The Pianist from Syria

by Aeham Ahmad

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  Dedicated to my friend Niraz Saeid, who was tortured to death in Assad’s prisons, and to Mahmoud Tamim, my brother, Alaa Ahmad, and to all the other political prisoners in Syria.

  — PROLOGUE —

  A photo can never really tell you what happened before or what came after. Like that picture of me sitting at a piano, singing a song amid the rubble of my neighborhood. It was reprinted by newspapers all over the world, and some people said it’s one of the photos that will help us remember the Syrian Civil War. An image larger than war. But when I think back to that moment, I think of another image, superimposed on all the rest, an image of three birds.

  That morning before daybreak I had gone out for water, together with my friends Marwan and Raed. Getting water was backbreaking work. We had to rise early and push a 260-gallon tank on a cart to one of the last working pipes in the neighborhood, then fill up the tank and push it back home.

  We lived in Yarmouk, a suburb of Damascus. The armies of Syrian president Bashar al-Assad had cut us off from the rest of the world. We had no water, no electricity, no bread, no rice. By that time, more than a hundred people had died of starvation.

  After my friends and I had delivered the water to our street, I decided to get some more sleep. But a little while later, my two-year-old son, Ahmad, whispered something in my ear and then playfully poked his tiny finger into my eye. Ouch! I jumped out of bed. Clearly, I wasn’t going to get any more rest.

  I decided to heat up some water with cinnamon—we had run out of coffee and tea a long time ago. But there was plenty of cinnamon, ever since a group of militants had stormed a local spice depot. It hadn’t seemed like such a bad haul at first, all this cinnamon, but think about it: Who needs cinnamon when you don’t even have bread or sugar? That’s why it was ridiculously cheap.

  Several months earlier, a few young men from the neighborhood had started a music group. We had been performing out in the streets, standing around my upright piano. Every day, we hauled it out on a cart, carefully steering it through the rubble. We sang to escape the ever-present hunger that was gnawing at us. Our performances were popular on YouTube, but the people in my neighborhood could barely be bothered. And who can blame them? When you’re hungry, you can’t think about anything else.

  On that day, the two of us had agreed to meet with a photographer named Niraz Saied. Marwan and I began pushing the piano, which was unbelievably heavy! Usually, there were six or seven of us carefully maneuvering it through the torn-up streets. We turned onto Palestine Street, which had once been a bustling commercial center and was now deserted.

  The damage there was staggering. The ruined buildings were like concrete skeletons, giant tombstones reaching into the sky. Entire walls had been torn off, revealing the insides of various apartments, with pipes and cables sticking out. The street was littered with heaps of rubble, with weeds growing among them.

  I sat down at the piano and thought about what I should sing. I had written dozens of songs in the past few months; they had simply poured out of me. Then I remembered a poem, scribbled on a piece of paper, that a man had given me a few days earlier.

  His name was Ziad al-Kharraf. In the old days, he sold honey in our neighborhood. He was very cultured and educated, and he used to be quite wealthy. I knew him only in passing. Ziad had a doctorate, but I don’t know in what. I do know that the honey was merely his hobby. He used to take trips to the hills outside of town, to meet with local beekeepers. Sometimes he even went abroad, to countries like Yemen, where he would sample new blends of honey. But that was then. Before the war.

  Ziad had written the poem for his wife. She had been in the last weeks of pregnancy, and had transit papers for Damascus so that she could give birth to her child there. But something had gone wrong at the checkpoint: the soldiers wouldn’t let her pass. Apparently, some bureaucrat had misspelled her name. She had to spend hours waiting while they tried to correct the error. When it became too much for her, she collapsed and fell onto her stomach. She died on her way to the clinic. The baby survived.

  Ziad had loved his wife more than anything. They had married for love; it wasn’t an arranged marriage. His wife had been his best friend. They had three daughters. Their new baby was their first son.

  As the photographer was setting up his camera, a woman appeared carrying a tray. She had decided to make coffee for us, using the last bit she had, which she had saved for a special occasion. She wanted to share it with us and listen to the music. “What you’re doing is very important,” she said, pouring me a cup. I smiled at her with immense gratitude, savoring the wonderfully bitter taste of the coffee.

  Then I noticed a chirping sound, and looked up to see three birds perched on a second-story balcony right across from me. It seemed a miracle, for normally birds vanish as soon as the shooting begins. Only very few of them find their way back to Yarmouk, and those are usually shot down because people are hungry. When I began to play, the three birds started singing again.

  Everything came together for me—the chirping of birds, which I hadn’t heard in so many months; the aroma of the coffee, which I had been longing for; the rage born out of hunger; my aching eye where my son had poked me; the lingering taste of cinnamon; my exhaustion from getting water that morning; and the haunted gaze of Ziad al-Kharraf when he’d asked me to make his poem into a song. Ziad’s pain, the starving children of Yarmouk, and my brother’s disappearance were all tearing at my heart. I was angry that the piano was out of tune, angry at my wounded hand. Closing my eyes, I began to sing, pouring all my despair into Ziad’s poem.

