An Ishmael of Syria

by Asaad Almohammad

  Over that cigarette I asked Jamal about his research progress. His answer was detailed, giving me more information than I cared to know. Chemistry was never my thing. Observing Mike and Daniel coming toward our table, I felt relieved as I could finally bring his lecture to an end. My German friend Mike was very close to Daniel. Mike called Daniel “The mayor of expats’ companions.” He was Norwegian. Daniel claimed that there was an art to being an unemployed companion.

  Daniel laughingly asked “Adam, what’s wrong with your friend?”

  “You mean from yesterday? Is it Mustafa?”

  “I don’t know his name, but yeah, the one from yesterday.”

  “Oh yeah, he is a homophobe!”

  “What happened?” Mike enquired.

  “Mustafa and I were sitting at that table,” I pointed to one by the corner. “Two ladies then came and took that corner table. They were transgendered Malays. Mustafa freaked out! He kept looking over his shoulder as though they would rape him. I didn’t want to move to another table but he took my cup along to the one at the far corner away from where the ladies sat. I guess there was some sort of an event yesterday. A few minutes after we had changed our seats, the patio was full of transgender people. Mustafa couldn’t get why some people go through sex reassignment surgery; he would readily deny them the identity they desired.”

  “He didn’t notice the new ladies behind him as he was preoccupied by his fear of the two sitting at the far end of the patio. I asked him why was he scared and what he thought they would do to him. He didn’t admit his fear. Instead, he said that they were disgusting and unclean. However, I knew he was paranoid so I decided to press him, asking if he’d feel dirty surrounded by transgender people. He said absolutely! I continued pressing to see if he felt unclean at that moment. He claimed that he didn’t feel that way because we were far enough away from them. So I thought, fuck that homophobe. I didn’t know how he would react if he realised that the patio was packed with transgender people. I knew he would be frightened but couldn’t anticipate what action he would take. So I pointed out that while everybody in the patio was transgender he still didn’t feel unclean. That was the moment Daniel was heading into to the café. Mustafa looked at the rest of the people on the patio. He looked back at me. Then, he stood up and looked at me again. He was speechless. One of the ladies looked him in the eyes and flirted, ‘How are you handsome?’ I have to say it was funny studying his facial expression and his process of dealing with fear. In the end, he mustered all the strength he could manage, stomped a couple of paces before tripping over his own feet. Everybody laughed, including me.”

  Mike and Daniel giggled as Jamal added, “Gays are disgusting…”

  I interrupted, “I don’t get it. What is it about gays that disgusts you?”

  “I don’t know. Two men having sex is unnatural. It is disgusting!”

  I started, “You don’t know…”

  Jamal interrupted, “I finished my military service before the American occupation, right after college. We had to spend a few months in training camp. There was a young pretty guy who had his training with us. You know there are no women and furlough was banned during training. Three big cadets befriended the pretty boy. They lured him to go with them somewhere. They fucked him in the ass. Before the training phase finished, he committed suicide. It’s better for a gay to kill himself; if he were my son, I would kill him.”

  With my face resembling the typical expression of Robert De Niro, I turned to Daniel and Mike. Then for moments, still wearing that face, I stared at Jamal as though to ask, “Why? What? How?” I placed my arm on Jamal’s shoulder and said, “That’s fucked-up man! Where do I start? Let me see. The three guys fucked the pretty boy… Shit man, I really don’t know where to start. They raped him, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fuck that shit. So you don’t know whether or not he was gay.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “How come?”

  “He will be gay!”

  “Is it because he was raped?”

  “Yes. I read a study that guys who get raped end up being homosexual.”

  “What?! That’s fucking stupid. I have been hearing of that half-assed study for ages. I actually tried to find it and I had no luck. However, since you seem to have read it, may I get the title?”

  “Actually, I heard about it.”

  “Oh, now you just heard about it! So let me be blunt here, there is no such a study. You might’ve heard of it but that is no proof. On the off chance that there is yet another one of those studies that give idiots a free pass to ignorance, how do you know it’s reliable? You know it doesn’t matter. I thought you were explaining to me your disgust of gays…”

  Jamal broke in, “Yes. Gays bring shame on their family. Two men having sex is disgusting and against our beliefs and social values. If my son was gay, I would spare my family the shameful and undignified living.”

  Daniel breached, “There are treatments for homosexuality…”

  I interjected, “Do you mean some sort of hormone treatment?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I have a lot of gay friends. But yeah, some course of hormone-based and behavioural therapy.”

  “So, did you tell your ‘lot of gay friends’ about it?”

  “No man, that’s rude!”

  “Rude because it isn’t right?”

  “I don’t know man.”

  I turned to Jamal and I said, “The guy from your military training was a victim. I, for one, believe the way our region treats victims of rape, be it men or women, is something to be ashamed of. It is more humiliating than some Stone Age tradition that tells you what you can and cannot be. Punishing victims in the name of honour! How fucking nonsensical is that? It just sounds ludicrous! Back to the main issue, which is of course your dis of gays. I have a number of questions here. I don’t want you to go off topic….”

