informal diamond pattern. Omar took the lead as this was his city and he knew the terrain better than any of us. The rest of us followed him, although Nadir was slightly detached from the main group to watch our right flank. It was clear that his dormant military training was reawakened by the events of the past couple of days.

  Jamil followed Nadir’s lead and shifted slightly to the left side of the main group. Khamilah and Azima stood on either side of Hashim, both to keep him safe and to spare him the sights of a city ravaged by war. I stayed a few steps behind the rest to ensure that no one tried to catch us unaware from the rear. Like Nadir, I found the old military habits taking over without consciously thinking about it.

  The streets were eerily silent and devoid of life, which only seemed to amplify the echoes of gunfire and the occasional thump of a distant rocket impact. Except for our little band of misfits, there was not a soul to be seen. It reminded me of patrol duty during my days with the Marine Corps: utter calm darkened by the threat of explosive action around every corner and behind every open door.

  “Creepy,” Jamil whispered.

  “The stillness is unnerving,” Nadir agreed. His eyes flicked back and forth, tracking anything that moved.

  “I thought a warzone would have been more chaotic,” Azima added, her voice just as low. “Where is everyone?”

  Omar looked over his shoulder. “You heard my brother. A lot of folks packed up when the army set up shop on our, I’m sorry, on their doorstep.” He shook his head. “This is all so surreal to me. To see men fighting on the streets where I played as a boy is—”

  “Unbelievable,” I finished.

  “Well, you would know better than most,” Azima said. “As for this neighborhood, I’m not sure it’s as abandoned as we first thought.” I tracked her gaze to a second-story window a little to our left. The building was a cement block with windows, sturdy but lacking any kind of aesthetic charm. As we drew closer, the curtains twitched.

  We had an audience.

  Now that I was looking for it, I could see indications of observers all around us. Wide-eyed children peeked through iron-barred windows, barely visible through the dirt and grime. An old woman had her front door opened just a crack and stared at us as we passed. A couple of teenage boys, old enough to be rebellious but not old enough to be rebels, loitered in a narrow alley. The boys scowled like they were looking for a fight, but I also noticed that they were in a position that was hidden from the street unless you knew to look for them. I guess defiance has its limits.

  It made sense, in a macabre sort of way. This war was brutal, devastating, and likely to destroy a large portion of their hometown. It was also the most interesting thing to happen in Rastan in decades. Many citizens of this city would go out of their way to witness the whole ordeal play out from behind the unreliable safety of windows, doors, and alleyways.

  We continued moving for another few minutes. “What’s the plan after we get to the checkpoint?” Khamilah asked. She, unlike the others, obviously felt no need to keep her tone down, and her voice seemed as loud as any gunshot in the absence of all other noise.

  “Keep quiet!” Azima hushed.

  “Why? Will I attract the army?” Khamilah scoffed. “I guess you don’t believe Sharif’s promise of a safe zone, then.”

  “Of course not,” Jamil said. “What does he know about fighting a war, anyway? Sharif’s men aren’t a real army. They don’t know how to set up a proper perimeter defense. Soldiers have already slipped past the rebel net at least once. Who’s to say it won’t happen again?”

  “Oh, no,” Khamilah deadpanned, “how terrible. We may have to smile and wave to a squad of soldiers as we pass. All of you keep acting like the army is made up of heartless monsters who only exist to steal, rape, and murder. Am I the only one who is unconvinced by second-rate propaganda broadcasts?” She called out to Omar. “No offense, dear. I’m sure you did the best you could with what you had.”

  Omar ignored her condescension. “This is more serious than you want to admit.”

  “He’s right, dear,” Nadir said. “At this point anyone in the city will be treated as suspect. For goodness’ sake, you slept in the house of the rebel commander!”

  Khamilah gritted her teeth. “Maybe people wouldn’t know that if you didn’t shout it out!”

