by Eva Nour
‘Climb in,’ he said and held open the door of his Toyota truck.
Sami got in the passenger seat, visible to everyone. His throat seized up as they approached the first checkpoint and he found it hard to breathe. He saw the parked vehicles from afar, the soldiers with their rifles drawn. Had any of them lain on a roof and used Sami and his friends for target practice during the siege? Aiming for right arms one day. Left arms the next. An injured man or woman was a bigger drain on resources than a dead one. An injured person needed medical attention and rest and couldn’t fight, even if they survived.
‘Stop that,’ said the driver. ‘It’s like nails against a blackboard.’
Sami hadn’t realized he was grinding his teeth. He put his hands flat on his thighs and focused on keeping his legs still. They were getting closer; soon he would be able to see their eyes. Would his emaciated body arouse suspicion? He had shaved and had his hair cut and put on new clothes, but his trousers were held up by a belt and the double jumpers did little to conceal the emptiness inside them. He would prefer a bullet to the head to being thrown in prison. He would prefer anything to becoming an unknown name, transferred to an unknown location. The driver focused forward and slowly pressed the accelerator. When they passed the checkpoint, he smiled and casually raised his hand to the soldiers. Only around forty more to go.
Every time they came to a checkpoint, Sami thought it was over. There were the regular ones everybody knew about. And there were temporary ones, which popped up when you least expected it. On the surface they seemed random and unplanned, but the areas they covered were often negotiated between the army and regime-friendly militias. The checkpoints were like any other tradable goods – they raised money in the form of bribes, which made it possible to buy weapons.
They usually stopped in a special lane next to the civilian cars. His smuggler flashed his secret police ID and they were let through. Sometimes a soldier nodded to the washing machine strapped to the flatbed.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘Homs,’ the driver said and held out some money.
The soldier glanced around, accepted the notes and waved the Toyota through.
‘So, you want to get out of doing your military service,’ the driver said. ‘If you were my son, I’d give you a good beating.’
That was the story he’d been told. They didn’t exchange another word for the rest of the journey. After passing abandoned and burnt-down orchards, they eventually stopped at a villa; the driver signalled to Sami to wait in the driveway while he made a call. He sought out the shade of a tree, undid his fly and tried to relieve himself, but had to give up.
His second driver was Lebanese and a member of the Shiite militia Hezbollah, al-Assad’s extended arm in Lebanon. He didn’t get out of the car, just waved for Sami to climb in. He had a gleaming hunting rifle between his knees, the barrel pointing diagonally up towards Sami.
‘Would you mind moving that over a bit?’ Sami said when they hit a bump in the road.
‘Oh, this …’
He turned the gun out towards the window but as soon as they hit another bump, the barrel was back in Sami’s face.
‘So, you’re from Homs?’ said the Lebanese and flashed a row of yellow teeth. ‘Almost all my furniture is from there. Well, not just mine, all my friends have furniture from Homs. Excellent quality – and completely free!’
The Lebanese laughed and scratched his groin; Sami felt the air in his lungs compress. He didn’t feel like talking but the man seemed eager to socialize.
‘Have you been to al-Qusayr before?’
Sami had, but the landscape they were driving through looked nothing like the al-Qusayr he knew. The city was about twenty miles south of Homs and had around thirty thousand inhabitants. It had been an FSA stronghold but the regime had reclaimed it with the help of Hezbollah. Now there was nothing but ghost towns, abandoned villages and bombed-out buildings. The yellow flag of Hezbollah was everywhere.
‘I cut the throat of a rebel dog over there,’ said the Lebanese, pointing. ‘Over there, we fired missiles at those houses. You should have seen the families running out of them screaming like rats.’
Sami tried hard to seem unperturbed. They passed three checkpoints without any trouble. Sami was his cousin, the Hezbollah fighter explained, and fired his gun a few times out of the car window, straight up into the air. A pigeon landed on the ground with a thud. The soldiers lost all interest in Sami and instead admired the weapon.