  “Can I say something first,” Jamal pleaded.

  “Sure!”

  “My father’s friend recently came back from the UK. His son moved there in 2003. Obida was his son’s name. He wanted to resettle his father over there, as his mother had passed and he was an only child. However, Obida lived with a black nigger! His father kept telling him that he should ask the housemate to move out. You cannot feel comfortable around blacks. After a while his son told him that the black nigger was his partner and that he loved him. His father was humiliated and devastated. That’s very tragic! Not only he is gay, he is in love with a black nigger too.”

  “I don’t know which is more tragic; your racism or your homophobia. You would rather kill your son than accept what should be within his right…”

  “Talk is cheap! What if it was your brother or son?”

  “I have no kids. But I assure you that if that happened to me, it wouldn’t change a thing. It is not my life, not my choice. Foremost, I won’t dictate what kind of life he or she might choose to lead…”

  “You know our society…”

  “I do. In fact, I acknowledge it as an obstacle, but not an obstacle for me. Look, killing is too extreme. Let me reason through some other options. As a father yourself, I assume you want the best for your children. You desire their success and happiness. Maybe you want them to have a better life than yours. But you need to consider that they will make choices and decisions you might not approve of. None of us is right all the time. I know it would be fucking hell for them to lead any sort of life in our region, should they be gays or lesbians. Nonetheless, it’s their life and being a parent doesn’t give anybody the right to imprison her or his kids in a pretentious life, a miserable life. If her or his wellbeing, livelihood, and happiness are what you are concerned about, then killing them isn’t the answer. If it’s an overwhelming societal battle that your kid wants to fight, which is what it would be if they stayed in Iraq, support them. If they want an easier time of it, facilitate your kid’s exit strategy. If you don’t have what it takes, try to strengthen your spi
ne. If you cannot take it, tell your kid to leave that shithole. But whatever the case, please don’t kill your kid.”

  “Did you believe that I would kill my kid? Do you think I am that kind of animal?”

  “I certainly hope not.”

  “I think advising them to leave the region is the best choice. It might not be something they can control. Maybe it’s biological.”

  “Whatever brings you peace. But no killing please!”

  “Hahaha, okay, okay, no killing.”

  Mike, Daniel and I kept chanting, “No killing please, no killing please, no killing please.” The fourth time around Jamal started chanting too. On our way out I asked him, “Do you know that gay means happy?” Shocked he exclaimed, “What?!”

  **********

  It was 2012. Yamen told me that he was bringing over to the café his new roommate, a guy from my town. This be would the first time I was to meet Sami. Bob and I were talking theology before the guys made it to the patio. After the introduction, I didn’t say much; I merely listened. The guys asked him a few questions; I didn’t feel the need to say anything. Sami’s language was vulgar and he was easily agitated. He told a lot of tales; mostly about the conflict. He often reminded us that it’s hard for us to know what’s really happening in Syria as, being in Malaysia, we are so far removed. The first time he said this, I let it slide. The second time I still just kept it to myself. Sami then claimed that love is childish and he wasn’t in high school. He said that he wanted to marry a woman who he had only talked to five times over the phone! Then, that became three dates and nine calls. My thoughts go out to her; whoever she might be, I truly sympathise. After three years of my conditioning him, he won’t marry without love. His latest version of the now old love story was that they stayed together for over a year. In Syria for over a year, you must be kidding me!

  The third time he repeated the mantra that we were not there and had no idea what was going on in the country it consumed all of my patience - it was the way he assumed a lecturing position. He would always drift from some half-assed tales to teaching us politics 101. Irritated, I couldn’t hold it in any longer and stopped him, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you said that you don’t believe in love?”

  “Yes. I am twenty-five.”

  “I know your age now. But how do you make such a claim without having been in a relationship? Of course you can love from a distance but you haven’t had a real relationship ever. A few calls are not a relationship. Maybe she is not the one!”

  “Love comes after marriage.”

  “So love is not only for children.”

  “There are steps. Everybody lies and when they marry, you know it. I am sure you realise that. You have been outside Syria so long that you have forgotten who you are.”

  “Ah, I see. I wouldn’t marry somebody that I doubted, let alone without knowing that person to start with. Forget about that. I want you to clarify something to me; if you don’t mind of course.”

  “What?”

  “I will take that as a yes. So you were arrested right?”

  “I was in a demonstration in Ar-Raqqa and got arrested.”

  “Right! So Yamen told me that you’ve been here for nine months. The first demonstration in Ar-Raqqa was a month ago. Did you really get arrested?”

  “I don’t lie. I got arrested. You think the news is always right. You haven’t been there so you don’t know. And I didn’t say it happened in Ar-Raqqa…”

  “Sure. Of course it didn’t happen in Ar-Raqqa. You don’t need to speak so loud. You need to calm down…”

  “You come down.”

  “You mean calm down. It’s C.A.L.M.”

  “You are loud. What is this Yamen?”

  “Okay man. You keep repeating that we don’t know what’s happening over there because we are, well, not there. Are you superman?”

