The Book Collectors

by Delphine Minoui

  A little lower down, I smile as I read a second “warning” from the editors: “This horoscope is entirely a product of our imagination. Any resemblance to reality is pure coincidence.”

  It’s February 2016, and the more bombs fall, the more life takes form below the surface. An underground world, in both senses, that sprouts a few stone throws from the front line. Library, schools, local council, media center, shelters, tunnels, etc. Even the hospital has moved its facilities belowground. “Now, because of the aerial strikes, our town has switched from horizontal to vertical,” explains Ahmad, who’s finally popped back onto my screen. “Daraya,” he continues, “is no longer a flat ribbon dotted with ‘many houses.’ It’s divided into three levels: the sky and the helicopters that chased away the stars; the ground, disfigured by bombs; the clandestine basements nestled in the shadow of chaos.” To protect themselves, residents without basements hastily fashion improvised burrows under their buildings’ foundations. Digging holes has become the fate of those who oppose Assad. More like a life sentence of forced labor.

  With Ahmad and Shadi, I plunge a little more each day into the underground labyrinth of parceled-out images of this ghost town. They reach me in scraps, through the Web, in an organized confusion to which I’ve become accustomed. Small visual fragments that have survived the siege. Incomprehensible pieces of life that we put together one by one to describe the tragedy, madness, and hope.

  Every video is a new discovery. I have a strange feeling that I hold the secret access code to Daraya; despite Damascus’s prohibition, I can explore its abysses. Thanks to yet another filmed sequence, I discover that the book cellar has transformed into a discussion forum that engages both the activists behind the scenes and the fighters on the front lines. On this day, the debate is about how to evaluate the revolution. Were the demonstrators ready? Should they have been better organized? Could they have avoided the violence, the hundreds of thousands of deaths, the displacements, and the exiles? Despite the cruelty of the war, none of the participants express regret for having demanded change, beginning in the spring of 2011. Throughout the debate, the terms “right,” “freedom,” and “wake-up call” echo repeatedly. A young man stands up. “The revolution,” he says, “put us on the right path.” Another continues, “tired” but “without regrets.” “Democracy,” he adds, “remains an objective. A goal that’s still developing.” A third participant is more self-critical. “I would have liked us to be better prepared for this uprising, on the intellectual and religious level. We needed more time, both those who took up arms and those who practiced nonviolent revolution. And I’m not only talking about Daraya. Because of the lack of preparation, we’re under constant pressure, inside and out.” He’s referring to the regime’s brutality as well as to the theater of war by proxy that his country has become: Iran versus Saudi Arabia, the United States versus Russia, not to mention all the other actors in this conflict, e.g., Qatar and Turkey.

  I observe this young man. He’s wearing a khaki jacket and a multipocketed pair of pants, the uniform of the Free Syrian Army fighters. Is it the company of books that gives this anti-Assad warrior the perspective needed to fairly evaluate his side? Or perhaps it’s just the library atmosphere that fosters exchanges and discussions of nuance and color, when Damascus only wants to see in black and white. And Assad’s soldiers? What are they thinking about over at the Mezzeh base? Can they think in color? For that matter, do they have the time—and the freedom—to read books other than those forced on them? Would they, in their turn, be capable of aspiring to change if they ever had the choice?

  As I reconsider this sequence, alone in front of my computer, a phrase from one of Kafka’s letters to Oskar Pollak comes to mind: “A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.”

  Over the following days, the messages from Ahmad and the others suggest that the time spent reading in the library has decreased due to the constant clamor of the barrel bombs. On mornings when the sky rages without end, it remains closed to the public. Sometimes it’s overrun by the neighborhood children, who’ve left their makeshift shelters, consisting for some families of a miserable little dungeon, to get some “fresh air.” One of the kids, Amjad, has made the library his new anchor point. His friends have even nicknamed him “the Librarian.”

  When the library eventually reopens its doors, in the slightest of lulls, the debate resumes with greater intensity.

