by Samar Yazbek
M. stops talking here, and stares straight ahead. Then, all of a sudden, he says, “By the way, they weren’t tear gas canisters. It was nerve gas.”
He stops talking for a second time and I wait for him to continue but he remains silent.
“Then what happened?” I ask.
“The notable figure, who had been part of the nationalist current in the sixties, emphatically said they weren’t armed, that they didn’t have any armed gangs among them – contrary to what the regime claimed – and while I was talking with them, there was an ‘alarm’, and an ‘alarm’ is when there is a call to save demonstrators who are being attacked by the security forces. I took my camera and went out with them. Everything I’m telling you is backed up with pictures. When a thirteen-year-old boy threw a big rock from up on the roof onto the ground to break it into smaller stones that could be used against the security forces, the demonstrators shouted at him and scolded him, because what he was doing was violent and they only wanted peaceful demonstrations. I went out with them and started filming. By that stage, France 24 and the BBC had been expelled. They asked me who I was. The notable figure told them, “He’s with me.” That was the password and the people protected me themselves. I told them I wanted to be with them. I didn’t want any protection. I conducted a lot of interviews during the demonstrations, which I still have. The main point the demonstrators talked about was their pain and frustration at the president of the republic. After all the killing and the bloodshed in Dar‘a, he had paid a visit to nearby Suwayda but never mentioned the blood of the martyrs. One demonstrator told me, “We are the ones who protect Bashar al-Assad, not the security services, just let him try us in the Golan.” When another one said, “The snipers are from Hizballah,” someone nearby shouted back, “Don’t say things we don’t know for certain, brother, that’s inaccurate talk.” A man with a long beard, who looked like a fundamentalist Islamist, came over to talk about the Sunni-Shi‘a issue, but the demonstrators rose up and told him to be quiet, so he was. They only talked about the practices of the security forces and the repression. The women asked to come out into the streets to sit-in and the men agreed, so women and men sat in together in the mosque. That was before the massacre.
“I forgot to mention something, going back to the notable figure, I asked him to listen to a second opinion, and I.S., the previous shaykh of the al-Umari Mosque came over. I can’t tell you exactly what he said, even though it’s on tape, because I promised him that whatever he said would only be made public if he died, or if he gave me express permission to do so. That’s why I hesitate to publish what he said, in spite of the fact that he’s in prison right now, after they killed his son.
“A relative of one of the arrested children, I think it was his uncle if I remember correctly, came up to me and said, “They took the children to prison for writing on the walls. They gave them the ‘special treatment’.” M. falls silent for a moment, then asks, “Do you know what that is?”
I shake my head.
“That means they raped them. I’m not sure how accurate that information is because he refused to let me quote him directly. By the way, inside the notable figure’s house, he had pictures of Hafiz al-Assad and Bashar al-Assad and Gamal Abdel Nasser on the walls. Security forces were breaking into the houses and confiscating people’s cameras and mobile phones. At one o’clock in the morning, maybe 12:30, one of the protestors called from inside the al-Umari Mosque and told me, “We assembled here and there was a massacre.” M. stops talking and then says, “Even then there were medical supplies inside the mosque but after the massacre the demonstrators improvised a field hospital inside the mosque in preparation for other massacres. That was on a Thursday or Friday in March, when the famous clip appeared on satellite television saying: Is there anyone who kills his own people? You are all our brothers.”
M. continues: “The security forces were at the outskirts of every neighbourhood in Dar‘a at the time. I saw that with my own eyes. They had cars and armed men, which made it impossible for an armed gang to get inside the mosque and kill people or carry out that massacre, because the security presence was large and solid. When I reached the entrance to the mosque I saw security forces. Central Security was in a state of total demobilization. They weren’t doing anything. It seemed clear that they had no intention of attacking.”
“So who carried out the attack then?” I ask him.
“Maybe it was the Fourth Division,” he says.
“But they’re saying the Fourth Division wasn’t there…”
He interrupts me: “I think it was one of those divisions of private forces.”
“In your opinion, who did the killing in Dar‘a?”
“Security, the security forces were killing people.”
“Did the army kill anyone?” I ask him.
“No, I don’t think so even though they were at the front. There are confirmed sources saying that anyone in the army who disobeys orders would be killed by the security forces. I have some videotaped testimonies I’ll send you.”
“But that means the army was killing people, because even if some wouldn’t carry out their orders, others would.”
“Yes, sometimes, but what I mean is that there were orders for the army to kill the armed gangs. That’s why they were fighting, and anyone who disobeyed orders when they found out what was really going on got killed.”