On the outskirts of al-Qusayr, as they approached the border between Syria and Lebanon, the Lebanese man turned more serious. He shoved three pieces of gum in his mouth and chewed so hard his jaw creaked. The paved road meandered through mountains and vast fields.
‘This is going to be the hardest one. Fingers crossed we get through.’
Sami spotted the checkpoint long before they reached it. Two armoured vehicles were parked on either side of the road, across which piles of sandbags formed a wall. Ten Syrian soldiers turned their eyes on them. The driver ran his hand across his forehead again and again; his hair was sticking to it, even though it was an overcast day and not particularly warm. The dust settled everywhere, like a second skin.
‘Remember, you’re my cousin.’
They stopped; the soldiers watched them in the distance without moving. The driver rolled down his window and held out a packet of cigarettes.
‘Can I offer you boys a cigarette?’ he called out.
His previously cocksure voice lost its authority in the wind. One of the soldiers, the youngest from the looks of him, left his post and slowly walked over to the car.
‘You again,’ the soldier said.
‘My cousin needed a ride and you don’t say no to family,’ the Lebanese man said and adjusted his hunting rifle so it was visible in his lap.
‘That’s really nice.’
‘How about a cigarette?’
The Lebanese man lit one for the soldier and one for himself, without asking Sami if he wanted one. The young soldier squinted at him with each deep drag and then flicked his ash in his direction.
‘Who are you?’
‘My cousin,’ the Lebanese man repeated.
‘I’m not talking to you. What’s your name?’
‘Sami.’
‘I feel like I’ve seen you before … Have we met?’
The Lebanese man started coughing and beating his chest; he leaned over the steering wheel, gasping for breath.
‘Damn it, my lungs,’ he said with tears in his eyes. ‘Here, want to try it?’
The soldier took the hunting rifle and looked through the sight. He turned it on the Lebanese man, then aimed it at Sami, caressed the trigger and finally gave it back.
‘How much do you want for it?’
‘Well, you know what they say, you don’t sell your children.’
‘All right, then I’m borrowing it.’
The Lebanese man pondered the gun, scratched his knee and nodded.
‘Sure, no problem. I’ll come through here tomorrow, I’ll pick it up then.’
The soldier turned his back and waved them on.
‘Fucking prick, thieves, the lot of them,’ the Lebanese man muttered after rolling up the windows.
Then he lit another cigarette; the smoke made Sami’s eyes water.
They pulled over at a petrol station where an SUV with tinted windows was already parked. How could he be sure it wasn’t a trap? That they wouldn’t take his money and hand him over to the regime? Why would he trust regime supporters when they were the ones who had bombed his home, killed his brother and reduced his hometown to famine and darkness? The answer was simple: because he had no choice.
The car door opened. A gangly man in tracksuit bottoms and flipflops climbed out. Sami’s heart skipped a beat when he recognized him. It was the same man he had paid to arrange this trip. The smuggler shot him a wide smile.
‘Jump in,’ he said and took his backpack.
They turned o
ff on to a smaller road and the Lebanese man followed so they could split the money and the two cartons of Alhamraa cigarettes Sami had brought. Comet tails of dust swirled around the car on the dirt road. The surroundings were the same, yet everything was different. But his chest was intact and the air finally reached his lungs.
They had crossed the border into Lebanon.
40
THE YELLOW FIELDS stretched out in every direction, sandy and dry under the scorching sun. A tractor was moving over by the horizon, in front of the mountains that rose up like a wall towards the blue sky. The tractor moved back and forth, back and forth, as persistent as an ant.
Sami thought about his own cultivation on the roof in Homs, about the radishes which would have time to develop tender roots now that he wasn’t harvesting them prematurely. He hoped someone else would find his rooftop garden. That someone else would treasure the vegetables and they wouldn’t grow in vain. The thought of the white and pink buds and their fresh bitterness made his mouth water.