  Then comes a new video. The speaker is wearing a red T-shirt. He asks the participants to form small groups to which he hands out pieces of cardboard, cut into puzzle pieces. “You have forty-five seconds to reassemble them.” After the allotted time, a single team claims victory. The instructor smiles. “Of course. That was the only team to see the model before doing the puzzle.” His conclusion: “When you don’t have a clear plan in your head, your ideas become muddled. If you define your priorities, you have less chance of getting lost.” The room is silent. He adds, “Don’t blindly follow others. Explore new spots, new places.” Ironic for a besieged town, stripped of its escape routes. He keeps going. “Thinking is what matters. Don’t let anyone manipulate you for their own aims.” At no moment are the names of Assad or Daesh pronounced. Everyone gathered understands the message: refuse single-minded and destructive thinking; don’t fall into the trap of believing doctored truths. Bent over their notebooks, the participants scribble as they nod their heads.

  Suddenly the light goes out. Squeezed into a corner of the room, an overhead projector turns on, transforming a white wall into a cinema screen. In this multipurpose library, they watch movies, too! The short film of the day is called Two & Two, the story of a primary school teacher who forces his students to repeat the false sum 2 + 2 = 5 or risk punishment. This fable about the fabrication of a lie through force is a reference to the “false formula” in George Orwell’s indispensable 1984. The film, made by Babak Anvari, an Iranian director in exile, was downloaded from the internet. It contains a message of hope. At the end of the math lesson, a schoolchild huddled in the back of the classroom defies the established order by scratching out the imposed number with a pencil and replacing it with a “4” in his notebook. Rapturous applause in the room. Amid this hubbub, I read the following sentence, written in Arabic, that takes over the white wall: “If everyone believes in the same idea, does that make it true?”

  At the bottom of the black hole that has been made of Daraya, these young people’s resources are inexhaustible. In a sanctuary surrounded by ruins, they build up their frames of reference, explore new ideas, and broaden their cultural knowledge a little more each day. A clandestine life, in which the silence imposed from above turns into a cry of fury and courage. I watch them. They have the same spirit as that schoolboy resisting until the end: defying the diktats, refusing to let themselves be distracted by the noise of cannons, transforming the somber reality of war into a challenge they must overcome to better move forward. For the span of a movie or book, they strive to write a new page in the history of their country.

  The path is steep, and they know it. Far from the often sterile discussions of the opposition in exile, far from the luxury hotels in Geneva and the corruption scandals, they advance with baby steps, preferring to enrich themselves from a range of ideas rather than come to hasty conclusions on the color of the future flag, the role of Islam in society, or the place of the Kurds in the future Syria.

  The famous “Turkish model,” held up as an example in the beginning of the Arab Spring, is of interest to some of them. They want to believe in this blend of “Islam, democracy, and growth.” But they are not totally convinced. “Can the Turkish experience be adapted to other countries?” asks a Daraya militant in yet another video. Omar, the Ibn Khaldun in chief, answers him quite clearly. “Yes, but provided that we learn lessons from [Turkish president] Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s mistakes.” Once again, a series of questions follows. What comes after protest? How can we carry out the transition? What regime should be put in place? Can p
olitical Islam be reconciled with democracy?

  Their thirst to learn is endless. One February morning, Ahmad reveals to me the existence of another underground discussion space, opened at the end of 2015. Maintained in the utmost secrecy, it houses a second debate room in which videoconferences are organized via Skype, for the town’s inhabitants to talk with outsiders. Seated in front of a screen, they have carte blanche to ask any question they want to the teachers and dissidents of all persuasions who stream in front of their eyes. An opportunity to lay the groundwork for a political project that’s more open and tolerant than the one in which they grew up.

  “In recent weeks, we’ve hosted the secular oppositionist Burhan Ghalioun, and the president of the Syrian National Council, George Sabra,” explains Ahmad. “We’ve even given the floor to Huthaifa Azzam, the son of a Palestinian jihadist, who rejected the violence advocated by his father—a way to dissuade our young people from radicalism.”

