An Ishmael of Syria

by Asaad Almohammad

  Looking at Dalia, Adam remembered his friend and ran to warn him of the Metraq’s arrival. He pushed the door slowly, looking at the tiled floor. He noticed the knife and the streams of blood, almost two steps from the knife. There was too much blood. Looking at his friend trapped underneath the aggressor and the slow streams of blood emerging from Zain’s nose and head, the petrified Adam froze. Standing there, the child felt the heaviness of the inhaled and exhaled air, while observing the back of the assailant and the side of his friend’s face. Adam’s eyes went dead and his legs slowly dragged him to the knife. The rapist was preoccupied; unaware of the child who was holding the knife just a few steps to the right and a couple steps behind him.

  Adam moved toward the rapist with the knife in an ice pick grip. At a breath away from the aggressor’s back he attacked, stabbing twice above the collar bone. The surprised brute straightened his back, turning towards Adam. The knife hadn’t cut very deep. He threw the child a strong punch. Holding the knife while buckling his belt, he noticed a man standing by the open door and made a dart, pushing Ahmad to the ground. He jumped over the concrete fence and kept running. Ahmed hadn’t noticed Zain’s head but he recognised the gruesome scene of rape and saw the bruises around Adam’s left eye. He rushed to the veranda, closing the door. Adam heard Ahmad blurting, “Thief, thief, thief, thief!” before he re-entered and closed the door.

  Adam’s memories of the event grew fuzzy over the years. Some parts of it more than others. Even at the age of thirty-one he could still vividly recall Zain’s mother moaning over her son. The woman keened over him with no care of the ancestral noise of her deepest grief. Her confused eyes and the way she pulled out her hair had haunted Adam for years. There wasn’t anything left to be saved and, thus, nothing seemed worth repressing. She wailed without whimpering. The way she fiercely pushed Ahmed, trying to get to her son to hold him, left a deep scar in Adam’s memory.

  Days passed and Adam didn’t leave the house. He didn’t say a word. He only ate and stared at the empty courtyard from the living room. His parents tried but failed to provoke him to break his silence, until the day his father brought ice cream. It was a kind of a family tradition; Hazem would buy a lot of ice cream late at night and Warda would get two spoons for each. They would finish it all. That night, Adam didn’t join them. He sat and observed the smoke his father had exhaled. With a confused expression, Adam suddenly enquired, “Why he shouted a thief?” Warda jumped on her feet and seated herself next to her son. She put her right hand on his thigh and rubbed it in support. The child looked her up and down and studied the movement of her hand for few moments. Her hollow-eyed child gave her a dead look, and moved her hand off his thigh. In a flat voice, “I am okay,” he said. Something about the way he looked at her, or the way he sounded, or the way he rejected her support elicited grief in his mother. Her brimming eyes wept, mourning the loss of her son’s childhood innocence. With the dangling ends of her scarf, she dried her falling tears. She stared at her husband who thinned his lips and closed eyes as he shook his head from the right to the left and then to the right again. From that day onward, Warda associated that signal with helplessness in the face of the deepest of loss.

  Hazem mirthlessly grinned, “Who shouted ‘thief’, son?”

  “Ahmad.”

  “Oh, that!’ He thinned his lips and continued, “Son, it is complicated. Son, we live in an ocean of shit. Ahmad is a good man! Smart too! Son, beyond our ocean and some seas of dirt, just above the surface of faeces and urine, there is a world of civilized creatures. Physically, they are indistinguishable from us. Out there they have two words that are beyond the realm of our comprehension. Sympathy and empathy! Sympathy and empathy, son! These evolved creatures experience regret for others’ misfortunes and hardships; they don’t have to experience the pain but still they show sympathy. Son, some even imagine themselves or their beloved ones in the same situation; they put themselves in the shoes of those cursed with sufferings, so to speak; they don’t only regret what victims might have endured but also, willingly simulate victims’ experiences, anticipating and feeling their emotional states. Out there, those who lack such abilities are called names. Psychopaths!” Hazem fixated at his lit cigarette end sighing out the inhaled smoke. His irises moved up studying Adam’s face. Hazem was not sure whether his son was comprehending what he was saying or had lost interest before he added, “You all know a guy who was raped in this swamp of shit. They call him, ‘Damaged Ass’. A name the kids in the neighbourhood shout, bullying him. Everybody laughs at him, even you, Adam! Children and adults, alike, name and shame the poor teenager. Ar-Raqqa isn’t known for any sense of empathy. In the dearth of sympathy, preying on victims of sexual abuse starts at the moment of assault and follows the survivors to their grave. It changes everything. It makes them unfortunate, outcasts; nothing but victims.”