The smuggler should be back soon with food. He lived in a caravan and had invited Sami to stay with him for the first few days before he could move on. The caravan was stuffy but Sami wasn’t allowed to leave it. It’s too dangerous, the smuggler had told him. Hermel wasn’t like the rest of Lebanon; the militant group Hezbollah had soldiers everywhere and were in cahoots with Assad. The truth was Hezbollah had extended its spiderweb to cover all of Lebanon – from being a Shiite militia it had grown into an organization with its own TV and radio channels and seats in the Lebanese parliament, and ran schools and social programmes.
Hermel was one of its strongholds. The Bekaa Valley was one of Lebanon’s most fertile areas, with fields of star-shaped leaves and the white petals of a certain type of poppy. To put it plainly, it was the ideal place to grow marijuana and opium, which made Hermel, no matter how unassuming the town was otherwise, one of the Middle East’s drug capitals. Hezbollah held the monopoly on trafficking, and they used the profits to buy weapons from Iran, which were then transported via Syria with the blessing of the regime. Everything was connected in a unique ecosystem.
The view from the caravan was, however, anything but fertile. Sami contemplated disobeying instructions and heading out to scour the surroundings for green plants. Under the present circumstances, it might be a way to alleviate the tedium.
His boldness was becoming a hazard. Just because he had made it this far didn’t mean he was invincible. It was tiny details that drew the invisible line between life and death. Unexpectedly finding radish seeds. An alcove in a tunnel. A sniper taking a coffee break.
No, to leave the caravan was to tempt fate. Sami remembered when one of his childhood friends quit his pharmacology studies and fled to Lebanon. He was caught almost immediately at one of Hezbollah’s checkpoints in Hermel and brought back to Syria, where he was imprisoned for terrorist activities. His friend’s crime: helping to smuggle medicine into the besieged parts of Homs. Two weeks later, his dismembered body was delivered to his parents.
To make matters worse, the Syrian presidential election was under way, which made Hezbollah especially interested in Syrians fleeing across the border. Their fingers were inspected for blue ink smudges from voting. If they were clean, they were driven to voting stations to give their support to Bashar al-Assad.
Sami startled at a sound. Not the tractor, which was far away, but the roaring of a car engine. He stiffened and scanned the stony road leading to the camp site. The smuggler had told him to hide if there was any sign of military vehicles or police cars. The caravan was too obvious, so his best option – his only option – was the hill behind it.
But the engine sound faded. Sami locked the door and pulled the curtains shut, curled up on the mattress and tried to slow his breathing. He had been here for almost a week. He wondered if he was becoming paranoid. Had the roar of the engine been real? A hollow sound rose from his stomach and he tried to quell his hunger with water. Then he lay down again and fell asleep.
Behind his eyelids, Homs’ streets and checkpoints spread out, lifeless sparrows on their backs with their beaks pointed at the sky everywhere. The scene shifted and he was in a prison corridor full of crushed blood oranges. A whistling sound sliced through his dream, from a bomber or a thousand beating wings rising towards the sky, and he threw himself to the floor with his hands clapped to his ears.
Sami woke – this time, it really was a car engine. He got to his feet and peered out through a gap in the curtains. A military jeep was approaching at high speed. Dashing from the caravan didn’t seem feasible. He would have to climb the hill and be fully visible for several seconds. Even if he got away, they would find a lit stove in the caravan and know there was a person nearby. He would be as hard to catch as a rabbit in a burrow. Yet, at the same time, was the alternative to give up? He’d rather bolt into the unknown.
Sami threw the door open and ran out with laces untied just as the military jeep turned into the sandy field. A cloud of dust rose around the car; he squinted in the harsh light. He only managed a few steps before he tripped over a detail, which is to say his laces, and felt a jolt of pain in his knee.
It was over. This was as far as he would get. After all, a person only has so many lives. He waited, on his knees, with his hands in the air, for the rifles to be aimed at him. A couple of words flashed through his mind: it was his grandmother’s voice, chanting away the pain in his broken finger. Chanted verses couldn’t save him now. And yet, he prayed.