  Because of security concerns, no images from these closed-door conferences have left Daraya. To avoid attracting the attention of the regime, and in particular its barrel-spitting helicopters, the organizers have even returned to the old tradition of word of mouth when announcing the dates of the debates.

  “It’s the kind of university we’ve always dreamed about. A place to learn, without preestablished lines we can’t cross, far from censorship, open to all viewpoints,” sighs Ahmad.

  This clandestine university is a place of transgression. Transgression through learning. The young revolutionaries of Daraya can at last chalk a new score on the blackboard of their dreams, a score whose notes sing of a better future—the fragile melody of a city surviving in the darkness.

  When every door has closed, the slightest opening offers relief. In the seemingly interminable month of February 2016, Ahmad tells me about the book breaking all the records in Daraya.

  “Have you heard of The 7 Habits?” he asks me one day, through our virtual window.

  “The what?” I answer in surprise.

  “The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, by the American Stephen Covey.”

  He repeats this as if it were obvious. His country is at war. His city on the verge of destruction. Daraya is prisoner to explosions, smoke, pandemonium. And now, in the heart of their daily chaos—karkabeh—Ahmad is talking about some self-help book, one of many popular in our Western society where the individual comes before the community. This international bestseller, of which I’ve only read a description, talks about identity-building as a necessary stage on the road to success. A “step-by-step” approach, it focuses on the development of personal efficiency by which the individual gains autonomy from the group and learns to better manage his or her relationship with others. The book has been translated into thirty-eight languages, including Arabic. But still, what a surprise to find a book common in the business milieus of Paris, London, New York, and Dubai in a Syrian battle zone.

  “This book means so much to us,” explains Ahmad. “It’s our compass, in a way…”

  Such is life in Daraya. Contrary to the narrative disseminated by Damascus, the city’s so-called religious zealots have made identity-building their new religion. This deeply personal process belies the regime’s narrative of bloodthirsty desperadoes being exploited by Islamic extremists. But how did an American self-help book end up on their list of favorites?

  “Ustez told us about it,” answers Ahmad.

  Ustez, Daraya’s veteran of civil disobedience. Clearly, this tireless professor has plenty of resources to share with his students.

  “The first time he read it,” continues Ahmad, “was when he was in prison in Sednaya. What a revelation! He made it his handbook, to guard against giving up inside that hostile environment. He adopted the philosophy of 7 Habits, which he was intent on sharing with us.”

  From one jail to another. And now, inspired by their mentor’s experience, Daraya’s young dissidents in the shadows are applying this manual to their own needs. In the West, people skim Covey’s book in search of effective solutions to temporary crises: a divorce, a breakup, a layoff. Simple words for common problems. In Daraya, as in prison, readers are seeking not an easy, ready-made answer, but rather the keys to surviving in an extreme environment. This book is the psychologist they don’t have, a reassuring companion in the worst moments of uncertainty. A crucial remedy for the sense of precariousness brought by violence, but also for the conflicts that can result from cohabitation in a confined space: arguments, jealousy, political disagreements, etc.

  “It helped me get my ideas together. It also taught me how to live in a group, how to accept others and their differences, and how to maintain a climate of healthy competition among us all.”

  At first Ahmad was happy enough relying on Ustez’s summary of the book, which wasn’t among those unearthed from the rubble. When he wanted to read the whole thing, he turned to the internet, despite a poor connection. After a little digging through Google, the PDF of 7 Habits popped up on Ahmad’s screen. He then had to download and print it. But in Daraya, cut off from the world, paper is yet another rare resource that must be used sparingly. So Ahmad got the idea to print four pages on one. Columns of tiny writing, squeezed together like sardines, were bound like the secret pamphlets that circulated before the revolution.

  “Even though you have to squint to read it, everybody fights over the book. We eventually made a second copy to keep up with the demand. It also inspired two lecture series: first inside the library, and then in the new underground debate space. Yasser al-Aiti, a well-known Syrian scholar in exile, gave a presentation about it from Istanbul, via Skype. The book’s a real phenomenon,” says Ahmad.

