“Yamen, foremost, in a state of full knowledge, there is no conspiracy. A conspiracy is projected when one lacks knowledge and certain clues are used to prove the malicious intentions of others. You are better than that man,” I didn’t mean it. I continued, “My argument is built on existing information and I have no access to hidden intelligence. Don’t you wonder whether that person is biased and made up things so he or she gets your support?” Yamen cracked his mouth to say something momentarily, but I put up my hand to pause him. In Malaysia that gesture translates as by the power invested in my hand, I command you to listen. The sign means a lot of things. Sometimes we joked about it. We would say, the hand stops cars from going through. We imagined it could stop wars. I certainly hoped the last part was true.
Yamen gave me the chance to continue my lecture. Looking at him I preached, “Now, if the Americans, as you have had yourself believe, have inflicted that tragedy upon themselves, then it’s part of their crusade against you.”
‘”I am a Muslim!”
“Humour me, please! Can you tell me how does that make that war against you?”
“Because I am a Muslim!”
“Oh, I get it. That makes you a victim by association. Sometimes it’s hard to get something through my thick skull, but Bin Laden admitted and took credit for the attack, didn’t he?”
“He is an agent of America.”
“Oh,” shaking my head as if I was trying to chase the idea away, “Americans are killing themselves and wasting billions of dollars in their crusade against Muslims. Man, I wish I could be half as confident about something, anything!”
“I didn’t say that Americans are killing themselves. There are Mujahedeens who are fighting the Americans.”
“You mean al-Qaeda and the Taliban.”
“You don’t get it!”
“Maybe not, but why you are so confident that the whole world is conspiring against you?”
Yamen was about to say something before I stopped him, “It’s a rhetorical question, you don’t need to answer. Though, I am wondering about suicide attacks in Israel.”
“You mean Palestine!”
“No, Israel, where Hamas’ suicide squads often carry out attacks killing civilians.”
“It’s justified! The whole world is taking their side. Palestinians are the victims of Israeli aggression and they have the right to retaliate.”
“Retaliate! You mean terrorise civilians.”
“Everything is not terrorism! It’s a righteous struggle.”
“It’s to instill fear in civilians and has so far brought their people nothing but misery.”
“You don’t understand; you won’t because you are not Muslim.”
“I understand that you are not a victim and even on the off-chance that you are one, I don’t how that justifies the killing of civilians. You fill your mind with conspiracy shit maybe to feel better about yourself. You’re victimising yourself to give yourself a free pass to terrorise.”
To date, to Yamen, Al-Assad is the victim of the worst conspiracy in the history. To him, all rebels are terrorists. The children who suffocated to death after they were struck with sarin gas are Shiite children, staged to bring legitimacy to those opposing Al-Assad. Though to him, Sadam’s atrocities are recognised as such; the uprising of Bahrainis is legitimate; however the one in Syria is to cleanse Shiites, from start to finish.
**********
So again, after some Iraqi Shiite terrorists abandoned Al-Assad to fight ISIS in Iraq, his forces started aerial attacks on Ar-Raqqa. ISIS was fighting other rebels. Even Yamen admits that they were left alone as a strategy to defeat the terrorists, terrorists that for him are those trying to topple the Al-Assad regime. With ISIS in the picture, getting news of the city is really tough. With every capable and sane person fleeing the scene, it made it nigh-on impossible to get the latest from any credible sources. It was a time when phone calls became a luxury. I had to wait for my father to contact me. Every time I got a call from a strange number I would stress. I knew two of my cousins and my childhood friend had been killed. In the few seconds between noticing the strange number and answering, only dark thoughts would come to mind.
So there it was, a strange number. My mood changes, anxiety rises; my face clouds with worry and fear. “Hello, Allo…”
“How are you son?”
“I am fine father, what about you?”
“I am fine.”
“What about mother, sisters, brothers? How are they? Are they okay?”
“Yes, son, all of them are fine. I just missed your voice!”
I grinned, as my father isn’t in touch with his emotions. The man had never given me a hint of care, let alone love. I knew he had had it tough; even before shit skyrocketed. I asked, “Tell me how things are going? How are you getting by?”