M. falls silent. I feel tired as I write down his words that ooze with bitterness. He says, “I heard a story about a mother in Dar‘a whose son was wanted by the security forces even though he was only twelve years old. He was her only child and she kept him hidden him in a strange way, by moving every day from house to house like a ghost. The security forces were not able to capture him. Then all news about her dried up. They told me security would invade the house where she and her son were staying a few minutes after she left. Despite the intensity of the siege and the heavy security presence she managed to protect her only son somehow. That was very unusual, but strange things were happening. I have some of them on tape. After demonstrators torched the military security detention centre during the siege of Douma, security forces attacked a funeral procession, making it all the way to the coffin and even opening fire on the pallbearers, wounding three of them critically. The people ran away, and the coffin was left on the ground by itself. Amidst the heavy gunfire I saw a little boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten years old, standing behind his father. We could barely hear each other, but I asked him, ‘Why did you come here, little guy? Go home.’ His father looked at me, and after a long stare, said, ‘He isn’t any more valuable than his father.’ Then he pounded on his chest. ‘You’re right,’ I told him. ‘I’m going to get my son, too.’
I stop writing in order to light a cigarette. I am a wreck, fumbling for some comment to make after hearing all these stories but once I had lit my cigarette he adds, “Listen to another story from Douma. Everybody knows that the town of Douma is religiously conservative, especially the women. One time I was passing through there, the demonstrators were on one side and the security forces were on the other. A young girl passed by, I had my camera with me so I filmed her. I imagined she was going to walk by the security forces, in order to avoid the hordes of male demonstrators, but she chose to cross through the demonstrators. I said to someone near me, ‘Isn’t it strange how that girl passed right through all these men?’
“Maybe this is how we are with our women,” he says. “Did you see anyone leer at her or harass her? Even if things are messed up here without any law and order, we are still men of conscience.”
“Real life is in the little stories,” I tell the journalist. “How could it be any other way under these circumstances?”
“There are strange stories from al-Rastan,” he says, distracted. “I was there, the demonstrators knocked down a statue of Hafiz al-Assad and stamped on it because of the anger and the recrimination and the injustice they had suffered for decades. One of the inhabitants of
al-Rastan told me that when the people of Talbisseh came to pay their respects they showed up on motorcycles, which is how they get around, and while they were at the mourning ceremony their motorcycles were stolen. One of the fathers of the martyrs confirmed this to me. One was stolen right in front of me, so I went to the police and made a complaint about the theft and said I had seen it happen. At the police station they told me that that man was locked up. In other words, the theft must have taken place through collusion between the police and the prisoners, with the profits split between the thieves and the police the same day the motorcycles were stolen. There were no security agents, and there was no police in al-Rastan. So the people of al- Rastan went and told the people of Talbisseh, ‘We’re going to get you your motorcycles back.’ The mourners said, “That’s all right, we’ll figure something out.” But the people of al-Rastan insisted that the people of Talbisseh wait there, while they disappeared for about half an hour. When they came back they had the bikes with them. The people of al-Rastan had tracked down the thieves and gathered them all in one place, telling them, Either your lives or our guests’ bikes. They handed the bikes over to them.” M. is silent for a moment after finishing the story and then says, “This means there was no government and that the people were solving problems themselves the right way.” I wait for him to say something more. “I’ll give you the rest on tape,” he says. “I’m worn out.”
“That’s much better anyway,” I say.
I felt grateful to him because there were moments while he was telling me those stories when I had to fight back tears. Now I am released from that awkwardness.
15 May 2011
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I didn’t sit down to write on Friday as I had intended to do, nor the next day. What’s happening now is bigger than what I can write about. I need some more time in order to be able to focus on what’s happening. Since running out of Xanax, which had been very difficult to get here anyway, I have been awake for two days straight, from Thursday night until right now… I do not sleep.
I could fall asleep for two hours, which was enough for me to be able to focus, if only a little. What happened? It happened on Thursday, when my daughter and I were sitting there, a halfconfirmed bit of news; nothing is certain these days other than the curses of death, the torrent of bullets and waiting. The backdrop is our nonstop bickering. I tried every means possible to calm her down but I had failed, until that moment when the man came and told me to leave the country at once, out of fear for my life because he had solid information about the impending liquidation of certain Alawite figures, about accusations of belonging to armed and Salafi gangs, and that my name was on the list.
The man spoke openly in front of my daughter and I believed him. I knew he was concerned about me but I was surprised by what he said and I sensed the enormity of the mistake I had made in letting my daughter hear this. She turned yellow, went to her room and slammed the door. The man left and I was there, alone with her silence and fear. My friend who also overheard the conversation tried to convince me it was essential for me to leave immediately, even though I insisted to her that this was crazy talk, especially now that the regime was starting its manoeuvres, pulling the army out of the cities and announcing a round of national dialogue. On the one hand, it wouldn’t do them any good to carry out acts of violence now; on the other hand, I couldn’t leave without my daughter, and she would staunchly refuse to leave the country anyway. It was impossible for me to leave without her. I wouldn’t have the strength and I resolved not to go unless my daughter agreed, even if that cost me my life. She refused to speak to me at first. She wouldn’t say a word but then she said bitterly that the only way I could make her feel better was to appear on state television and proclaim my loyalty to the president, so that our life could go back to normal. I stood there, stunned by what she said. I tried explaining to her, I tried to convince her that this meant suicide as far as I was concerned and that I wasn’t worth more than the blood of the people who had already been killed, but she refused to listen. She knew the power she exercised over my heart.