  “Oh, please,” I said. “There were plenty of people who saw us enter Sharif’s compound last night. Just think of all the people gathered in his courtyard. Do you honestly think that none of them would be captured and able to point us out as Sharif’s guests?”

  “More to the point,” Nadir added, “gossip spreads quickly in towns like this. I would not doubt that rumors about the arrival of a group of strangers on the eve of the invasion have been spread across Rastan at this point.”

  Jamil nodded. “Yeah. People love to talk. The army may be a big and slow, but some of ‘em know how to listen.”

  Khamilah was quiet for a moment. “The army might not know about us yet.” It wasn’t a concession, not quite, but I did notice that her voice had dropped several decibels. “But you’re getting us sidetracked from my original question. What do we do when we reach the—”

  “Checkpoint!” Omar interjected. “Next intersection.”

  “It looks like we all get to find out together,” I told Khamilah. “Nadir, Jamil, keep an eye on things. If you see troops, tanks, or anything more threatening than a bicycle I want you to give me a quick wave then get the women and Hashim to safety. Do not do anything that would attract attention or make the army or rebels consider you a threat. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Jamil answered.

  Nadir nodded. “I understand.”

  I picked up the pace until I was even with Omar. “This is the checkpoint?” I asked.

  Omar shrugged. “Apparently.”

  As far as fighting positions went, it was hardly up to Marine Corps standards. The “checkpoint” consisted of three waist-high stacks of sandbags in the western, northern, and eastern points of the intersection intended to stop traffic from passing through the intersection. On the far side of each of these tiny wall, corrugated metal sheets were supported with plywood and topped with a single strand of barbed wire. It looked more like the set for a poorly funded stage show than a serious fortress.

  If the production values were bad, the casting was far worse. Of the five men stationed at this post, only one had a gun in his hand. That man hid his eyes behind an expensive-looking pair of aviator sunglasses and wore a disapproving scowl aimed at his comrades. None of them seemed to care. One young man, still a gangly teenager, had a push-broom in his hand and took great care brushing dirt and debris out of their little sanctuary. A much larger and older man leaned against a wall while talking on his cell phone. Whatever the conversation was about, it clearly had nothing to do with the situation at hand.

  The final two men were seated in
plastic lawn chairs around a white circular folding table. They looked like a classic comedy duo: one was tall, young, and gaunt while the other was short, portly, and middle-aged. The skinny man, who was facing us, said something that made the fat man laugh, then sat up as he noticed our approach. The man’s eyes widened in surprise and he tried to get on his feet. His long legs tangled in his chair and he stumbled toward us.

  I rubbed my eyes and sighed. If we could catch these wannabe fighters unprepared like this, the army would eat them alive. I got the feeling that the biggest danger to Sharif’s plan would be his own men.

  The sentry started running toward us. He almost tripped over a crack in the pavement and windmilled his arms to stay upright. When he settled on his heels once more, he smiled and yelled, “Omar!”

  Omar spread out his arms. “Walid!” The two men embraced. “What are you doing here?”

  Walid put his hands on his lapels and straightened his posture. “I’m helping your brother save our city, of course.” Walid’s gaze shifted from Omar to me. His smile faltered. “And, uh, what are you doing back in Rastan? I thought you had moved to Damascus permanently.”

  “Actually, I—”

  Walid snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “Is he one of those, what do you call ’em? A mercenary? Did you hire a mercenary to fight for us?”

  Omar shook his head. “No, my friend here is not a—” he paused, “Wait.” He glanced at me. “You know, maybe ‘mercenary’ is the right word for him.”

  I shrugged. That definition would be the easiest for everyone to understand.

  Walid’s grin threatened to overwhelm his whole face. “Oh, praise be to Allah!” He gripped Omar’s shoulders and shook him excitedly. “I knew all those rumors about you were just vicious slander. They said that you had been corrupted into decadence while you were in university, that you’d converted, that you’d been recruited by the government. ‘Omar would never abandon the righteous cause of freedom,’ I said. And here you are!” This prompted another round of shaking.