“Really, things are good. Your brother left to go to Aleppo yesterday. Your sisters will take their high school exam next week. Your mother, Nyhad, and your sisters are in Der Al-Zoor. They left last week. You know ISIS banned girls’ education. I mean, they allow them only to study until the fifth grade.”
“I read their latest announcements. After the aerial attacks, I got worried.”
“Figured…”
“I read that five barrel bombs were dropped in the centre and to the east of the city. One of them was really close to where you're staying now. You tell me if anything happens! I don’t want to hear from somebody else, like when grandmother passed.”
“Don’t worry about us son, your worry is misplaced. See, we are really fine. Around the country people are putting up with things even I cannot even comprehend. We are fine, don’t worry son. Let’s hope that we wake up one day and the barbaric regime is gone along with the darkness that has overtaken the city and the region.”
My father probably just said that to spare me the churning thoughts. But it was the way he said it – he sounded so sincere, I knew he meant it! I have no idea how to explain it. The man was in deep shit; he cried every time he asked me for some cash. He had recently lost his nephews, mother, job, and was living by very humble means. I wondered how he could sympathise with the losses of others. It amused me that he weighed his hardships close to nothing, thinking about those more miserable. His misfortunes were not bargaining chips. He didn’t compete; he didn’t justify atrocities against Shiite, Alawite. Most of all, he didn’t mark himself with the brand of victimhood. He just wanted peace.
Chapter 2
The Leftover
A few magazines had been put on the side; two of them were on the seat of a chair. Scattered over the table were dog-eared copies of Time, Newsweek, and Bloomberg, all of them this week’s edition. My cup of coffee was in one hand and in the other I had the book, Mad as Hell. I was half way through. By the time I finished reading about the evolution of the Tea Party, I couldn’t focus any longer. I put my cup on the table and reached for my old backpack that was placed to my left on the ground. Its colours were faded and torn just above the main pocket’s zipper. I opened the front panel and put the book inside.
Gazing at the picture-perfect view from the café’s patio never failed to evoke old memories. As I studied the panoramic view of the island and its sea, a fragment of memory began to come back to me. I found myself back some twelve years ago. Vividly, I recalled standing on the pavement looking down at some fancy resort. Bassel and I were out for a walk after a long day at work. During my time in Beirut, I had come to look up to him. He was the handyman, the craft-master. Bassel had helped a woman from a town in the vicinity of Aleppo in getting a place, moving around, and securing a job. I knew he wanted to talk about her. Her name was Sara. Bassel told me all about her ordeal.
We lived with six other Syrian workers in a room on the top floor of an elderly Lebanese woman’s home. The room wasn’t large. There was no privacy; everybody was a part of everything going on under that roof. Bassel and I made a neighbourhood bench our home away from home. Actually by my current standards
, it was our home. That is to say, the place you enjoy peace of mind and comfort.
Not long before that day, he told me all about Sara. She was a petite woman with a pale face, sharp features, dark hair, and green-coloured eyes. Her family’s misfortune had forced her to leave school. To make ends meet, she worked at a minimarket. It was the only shop in town. Despite its size, you could manage to shop for anything there, from groceries to basic electrical appliances. Abo Mahmood, a distinguished man in the town, owned and ran the business. He was in his late forties. Once a week, he would go to Aleppo to purchase supplies for his shop. It was a successful business, considering. Abo Mahmood's customers were not limited to his town. Prior to his weekly trip, customers could order anything they needed or desired, from pharmaceuticals to electronics. For the special customers, even alcohol.
It was one of those hot summer days when she first met Ramez, the school’s assigned teacher. For newly graduated teachers, it’s mandatory to serve couple of years in a remote town. The young teacher became a regular customer of the Abo’s. Well, it was hard not to be. After all, it was the only minimarket for the town and its surroundings. For the sake of a conversation with Sara, the young teacher sometimes came to the shop only to get change for five Syrian pounds.