“I won’t do it,” I snapped at her.
“And I won’t leave with you,” she retorted.
The new house we had rented was strange: two bedrooms opening onto a living room, separated by sliding doors. I could hear her footsteps when she was in her room, pacing anxiously, breaking things, screaming. I began thinking that the time had come to force her to leave, especially after having met with my friend who was close to Hizballah, whom I trust, whom I trust is not corrupt, who leans towards secularism in his life and who is with the regime although he is not on their payroll. Still, when they posted what they did about me on the mukhabarat website, he got very upset and called me to say he wanted to see me. He came to Damascus, and I met up with him and his girlfriend last Saturday afternoon. I was upset. Things were quiet but he seemed agitated and asked me to calm down, telling me he had just seen the very people who were making up stories about me, fabricating rumours; simply put, he had been in touch with the deciders, with those engaged in the media and psychological war against the uprising and its supporters. He seemed very concerned as he asked me to calm myself. When he learned what had been happening to me over the past few days, he became even more uncomfortable and asked me if I needed anything. I screamed in front of his girlfriend, apologizing to her from time to time for being so loud, wishing they would just let me be. That’s all I wanted, for them to leave me alone, to quit monitoring me night and day.
“It’s not so simple,” he said.
“How’s it not so simple?”
“Just write something that says you’re against what’s going on in the street.”
At that point I stood up. I felt like my body was about to shoot through the cement ceiling. I know I can get as enraged as a psychopath, but in that moment, on the brink of death, for them to make up stories about me, for me to have had to flee my house and be terrorized night and day, for them to publish lies about me and to incite every Alawite in Syria to kill me, after all of that, how dare they ask me to write an article in support of the regime and its president? I screamed in his face.
“They’re never going to leave you alone,” he said. “There were two opinions in your case. Your story was discussed at the highest levels. There’s a faction who say they won’t ever leave you alone because you’re one of them and another faction say you have to be punished more severely than anyone else, that prison is too good for you and they have resolved to make you regret what you’ve done. They’re all displeased with you, the most powerful people in this country are very angry at you.”
I sighed and repeated that the most powerful people in this country are very angry with me, they’re calling me a traitor, intimidating me and forcing me into hiding like a hunted dog.
“You have to get out of here,” he said.
“I wrote what I saw. I didn’t make anything up and they know it.” He didn’t respond to what I said, just pleaded with me to leave Syria as quickly as possible, saying that the group trying to come after me might back off. After a moment of silence, he added, “You’re in real danger, in their minds you’re a traitor and an agitator.”
“Tell them I’ll be quiet. Won’t that be enough?”
“Just write something to get them off your back.”
“I won’t do it,” I said. “After all this injustice they expect me to betray my conscience. I won’t do it.”
Our conversation ended there, he said goodbye to me with extreme sadness; he called me later several times to ask if I needed any help, repeating his well-mannered plea for me to leave Syria at once. After he had gone, I went straight up to my balcony and looked down at the two men who were following me. I had discovered them 24 hours before. An article about me by a female journalist had appeared in the Lebanese al-Safir newspaper on Friday, and after it was published I got a phone call from abroad, threatening me with my last warning. I had promised to remain sile
nt but I had broken my promise. I thought the one threatening me might have been from outside the security apparatus. Perhaps it was ordinary Alawites who were calling all the time and threatening my daughter and I. But I became seriously afraid when I discovered the existence of the two men in front of my new home. How had they found my new place so quickly? Why were they so focused on my movements amidst such difficult circumstances? Apparently I was infuriating them, stoking their rage. What would prevent me from provoking their anger? Silence. But it was just a newspaper piece about me. And what if the editor hadn’t deleted my last line? The real question is, who is it that is killing both sides? What I mean to say is, who is killing both army officers and civilian demonstrators? The editor at al-Safir cut it, I think, in order to protect me and the journalist who wrote reasonable things about me. Nevertheless, the article stirred up their anger and the man on the phone with the angry voice said, “If you don’t disappear, Samar Yazbek, I’ll make you disappear from the face of the earth.”
That was Friday night. I was getting ready to write in my journal. Then the man came and talked in front of my daughter about the liquidation of some Alawite figures. I could not write. I sat out on the balcony, which was actually the roof. The streets of Damascus were empty. Friday had been turned into a day of horror for Syrians, in which life itself nearly disappears as the security forces spread out, everywhere, until finally, after some demonstrations, security forces are posted in even greater numbers. I was smoking a cigarette as coldness whipped me and my body felt like shifting sand. What was I going to do? I was unable to write and my daughter was in her room with the door closed. All contact with my family had been eerily cut off: after I was labelled a traitor they stopped calling me, and I no longer called them. Days would pass without my hearing from friends or their hearing from me. I had no internet, my movements were becoming more infrequent by the day and the witnesses who I was trying to meet with in order to archive their memories of the uprising had started to go missing as well.