by N. H. Senzai
“If we are to be traveling companions,” said the man, “we should at least know one another’s name, don’t you think? I am old Mazen—you can call me old Ammo Mazen.”
Nadia hesitated, glancing at the man’s tanned, wrinkled features. There was no guile in his eyes, just open curiosity. She decided to go with her gut and blurted out, “My name is Nadia. Nadia Jandali.”
“Jandali?” asked the man, cocking his head. “Jandali . . . Jandali . . . Jandali . . . ,” he repeated as if mentally thumbing through a dusty set of files in his head. “Is that the same Jandali family that runs Jandali Chemical Industries?”
“Yes,” said Nadia, smiling with pride. “My grandfather started the business, but my father and uncles help him run it.” Or used to run it, she thought with a sigh, eyeing Ammo Mazen’s ragged leather shoes, shabby clothes, and work-worn hands. She wondered what his story was.
“So tell me where in Aleppo you are from,” he asked, turning northeast toward the widening arc of light.
But before she could answer, they heard the screech of tires from up the road. Ammo Mazen stiffened. “Come,” he urged, pulling Jamila into what appeared to be the remains of a butcher shop. Its front metal shutters were gone, the back wall partially caved in, but it provided enough cover to be hidden from the street. Nadia darted in, alongside the cart, spotting the metal hooks still hanging from the ceiling. “Quiet, girl,” Ammo Mazen whispered into Jamila’s ear. He pointed for Nadia to hide behind the counter. As she ducked down, she caught sight of a black Mercedes cruising by, tinted windows rolled up. Mukhabarat.
Ten minutes later, they emerged from their hiding spot. “No good messing with those boys,” said Ammo Mazen. “So now, what did I ask you? Oh yes, where in Aleppo are you from?”
“Our home was past the stadium, on the western edge of Salaheddine.” A lump rose in her throat as images of their destroyed apartment building came back.
“Ah, Salaheddine. That part of the city has borne the mother of all battles since the war began,” said Ammo Mazen, shaking his head sadly.
Nadia nodded, pushing back memories of a hot evening in July, more than a year ago, when gunfire had broken out a few miles from their home, triggering the battle for Aleppo.
“What a shame it all is,” said Ammo Mazen. “Salaheddine would be turning over in his grave.”
“Huh?” mumbled Nadia, not really paying attention as bitter thoughts raced through her head of the day when life as she had known it had changed forever.
“Don’t they teach you anything in school these days?” he asked with a smile as he guided Jamila around a burned-out shell of a bus. “Your neighborhood was named after the great Kurdish warrior who united the lands from North Africa to Syria. He drove European crusaders from the holy city of Jerusalem and founded the Ayyubid dynasty.”
“I know who he is,” muttered Nadia, cheeks red. Actually, she and Nana, while working in the kitchen as they usually did, had watched al-Nasir Salaheddine al-Ayyubi, a soap opera about Salaheddine. It was a swashbuckling adventure, filled with battles, intrigues, great one-liners, and beautiful heroines, who always managed to look perfectly made-up even in the middle of a battle scene.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Ammo Mazen smiled, a twinkle in his eye. “He was quite a man, that Salaheddine.”
Nadia nodded. Even though she didn’t much care about dead historical figures, or living ones either, he had a point. Salaheddine had been respected, even by his enemies, for his fairness in battle. The guy who’d played him in the show had been gorgeous, with his long dark hair and chocolate-brown eyes. He hadn’t been the best actor, but he’d looked impressive enough for the part, especially when he’d taken Jerusalem and spared the lives of all the Christians and Jews in the city.
“Where are you from?” she asked tentatively, hoping to get a hint of who she was traveling with.
“I grew up in a small village in the mountains,” he said, a faraway look in his eyes. “My family had citrus orchards, but the life of growing oranges was not for me. So I went to the sea and became a fisherman, then came back to shore, called by the love of books, especially old books that needed repair and rebinding. So a book repairer I became. I found that it is only by being a little lost that you stumble upon the path that is meant for you.”
“Oh,” Nadia said, thinking his life sounded pretty interesting.