  Part III

  Chapter 10

  The Technique

  A mixture of helplessness and anger had become the usual bedfellow of my morning routine. Quite often, it had been a struggle to arise from under the thin covers. I always found refuge in my first cigarette. As I inhaled the smoke, eyes to the ceiling fan, my worries would begin. Reading the news with little energy or hope amplified my sense of helplessness. Admittedly at some subliminal level, I was still a naïve little boy. My highly unsophisticated idealistic subconscious rekindled certain emotions. Beyond my conscious control, my nose flared, my lips pursed and thinned, while my cheekbones and mouth rose as my chin quivered. Staring back at the ceiling fan, a subtle a sense of defensiveness and a forced smirk dissipated all my anger. Letting go of my childhood-entitled fury, I started my holistic process of political, economic, and cultural analyses of the news headlines.

  Pushing my elbows against the bed, or to be exact against the mildly painful metal springs, I felt its resistance. As I exhaled, I felt a rush of blood that forced a minor erection.

  “Not today”, I muttered. Pushing the rest of the thin cover off, I stood up looking at the window, noticing the construction workers on a site close by. I always wondered whether they could see my total nakedness. In few steps, I reached the bathroom sink. After I finished the morning ritual of taking a leak, washing my hands, washing my face, brushing my teeth, and washing my face again, I put on my old pants and walked out to the living room. For some reason I was unaware of, I kept forgetting something in my room, so I kept going back and forth until finally I fetched my laptop and placed it on the small table. After reading all the news on BBC, CNN, and Al Jazeera, I turned to Facebook to read more news.

  “It is almost 10.00 a.m., fuck I hate that shit,” I mumbled. I was supposed to meet Professor Nora at eleven. Not long ago, I became her ghost author. I had managed to finish her year-long project in a couple of months. Fuck poverty! I only earned three hundred dollars out of her sixty thousand dollar project. Her current grant was even bigger. I had already finished two articles in less than a month. Over many emails, she’d made it clear that I was unworthy of being paid even the minimum wage. My last work had been published in a reputable journal. The latest manuscripts were even better.

  It was barely fifty cents per hour. Somebody from the right demographic would be paid nine hundred a month for publishing only two articles a year. I don’t know what she was expecting. I’d finished them in a month. Sighing heavily, I was reminded by my father’s lifelong saying: fairness is a childish concept.

  **********

  I was feeling angry. Outraged, actually! I figured it had not been a good idea to go to the café. I knew I wouldn't be able to do any writing. I was about to ride my bike back home when I felt a vibration in my pocket. Getting my phone out, I recalled I was supposed to be meeting my buddy, Mike for a cup of coffee. Looking at the screen, I muttered “Of course!”

  “Hey dude, it is twelve-thirty. I’m already in Starbucks. Where’re you at? It sounds noisy around you.”

  “I’m sorry, man. I’ll be there in no time. Again
, I am sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I want to buy an HD cable. Call me once you get here.”

  “Sure thing. See you soon.”

  I knew that I should’ve ridden my bike to the shopping mall. However for some reason I parked it and sat on the corner edge of the pavement. My elbows anchored on my thighs just above my knees. My back bent like an old man without the strength to straighten up. The palms of my hands covered my cheeks and my fingers were in front of my eyes. I noticed that somebody had spat on the road, just by my right foot. Nothingness! I zoned out, sighing. I remained in that state for around ten minutes.