  “What?!”

  “I will take that as a no. Otherwise, I would ask you to end the unrest and bring the villains to justice. But you are not. So let me be clear. You know what happens in your household only if you are there. You can only see as much as you are witness to. You don’t have super vision or any abnormal ability. When you were in Ar-Raqqa, you heard the same news about Darra, we heard about it here. Nonetheless, it’s February and you have already been here for nine months. The uprising started on the fifteenth of March, 2011. It went violent around July of 2011. Two months after you left…”

  “No…”

  “Take it easy man. You are right… Not actually, but you need to calm down.”

  Sami didn’t say a word for a few minutes. I changed the subject, “Let me get you a drink. Where are my Raqqan manners?!” No thanks received of course. He just asked me where the sugar was. I pointed to the table by the door. When he came back, I noted, “Sami it is nothing personal. It’s just a discussion. We discuss this way.”

  He studied my face before he asked, “Do you know Hasan Akruma?”

  I replied, “Yes we were…”

  “He was killed a few months before I left Ar-Raqqa.”

  **********

  With the stigma around drinking in old Ar-Raqqa, I sought friends’ places to get my occasional sip. Faysal’s apartment was my hangout during the winter of 2007. I was his senior. After a glass or two, he’d trash my whole city from our cultural heritage to our current fashion trends. He was from a coastal city. And well, Ar-Raqqa was labelled as a city of backwardness among Syrians from other cities. I often heard that predisposed perception by other Syrians. That is, people in Ar-Raqqa reside in tents and commute using camels. The thing is, I never saw a camel. Compared to other cites, Ar-Raqqa was average; neither the richest nor the poorest; neither the most liberal nor the most conservative; neither the most nor the least developed.

  Faysal was in love with this girl from college. He had a funny way showing it though. Huda wasn’t dumb, ugly, or a whore; three words he commonly reduced her to. She was really fucking sexy, smart, and elegant. Her father was some public official in the city. Whenever Faysal had had too much to drink, his affection toward her couldn’t have been clearer and she obviously loved him too. But one cold night, Huda messaged me, inviting me to meet with her. I told Faysal that I was going to see some lady friend. She told me to come over as she was home alone babysitting her brother’s kids. By the time I got to her place, the kids were already asleep.

  Thinking about it now, having sex scared is quite satisfactory. Maybe, having it under such conditions made it more sensational. On top of me, I demanded, “Can you call your folks? It’s getting late and I am afraid…”

  “Don’t worry,” she assured me. Her mother had told her that it would take her no less than an hour to be home. Sweet, I thought. She had the most amazing ass I ever seen. I had the pleasure of watching her get me an ashtray from the living room. Lying down by my side she asked, “Adam, do husbands give their wives oral sex?”

  “I am not sure, but from what I’ve heard no!”

  “Why?”

  “I think it has to do with some idiotic cultural connotation. Somehow, guys I talked to find it shameful.”

  “Are you shameless?”

  “I don’t think so. I just give a good head”

  She cracked up, “You think so?”

  “Huda, can I ask you something?”

  “I like that you ask if you can ask. Of course!”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I like what we have but I am wondering about something. You can deny it, but you and I know it’s true. You and Faysal have feelings to each other; it’s clear. Why don’t you both…”

  “Both what?”

  “Have sex!”

  “It goes without saying that you and I have no potential.”

  “Please go on.”

  “My family wouldn’t accept you. You come from that part of the city. Your family doesn’t even own a place.”

  “Okay. Not that I am proposing, but what about you?”
<
br />   “I am sorry but you cannot afford the living I am used to.”

  “Fair enough! But then why are you having sex with me while you are in love with someone else?”

  “A guy in this country would never marry a girl he can have. With you, I know there are no expectations. It also takes ages between the time you get engaged to getting married.”

  “But your future husband will know that you are not virgin.”

  “Not actually. I have a plan. Have you heard of hymenorrhaphy?”

  “Yeah of course. Smart thinking.”

  On my way out, I saw Edrees. He knew I’d seen him, but I pretended to be oblivious. I moved a few paces away, but couldn’t help turn round when he shouted my name. “Fuck,” I muttered. I was scared that he would tell. I think he was visiting somebody in the neighbourhood as his family could in no way afford a square metre in that part of the city. “Adam,” he kept repeating my name. “Edrees,” I replied. We kissed on the cheeks, “It has been ages,” I said.

  “Yes it has been”

  “Are you busy? Do you care for a stroll?”

  “I am not actually.”

  “I am craving for a lamb’s tongue sandwich. Please join me!”

  “Sure, why not? I actually want to thank you.”

  “Thank me for what?”

  “If it wasn’t for you and Hasan, I wouldn’t have finished the seventh grade.”

  “It’s nothing…”

  “No it’s not. You guys stopped everybody from bullying me.”

  “School was full of mean kids.”

  “You were both good guys. You were very strong. Thank you.”

  “I don’t know about good and strong but it was the least I could do. Speaking of which, I lost touch with almost everybody from secondary school. How is Hasan by the way?”