They walked past the car dealership Nadia had crisscrossed the night before, and turned left on the tenth corner, not the eighth or ninth. Nadia caught sight of a torn poster she’d missed the night before and stumbled to a stop, seething with a sudden burst of rage. Without even realizing what she was doing, she took aim and spat, hitting the narrow, weak-chinned face, a toothbrush mustache stretched across his upper lip. Beneath Bashar al-Assad’s portrait was written THE LEADER FOREVER, but someone had crossed out forever and put never.
“Come,” said Ammo Mazen gently. “There’s nothing for you there.”
“He’s a killer,” she hissed, eyebrows knitted over stormy eyes.
“Yes, he is,” he said softly. “In over seventy years of life, I’ve realized that every person’s destiny leads them on a tumultuous journey. And if given bountiful blessings, how they choose to use them determines their humanity.”
Nadia looked at him, irritated at his riddle.
“The lot of the Alawites has not always been so enviable,” he said, referring to the religious group to which the Assad family and the ruling party belonged.
Nadia bristled. “They are evil and hateful,” she hissed.
“Yes, today their actions are,” said Ammo Mazen. “But long ago, under Ottoman rule, they were abused and reviled. Alawite women and children were sold into slavery.”
Nadia frowned. She’d never heard that before.
“When Hafez came to power, he brought order to a country fractured by years of turmoil, and promised security for minorities. He modernized, built Syria’s infrastructure, and instituted educational reform.”
“While oppressing the majority of the population,” said Nadia. Ten percent of Syrians were Christian; seventy percent followed the Sunni branch of Islam, like her family; and the remainder were Shia. And within the Shia branch existed sects like the Alawites.
“Yes,” said Ammo Mazen. “Once Alawites were oppressed, but when they took power, they used it to oppress others.”
Nadia snorted. Alawites dominated most of the influential positions in the government and army, including the mukhabarat and much of the shabiha. It was a known fact that those close to the Assad family had a monopoly on lucrative businesses. Because of Alawite domination, cars and mobile phones were more expensive in Syria than in England. Her cheeks reddened with heat as she acknowledged that Sunni businessmen, like her grandfather, had worked with the Alawite government to secure their own financial success. It was a devilish deal, she thought, an uneasy truce orchestrated by President Hafez al-Assad—staged economic progress and stability in exchange for military rule and dictatorship.
As the sun rose in the distance, Nadia calculated that it had been over twenty-four hours since the barmeela had rained down on her home and her family. What if they’re gone? she wondered. They probably think I’m dead, so why would they wait for me? She opened the burlap bag for a soothing rub under Mishmish’s chin, but before she could get a good grip, he shot out from the sack and ran past a burned-out pizza shop into an alley.
“Hey!” cried Nadia, ready to run after him.
“Don’t worry,” said Ammo Mazen with a weary smile. “I know where he is.”
Nadia frowned. Is he clairvoyant or something? She bit her tongue and followed the cart. At the far end of the alley, the hazy blue of early morning met the edge of a cobblestone square. A red ambulance was parked at the corner. As they emerged from the alley, her jaw dropped open. A writhing mass of black, gray, white, and orange fur surrounded a man. He carried a heavy plastic bag and tossed out bits of meat. Mishmish cut through the mass of cats, swatted away a scrawn
y tabby, and snatched a morsel from the man’s hand.
“Salaam, Alaa,” Ammo Mazen called out.
“Walaikum assalaam, uncle,” replied the disheveled, wiry young man, a hint of relief in his voice as he hurried over. “Boy, am I glad you made it. I was worried you’d been held up at some checkpoint.”
“When I got the note that you’d tracked down the item, no force was going to hold me back.” Ammo Mazen smiled as he brought Jamila to a halt beside the ambulance.
“I got lucky,” said Alaa. “I found the fellow easily enough, though I had to twist his arm to hand it over.”
“Thankfully, it worked out,” said Ammo Mazen, moving to the back of the cart.
Alaa held out the bag toward Nadia. “Do you mind?”