  Recalling my meeting with Professor Nora, “Fuck that shit,” I murmured with a mirthless grin. I knew it was time to go. It took me around fifteen minutes to reach my destination. In a small alley around a dozen Chinese restaurants’ back exits, I parked my bike and handed the guard the fare. The scent of rotten chicken could be a cure for obsessive appetite. I was stood corrected though, as I caught a glimpse of the foreign workers taking their lunch by the dumpsters of that putrid alley. I exhaled fully to purge myself of the smell.

  Walking from one end of the mall to the other took me a few minutes. Finally, I caught a glimpse of the barista’s Pan Am Welcoming Smile.

  “How are you sir,” she asked with a saccharine-sweet smile. Making eye contact I said, “I am no sir. Nevertheless, I am fine, thank you. What about you?” As though her programmer had forgotten to wire her with an intelligent reply function, she proceeded to ask for my choice of beverage.

  “Three shots of espresso, a glass of room-temperature water and a tall-size Americano”, Mike jumped in, placing his hand on my left shoulder.

  Looking up, due to the height difference, I smiled, “You know me well buddy! I apologise for my lack of punctuality. As they say in my town, an Arab is never on time. It is on me man.”

  “How are you?”

  “I have been better. Yourself?”

  “I am fine. Our diving trip was amazing. Would you like to see?” Without further ado, Mike started to show me the pictures on his phone. The locals seemed as though they were taking a part in a “Free the Nipple” campaign. The photos were like the ones people use as desktop backgrounds. Strangely, I had no interest whatsoever in the subject, though I thought it would be polite to enquire about the details of the trip. Things like the locations, attractions, and the like. Mike was excited to answer my questions, giving me a lot of unnecessary details. He looked overjoyed to be sharing his good experiences, even the difficulties. Over the course of his tales, my verbal and non-verbal gestures conveyed nothing but interest.

  Trying to keep my cool, I felt the urge to smoke. I stood up and looked toward the patio before asking, “Would you like to smoke? Second-hand smoking, of course!”

  “Ha, ha of course!”

  Mike followed his prolonged tales by enquiring about my wellbeing. I wanted to reply, I had what might qualify as a bad day. I guess you are aware that I am a researcher of some sort. Researcher on demand! Fuck that shit! Instead, I tried to repress my obvious fury. I had the urge to clarify, a number of incapable and lazy-assed lecturers and students pay me to write articles of their choice. See, poor people don’t have many choices; we do what we have to do. I wished I could’ve cut the foreplay and confessed that I worked as a ghost author. I was about to spit it out and explain, among my clients, I am known for being fast. What takes an average researcher months to finish, I do in weeks; sometimes just a matter of days. For that reason, researchers, in fact mainly professors, have been hiring me to finish their year-long projects in no longer than three months; sometimes, in only few days. One time, I had to finish a book chapter in two days; the submission was within the assigned deadline. It’s been a dry season and I felt sufficient desperation to take one of my worst clients back. I had a meeting with her this morning. Courtesy of service providers like me, the fraud has moved to a bigger office. It might sound rich, coming from me, but I had to wait thirty minutes because one of her Malay students decided to visit her during our designated appointment. It is all about priorities! Her student also happened to be one of her ‘co-authors’. She did not even do the submission herself. You gotta be loyal to your own, I guess. For a long time I have been consumed with libertarianism. I thought entitlement and privileged treatment only led to laziness. But who am I to judge? I am only a cheap ghost author. The funny thing is, her student gets paid for doing absolutely nothing. Actually, demographics matter!

  I pushed my back against the chair splat, straightening up, and inhaled the smoke as my head faced the ceiling of the smoking area. I had to say something. Mike was studying me, expecting a story.