When the dust cloud dissipated he heard footsteps in the sand and hoarse laughter. Then the reproachful voice of the smuggler.
‘What are you doing out here? I told you to stay in the caravan.’
‘I suppose this made him nervous,’ said the man with the hoarse laugh, patting the bonnet of the jeep. He was dressed in a military uniform. ‘Is this him?’
‘Yes,’ said the smuggler. ‘We’re going to have to do something about your appearance before we leave. Those dirty clothes and that unwashed face won’t do.’
Before we leave. The smuggler had kept his promise and arranged safe passage through the checkpoints to Beirut. When Sami had composed himself and shaken the general’s hand, he realized there was a woman in the driver’s seat.
‘Mariam, my wife,’ said the general. ‘They are less inclined to stop you if there’s a woman in the car.’
She seemed less than happy to be there. The smuggler went into the caravan with Sami and helped him pack. Sami handed over the money and they said goodbye with a brief embrace.
The Lebanese general was friendly and didn’t talk too much, but Sami didn’t have the energy for long conversations anyway. The general told him it was dangerous for him to be here too, among the Hezbollah. His relative had been shot dead in Hermel a couple of years ago. This was only the second time he had been back since.
Mariam shot Sami hard looks through the rear-view mirror and said as little as possible.
‘Suspicion is our biggest enemy,’ the general said.
He was referring to the Lebanese and Syrian people, who had been sundered into religious and ethnic groups, but also glanced at Mariam, who frowned.
‘This is when our trust is tested,’ he continued, ‘when you have no choice but to rely on strangers.’
It seemed like he was talking more to Mariam than to Sami. But Sami could see where she was coming from. What did she know about his past? He might be a drug trafficker or other kind of criminal. He might have fought for the jihadists, for all she knew. There was more and more talk about Islamic State now, the terror group that was growing in influence in northeastern Syria.
Sami met Mariam’s eyes in the rear-view mirror and she looked away. He didn’t know anything about her and the general’s reasons for helping him either – other than that favours made people owe you and an extensive network was hard currency in times like these. None of them had any choice. They had to trust each other.
They were approaching Beirut. The general ro
lled down the windows and let the fresh Mediterranean breeze sweep in, along with the smell of car exhaust and restaurant food. There were more people than in Homs, more people than Sami had seen in years.
‘Where would you like to be dropped off?’
Sami told him where Muhammed’s cousin lived. Muhammed had made him repeat the address at the time and though it seemed pointless then, Sami now understood. He thought warmly of his childhood friend. Even though he was dead, he was still helping Sami. This is for both of us, Sami thought. I’m finding a way out even if you couldn’t.
He didn’t know what he had expected Beirut to be like, but the closer to the centre they got, the further down his seat he slid. On the way to the apartment they passed several checkpoints, where soldiers stood with heavy weapons.
‘Make yourself at home,’ said Muhammed’s cousin when at last they arrived at the apartment. ‘Stay as long as you need. Muhammed always spoke well of you.’
They shared the flat with two other Syrians. Sami was given the sofa in the living room. He unpacked his suitcase and slowly, step by tiny step, started to dare to imagine a future. But in Lebanon? He wasn’t so sure. Anywhere he went the checkpoints appeared, and with them came the threat of being sent back. He wouldn’t be free here either.
41
THREE HOT SUMMER months passed during which Sami mostly slept and stayed indoors. He only went out to buy food, or to go to a café across the street that was showing the World Cup. He followed the tournament without any commitment to players or country. It was just pleasant to witness the ball’s journey across the field, listen to the audience’s cheers and sighs, see the winners stretch their arms to the air and think that life didn’t have to be more complicated than that.
Outside the apartment in Beirut, the sea raged and the waves crashed against the cliffs, but he went down to the beach only once for a quick swim. He folded his clothes, placed a rock on top of them and walked into the surge.