Repulsed by the bloodstains and rotten smell, she grudgingly took it. Within seconds the cats scrambled toward her, standing on their hind legs, digging claws into her jeans, begging. She took out bits of gristly, grayish meat and started tossing them out while watching the men from the corner of her eye. Alaa slipped into the back of his ambulance and emerged with a package wrapped in brown paper. Nadia caught an address scrawled in black ink across the top as he handed it to the old man.
Ammo Mazen hid the package in the back of his cart and slipped Alaa a thick wad of bills. “I hope this will help your family. I know times are tough.”
“They’re tough for everyone,” said Alaa. “I fear this war is going to get worse. It’s getting too difficult for me to come out to feed the cats.”
“Do you come every day?” Nadia couldn’t help but ask as she gave Mishmish a meaty chunk.
“No,” laughed Alaa as Nadia handed the bag back to him. “I’m lucky if I can do it once a week. Meat is getting harder and harder to find.”
“Alaa,” said Ammo Mazen, “the other thing . . . were you able to find any?”
Alaa’s face drooped. “I’m afraid not, uncle. And believe me, I looked. Two other clinics and a hospital were bombed last week, and we have few places to take patients and get our hands on medications.”
“I understand,” sighed Ammo Mazen, folding Jamila’s reins in his hands.
“Oh,” added Alaa, a worried look on his face, “I heard Sulaiman is looking for you.”
“Sulaiman? Are you sure?” asked Ammo Mazen, his face inscrutable.
Alaa nodded. “It was something to do with the information you were collecting for him. He needs it.”
“Thank you for telling me,” said Ammo Mazen. “Now, keep yourself safe and your cats well fed, for there is great reward in caring for all of Allah’s creatures.”
“I will, uncle,” said Alaa, enveloping the old man in a hug and kissing his cheeks. “I pray that you keep well,” Alaa added, his eyes troubled as he watched them leave.
Chapter Ten
October 10, 2013 7:31 a.m.
The main road was still eerily quiet. Eyes forward, Nadia walked beside the cart, mind filled with images of a joyous reunion with her family.
“You there, stop!” hollered an authoritative voice, making Nadia stumble.
“Gentle, now,” whispered Ammo Mazen as he placed his hand on Jamila’s neck to slow her down.
A group of masked figures emerged from a side street up ahead: a dozen or so troops, marching in line, wearing heavy military fatigues and wielding machine guns.
Nadia looked for a place to hide, but Ammo Mazen grabbed her arm. “No sudden movements, child,” he whispered.
“Stop and hold up your hands,” ordered the leader, voice muffled behind the mask. “You should not be out. We have word that the Syrian army is gathering at the western edge of the district and will be making a push soon.”
Nadia relaxed. But only a little. They were a rebel group.
“Thank you for your concern,” said Ammo Mazen. “We are on our way to safety now.”
“What do you have under there?” asked a tall soldier, prodding the canvas with the muzzle of a rifle.
Nadia scooted behind Ammo Mazen, keeping her eyes downcast as the group encircled them. That’s strange, she thought with a frown. The soldier doing all the talking had remarkably small feet. Encased in pink tennis shoes.
“Nothing too interesting, just an old man’s odds and ends,” chuckled Ammo Mazen. He gently lifted up the canvas. Beneath the protective layer of thick plastic lay an assortment of neatly packed items: a basket of wood, metal tools, and folded clothes. Stacked on one side lay a pile of books, mostly old, the leather bindings cracked, paper faded.
“Yes, bread would be far more useful,” grumbled the tall soldier.
They tensed as Ammo Mazen slowly reached for a burlap sack near the basket of wood. From the corner of her eye Nadia saw him pull out a box, its golden cover glinting in the sun.
“Oh!” gasped one of the soldiers.
Nadia read the dark brown lettering on the box. Ghraoui. She stared at Ammo Mazen in surprise. Ghraoui was the most expensive chocolatier in Syria, and on special occasions her father had brought a similar box home for her mother or Nana.
“I believe a taste of sweetness will serve you well as you head for the front line,” said Ammo Mazen, breaking open the seal.
“Thank you, Ammo,” said the soldier nearest him, taking a dark chocolate truffle, which Nadia recalled was filled with pistachio paste.
As the box was passed around, the others lifted up their masks.