She knew of his affection. Five Syrian pounds change! Who was he fooling?! Sara did not realise that she felt something for Ramez until he stopped coming to the shop. During his week of absence, she noticed the pupils playing around the shop during school time. With the cheapest candy in the store, she approached a seven-year-old girl.
“Hey sweetie, close your eyes.”
The little girl closed her eyes, pursing her tiny lips strongly. “What is it?” she asked.
“I got you a treat,” Sara unwrapped the candy.
The little girl smilingly wondered aloud whether it was strawberry.
“Ooh, will mango do?”
“I love mango!” The little girl opened her mouth with her eyes still closed. Sara gently put the treat in the girl’s mouth. Chewing the gum-like candy, the little girl couldn’t hide her ear-to-ear grin. Looking at the girl, Sara was overjoyed and for few seconds forgot that she was bribing the young innocent. She placed her hands over the little girl’s straight red hair and kissed her on the forehead before proceeding.
“Sweetie, it’s Wednesday, why aren’t you at school?”
“Teacher Ramez is ill. We are off for the week.”
Sara was upset by the news. She went back to the shop and sat behind the desk. Anxiously she moved around the shop trying to do anything to keep her mind busy. Abo Mahmood couldn’t help but notice her distracted state. Turning a fruit container upside down, she made a seat for herself in the corner of the shop, just by the pile of second-hand clothes. Quietly she sat like a sad child. For Abo Mahmood, it reminded him of the silent treatment his son used to do back in the day, when he wanted a toy or more allowance. He decided to break the ice.
“Sara, is everything okay? Is your father okay? What is it, my child?”
Ashamed and scared to reveal her affection she tried to keep to herself. As Abo Mahmood’s endeavours failed to cheer her up, he brought her her favourite ice cream.
“No, no! I don’t want it,” Sara muttered. He lifted his arm a little bit and spun his hands while his lips thinned, displaying some disappointment and sadness. Sara considered Abo Mahamood a father figure. Her own mother had passed when she was four and her father lost his sight after an accident in the cement factory, last year. Since her mother died, he seldom talked to her. He wasn’t around much and she didn’t know much about him.
In that patriarchal town, having feelings was a sin. Sara wanted to tell Abo Mahmood but her fear of disappointing him kept her from venting.
Sara’s situation reminded me of the sad violin soundtrack typical of a Syrian series. Thinking about it in that moment, I saw through some of the cheap and deceptive means of conditioning through my country’s controlled media. A variety of sad tones that could bring sadness to even Pharrell singing Happy. I recalled all the scenes whenever a girl was swayed by a guy, the fucking sickening music would go on and on. Somehow, it reinforced the fucked-up twisted taboo of dating. It didn’t take a psychologist to associate the torturing sound with an attempt to induce shame and guilt to female viewers. Hypocritical as it sounds, Syria’s Channels One and Two were notably incongruent on the issue. Channel Two was in English. One might safely argue that in one way or another, the language of Channel One could increase patriarchy. However, a male main character was approached in a totally opposite way. Just the good old double-standard of the deeply-rooted and fucked-up value system.
Abo Mahmood, in his turn, considered Sara like the daughter he never had. He sat behind his wooden desk and kept looking at Sara. He even went behind the cashier’s desk to do the work Sara hadn’t bothered to do. Abo Mahmood took a plastic bag and put in some tomatoes, cucumbers, eggplants, onions, potatoes, and a five hundred gram bag of cooking oil. In a smaller bag, he put some biscuits, chocolates, and ice cream. The vegetables were not fresh, two days old. He headed toward his downcast assistant, tapped her on the shoulder and said, “My child, please take the rest of the day off.”
“It is only eleven; we just opened!”
“You are of no help to me like this. Please get yourself together and come back tomorrow.”
“God bless you Abo Mahmood,” Sara said with a doleful grin as she took the bags and headed out of the shop.
Her town was small, the kind where everybody knows everybody. She walked aimlessly for around fifteen minutes before she sat at the edge of some pavement. Ramez has nobody to take care of him and attend to his needs, she thought. The poor man might be hungry; he could be seriously ill, she kept wondering before she made up her mind to pay him a visit. His rented abode was on the outskirts of the town. Reluctantly, she stood by the old wooden door before collecting enough courage and strength to raise her little hand and knock.