  Dog-eared, ripped, and discolored, the book is passed endlessly from hand to hand. It’s read, reread, brandished like a totem. In the particularly deadly winter of 2016, this self-help guide brings a sense of normality to Daraya’s remaining inhabitants, who are still clinging to the hope that the conflict, which has been going on for five years, will in fact end one day. 7 Habits offer its readers a way to view the conflict as temporary. It helps them to create distance from the helicopters dropping bombs and the daily confrontation with death, but also to quiet the impatience of fighters who hadn’t anticipated the siege lasting so long. Most important, the book’s easy-to-digest approach is a therapeutic outlet when the incessant rumbling of war makes it impossible for them to focus on works of literature and political thought.

  On February 27, 2016, Daraya awakens to shocking silence. Not a single streak of powder in the sky, not a shot, not even the whine of a siren or the whirring of a helicopter. A sudden, almost troubling calm envelops the besieged enclave. Rumors, confirmed after a few hours, suggest a cease-fire: following intense negotiations, Washington and Moscow have finally brokered a truce between pro- and anti-Assad forces throughout Syria. The bombs have gone quiet. The war is placed in parentheses, at least temporarily. Could this be a new page for Daraya?

  With the truce, a semblance of life returns to this underground stronghold. Like weeds growing amid the ruins, the remaining inhabitants begin to venture out. One, two, three, then a thousand … Eyes squinting, skin pale, drunk with exhaustion, they breathe in the fresh air and the silence, and absorb the natural light. At the other end of the line, Ahmad is smiling again. He cheerfully gives details of daily life without bombs.

  Apart from a few unauthorized rounds of artillery fire, the city has reclaimed some calm. Ahmad tells me about the people gathering at intersections in small groups, the tongues loosening, the resurrection of old slogans. He fills my inbox with new photos. In one, a young man brandishes a sign written in Arabic: “I wish I were a candle in the dark,” from a poem by the Palestinian writer Fayeq Oweis. In another, a young woman veiled in white holds a piece of cardboard that reads: “I am neither al-Nusra Front nor Daesh. I’m just a girl enduring the siege of Daraya.” A mix of made-up rhymes and mocking political slogans, these many signs celebrate the return of the word “freedom.�
�� “There’s a feeling of revolution, like at the beginning,” says Ahmad. A stirring identical to what he felt that first day.

  Above their heads, the blue sky has been bleached by a powerful sun. As if spring has come early, impatient to bloom. Every image I receive shows small signs of rediscovered joy. Kids climb the skeleton of a dismantled swing set. Teenagers invade a forsaken square. A cat wanders. A bird perches atop a ripped-out cable. Ahmad tells me that visits to the library have resumed their peak rhythm. That books are again skipping from hand to hand. That after long months of interruption, the city’s three schools have reopened their doors. Inside classrooms, children are reading and writing again, boys are roughhousing, and girls are creating bracelets from whatever scraps they find. It’s still cold, but hearts are warmed by the return to an ordinary, reassuring commotion. They’re warmed by laughter. By the desire to learn, to keep going. Quite simply, to exist. I listen to him and imagine little hands being raised in the air, the teacher trying to impose silence, questions spurting out, echoing back from pocked walls. 2 + 2 equaling 4, not 5.

  Women, the invisible residents of Daraya, finally reappear in the streets. Shadows escaping the darkness, they once again emerge from their shelters. Going outside is no longer a risk. Amid the newfound quiet, free of the screams of metal, they resume the threads of trivial conversations, woven from the tiny woes that make up life. Gone are the sleepless nights, the inconsolable crying of panicked girls and boys, the terror of falling asleep and never waking. Milk again flows from the breasts of young mothers who had been unable to breastfeed beneath the bombs. Pushing old rusty strollers, the most emboldened among them show off their infants like trophies. Some six hundred babies have come into the world since the siege began. Born underground in most cases, they are experiencing the light of day for the first time. They cry, scream, gurgle. It’s said that truth comes from the mouths of babes: What better way than this babbling to contradict the regime’s insistence that there are no civilians left in Daraya?