Nadia stood with her mouth hanging open for the second time. They were all women.
“Well, I’m glad we ran into you,” said Ammo Mazen, pulling the tarp back in place. “We need to get to the eastern edge of the district. Is it safe?”
“Where are you going?” asked the one in pink tennis shoes. She had broad, angular features and full lips. Her chin had a scar from a recent injury.
“To Dr. Asbahi’s clinic on Saif al-Dawla Street,” said Ammo Mazen.
“You want to go to a dentist?” asked one of the women, eyebrow raised.
“Hey, you know the joke about dentists, right?” giggled another.
“No, tell us,” replied the tall one with a grin.
“Well, it’s the only safe place in Syria to open your mouth!”
The women roared in laughter, and even Nadia cracked a smile. She’d heard the joke before. It played on the fear that you had to keep your mouth shut lest something popped out that got you in trouble with the mukhabarat. The box of chocolates came her way and she took one of her favorites, a rich buttery caramel bathed in milk chocolate. She popped it into her mouth, her first morsel of food in over twenty-four hours. She sighed as the chocolate melted on her tongue.
“We passed the clinic on our morning rounds yesterday around noon,” said a rosy-cheeked girl who looked like she should have been on her way to university, not in a war zone.
“Were you there yesterday?” asked Nadia, nearly choking on the chocolate. “Did you see a group of women and children there?”
The women looked at each other and shrugged. “No,” said the woman in pink shoes. “We didn’t see anyone there.”
Maybe her aunts and mother were late getting to the clinic. They might still be there.
“We can walk with you there,” said the tall one. “Some of us will be passing by on our way to the field hospital.”
The group split up, half the women marching off to assemble on the front line while the rest accompanied them.
“What have you heard of the approaching battle?” Ammo Mazen asked the fresh-faced girl, whose name they’d learned was Maria.
“The news is not good, Ammo,” said Maria, her brow furrowed. “Ever since the Syrian army began Operation Northern Storm this summer, trying to recapture territory in and around Aleppo, things have been getting worse. And now with telecommunications down, it’s hard to get word of what is actually happening around the city. Before, we could get news from bloggers and undercover journalists from their Facebook posts and tweets.”
“Yes, with Hezbollah fighters flooding in from Lebanon to
support the president, there must be terrible pressure on you,” murmured Ammo Mazen.
Maria nodded, tight-lipped. “This is our fight—the Syrian people against heartless Assad, who is now bringing in his foreign cronies to kill us.”
Nadia stared at her, awed by her strength and bravery.
The tall one walking beside Nadia added, “Last week sixteen of our brothers were killed in an ambush while trying to slip into Salaheddine.”
“Sixteen? That’s terrible,” said Ammo Mazen, eyes troubled.
“There is trouble in the air. We can feel it,” said Maria, licking the last of the chocolate from her fingers.
“What rebel group are you part of?” Nadia couldn’t help but ask.
“We are our own group,” said the tall girl proudly. “We named ourselves the Mother Aisha battalion, after the Prophet Mohammad’s wife Aisha.”
“Yes,” added Maria. “After all, Aisha led troops into battle and served as consultant to the Prophet’s followers in his absence.”
“Yes, a noble name,” said Ammo Mazen, nodding.
“If we don’t defend ourselves and our families, who will?” added Maria with a mixture of pride and sadness.
One of the other women let out a tired sigh. Nadia glimpsed that she was adjusting the contents of her bag. A set of knitting needles and skeins of grass-green yarn poked out. When she saw Nadia looking, she gave her a weary smile. “After the war I just want things to return to how they were,” she said.
Nadia nodded wholeheartedly, willing to do just about anything to go back to how things were. But how were they exactly? she wondered. They would still have lived under the axe of Assad rule, ready to fall at any time.
“Once we put Assad in the ground, you can,” said her companion, thumping her on the back.
But Nadia’s mind had wandered from the conversation. They had turned onto Saif al-Dawla Street and her eyes desperately sought their destination. The clinic was a few blocks down.
Maria looked at her watch. “We must leave you here. Go quickly and hide yourselves. Barricade the windows and doors,” she advised.