“Come in, come in!”
Sara froze for a few seconds. She hadn’t planned to go in. The thought of somebody seeing her kept her from entering. The idea of going in seemed akin to grasping the forbidden fruit, expelling mankind down from heaven. Hoping Ramez would spare her from this sin, she knocked again.
“Come in; it is open. Please just come in.”
“It could be really bad, he could be too weak to open the door,” she mumbled to herself. She stood by the door for a while, before making her way in.
“Sara! I didn’t know it was you.” He put a jacket on his shoulders as he graciously invited her to take the only seat in the one-room house. “I am sorry for the mess. If I only knew you were coming, I would have made some arrangements. Are you comfortable? Can I get you some tea? Coffee, perhaps?”
“No, no! I didn’t mean to inconvenience you. I am sorry, I didn’t. How are you feeling? Just go back to your bed. Have you eaten anything?”
“I am getting better, but not out of the woods yet. Actually, I haven’t eaten anything.”
“Please let me prepare something. Just let me know what you have so I can fix you a meal.”
“Should I go to Abo Mahmood to get you stuff for cooking?”
“No, no! As it happens, I’ve brought you a little something. I’ll cook for you an upside down vegetable mix.” It might not have been the ideal meal to serve an ill person, nevertheless, it was the only dish she could have prepared, given the ingredients to hand.
Ignoring his distaste for this oily meal, Ramez enthusiastically replied, “That’s my favourite!”
“I am glad to hear it. Just lie on your bed and let me do the rest. Try to sleep, if you can.”
“I’ll try.”
Sara gave Ramez a gracious smile as she moved toward the stove. It took her a while to find her way around the space designated for cooking. She started by peeling, cutting, and marinating the potatoes and eggplants before throwing them piece by piece into the sizzling oil. She placed them on a plate fu
ll of papers to dry. As the tomato sauce started to boil, she emptied the plate of fried potatoes and eggplants inside and mixed them gently, so they didn’t lose their shape. She looked around trying to find something. She covered the pot and lit the fire before placing an outdoor rug at the foot of his bed.
Sara touched Ramez on his forehead with two fingers and moved them toward his left eyebrow, leaning in so she was only a breath away from him.
“Wake up Ramez, lunch is almost ready!”
Ramez opened his eyes quickly to pay his gratitude. “Thank you, Thank you! I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”
“Don’t worry about it, please sit here on the rug; you can lean your back against the bed so you don’t feel tired.” Sara said as she moved toward the stove. She turned it off and filled a large plate.
“I didn’t add much salt. Would you like more?”
“No! This is great.”
Sara took the plate and placed on the ground as she said, “It is getting late; I’d better go. This should be enough for today. I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon. Would you like me to cook you something in particular? Maybe, chicken soup?”
“No need to bother yourself.”
“Don’t talk like that. I will take care of you. I have to. Now, I have to leave.”
“Please join me.”
“I cannot, I have to leave. I’ll come tomorrow.”
Sara moved closer to Ramez and kissed him on his left cheek without laying a hand on him. As she moved toward the door with a pleasant grin, “Take care of yourself,” she said. With her back against the door, she looked at him as she parted. In her state of euphoria, she did not notice the pedestrians until she glimpsed the disgust in their eyes.
“What were you doing there, whore?” a man in his fifties shouted.
She froze. It was a fight or flight kind of thing. For several moments, she just looked them in the eyes. As she stood, trying and failing to think of an excuse for her “unforgivable sin”, let alone a defensive word, she was interrupted with one of the men displaying his utmost revulsion. Loudly, he spat on the brown soil instilling in her a mixture of guilt and fear. Suddenly she felt clammy, and as she looked down to her left side, noticed she was dragging one foot before the other with a weakness she had never experienced before. Several paces away from them, Sara’s lumbering changed into a stomp. From a distance, a now weeping Sara could see her father sitting on the porch of their house.
An Ishmael of Syria Page 2