  In my head I argued, see the thing is, I am not the victimising type. Anyways, I have to admit that it has been tough recently. As you know, back in my home country things couldn’t be more tragic; too many people have died and the butcher's knife is sharper than ever. The societal fabric of my country is very much decimated. As somebody put it, the country has become a bitter cocktail of tyrannical brutality, communal sectarianism, and terrorism. I can’t even start to imagine how impossible life has become… my family is going through a tough time. The toughest I can imagine! With that in mind, I have to attend to their needs, although I am not in a good situation myself. I am facing many difficulties as it is. Nothing compared to what they go through on daily basis, of course. Despite the fact that my father likes to believe otherwise, their ultimate achievement has been to stay alive. I remember once asking him about how shitty things really were. To that question he responded that there were those who have been suffering more. He recounted the ordeals of some of the millions across the country who had it worse. God forbid, father pleaded, fearing the loss of one of my siblings. What frightened him the most was the off chance of any of them getting radicalised. In the face of that fucking calamity, I would tell him to be realistic and that there is no god! He always laughs things off. For in a life of misery, one has to maintain some sense of normality.

  As you see, I had to be there for them. I mean, in a material sense. However, I am penniless come the fifteenth of the month. Being somebody’s ghost author has so far been the only way to secure extra cash. But again, even during peak seasons, it is not enough. I hate doing it! But fuck that shit, being poor has stripped me from being at peace, constantly having to go against my so-called ethical code. That said, I’ve had to make peace with it. After all, I wouldn’t do this for myself. I am supporting a family living through the worst humanitarian crisis of the twenty-first century. It is wrong but I can’t afford right. And by doing this, I am hurting myself the most. I have to let go of any sense of recognition, leaving me with just the guilt of crossing the lines of my ethical code.

  You see the accident of birth counts for something. I accept who I am. I accept my situation. That way, I can get shit done. I could’ve cornered myself and licked my wounds until the cows came home. However, with that chip on my shoulder, I’d have chosen to swim against the current of shit. This way I knew there’d be fewer nights that my family would go to sleep hungry. It is all about perspective! Be the self-loathing villain or be the righteous victim. Dare you try to be both and you’ll end up consumed by fighting yourself against yourself. You would definitely lose touch with reality and end up in a limbo of some sort. You would end up licking your wounds until cows starved to death. You would lose all the battles and be destined to lose the war.

  Instead of arguing the raison d’etre behind my agitation, I used my technique. Answering one of the universe’s most deceiving questions has been very tricky. The three-worded question of, “How are you?” implies that the person saying it is interested in a sincere answer. I knew better than allowing Mike to open that Pandora’s Box. I remember telling him, I have been better.

  There was something about the look in his eyes that urged me to come up with something wordier. I regarded Mike highly. It was the way he carried himself. I couldn’t recall a time he had ever made a
racial remark. The way he took care of his wife always amused me. I remembered the time when our Norwegian friend labelled Hitler a strong leader. Mike went bananas on him. As a German, he did not hide the national sensitivity of the subject, let alone, Hitler’s evil doings. He’d also taken my side on multiple occasions. I recalled the time he even supported my take on homophobes.

  Mike noted, “You look off man! Is there something wrong?”

  Looking him in the eyes, the lies came naturally, “Emm, I wouldn’t say I had a good day. I guess you noticed the green lines on my laptop screen.”

  “Yes. You told me that it is still under warranty.”

  “It is actually.”

  “Why don’t you take it to the service centre?”

  “That’s what I was trying to say. I went this morning. It is so fucked up.”

  “What happened?”

  It started to get busy at the café’s smoking area. Around the mall there were few banks and offices. The industrial zone was a ten-minute drive. The café got very crowded during lunchtime. The noise often become annoying. I didn’t know why some parents kept bringing their toddlers along to that not-so-spacious area. As I noticed the flow of customers, I asked Mike “Would you like a walk outside the mall?”

  Mike happily welcomed the idea and stood up, “Of course! I really need to exercise more. I am putting on some weight.”

  “I don’t know whether that counts as exercising. You should come with me to the gym.”

  “Ha, ha. I should. My wife keeps telling me to tag along with you.”

  “Please do, brother. It is good for your back.”

  During our walk out of the mall, Mike said, “Please keep going.” I was thinking it over. Exhaling the smoke of the newly-lit cigarette from my nose, “I don’t want to bore you with all the blah blah blah,” I said. He grinned, “I am really interested, please go on!” Looking into his eyes I muttered, “Alright.”