  My song became a cry, the cry of a man plunging into an abyss and giving voice to his descent into hell.

  I Forgot My Name

  I have lost my name

  Its letters and its meaning

  I have lost the words

  That I need to sing my song

  That was when Niraz must have snapped the picture.

  Today people sometimes ask me: When you lived in that Palestinian camp, what color was your tent? Although Yarmouk was officially a “refugee camp,” it was in fact a real neighborhood with real buildings. I used to own an apartment, a nice spacious apartment. I sold ouds, and my business had been thriving. But the war had destroyed it all. A grenade had cut the tendon between two of my fingers. A girl who had been standing next to my piano one day had been shot to death, and finally, the Islamic State had burned my instrument to the ground.

  I would soon be exiled from Yarmouk, forced to leave my world behind. I would become one of those miserable gray figures, one of the millions who were now streaming into Europe. Some people think we only came to get a share of the wealth. But they don’t understand us, don’t know why we’re forced to come. They’re afraid of us.

  And that is why I want to tell my story now in these pages. I want to raise my voice to dispel some of the fear and the lies. For pictures, too, can lie. Even if they contain a trace of the truth.

  — CHAPTER ONE —

  It begins with music. I must have been about two years old.

  My bed was by a window; the sun was shining in. I remember my father lying next to me, playing the violin, his eyes hidden behind black glasses. T
he scroll of the violin was pressed against the mattress; the instrument’s lower body was wedged under his chin. The violin bow came toward me, then swept back again. A sweet scent wafted through the room—there was a jasmine tree underneath the window. Pigeons were cooing in the birdcages outside as I listened with rapt attention to my father’s music. I felt snug and happy.

  I already knew that Papa was different from other men. He seemed to have no eyes, only black glasses that showed my reflection. He never went out by himself, but he knew every nook and cranny inside our apartment. At night, he would turn off the electricity to save money, and the apartment would become pitch-black. Whenever I had to use the bathroom, I called to him, and he would get up and guide me. He never bumped into anything, never knocked anything over. He always walked with calm, measured steps. And I trailed after him, stumbling, as if I were blind, not he.

  Something else astounded me: Whenever my mother couldn’t find something—the matches, for example, the potholders or the scissors—she’d ask him, “Abu Aeham, have you seen it?” And my father would say, “Look in the kitchen drawer, to the right.” And that’s where it was.

  My father owned half a dozen canes but refused to use them, even though the streets of our neighborhood were dangerous for a blind person. The sidewalk pavement was uneven, cars were parked everywhere, and sometimes the workers cleaning the sewers would leave a hole uncovered for hours. Once, long before I was born, my father had been making his way along the sidewalk, feeling the ground with his cane, when suddenly he stumbled into one of these open holes. Disoriented and covered in the filth of the sewage basin, he realized he had lost a tooth. It was the last time he went outside by himself.

  When I entered preschool at the age of three, I became his guide. He would take my hand, we’d start walking, and I would tell him what I saw: a car coming from the right, a pothole, a man running. After a few years, we no longer needed words. All it took was a small tug to the left or the right; he would always follow my lead. It was as if we were bound together by an invisible ribbon. As if my eyes were his eyes.

  This is how we walked through Yarmouk, one of the most vibrant and crowded neighborhoods of Damascus. The buildings were raw, unfinished, unpainted, and the streets were always clogged, full of honking cars. Tiny alleyways branched off the main roads, narrow and crooked, barely wide enough for a person to pass through. Whenever my father and I made our way through this tangled web, we chatted about everything and nothing. Then, out of the blue, my father would say, “Turn here.” And he was always right. We never got lost, not once. At times I wondered if he really was blind.

  Some days we’d walk to the corner store to buy Alhamraa cigarettes, pungent and strong. He smoked two packs a day. Other days, we’d visit his favorite sister, Amina, who had studied biology. He loved to drop by for a cup of tea. Once, when his heart rate was suddenly and inexplicably elevated, I took him to the hospital. And every day, at eight in the morning, we went to my preschool together. After he dropped me off, he would visit a friend who lived around the corner. At eleven, he’d pick me up and we’d walk back home together.

  My mother, who was a teacher at a local elementary school, would come home at noon each day. For lunch, we had labneh—a kind of yogurt cream cheese—served with bread and olive oil. Or shanklish, spicy cheese balls. Sometimes my father made me a fried egg. One day while doing so, he turned on the gas stove and poured oil in the pan, but then got distracted and went into the living room. Suddenly, there was the smell of burning oil. We both ran into the kitchen. The pan was engulfed in flames; the plastic handle had melted. Panicked, my father did exactly the wrong thing: he poured water onto the burning oil.

  There was a small explosion and a giant cloud of smoke. “Get your pillow!” he yelled. I ran and brought it, and he used it to smother the fire.

  We ran out into the streets, coughing. The neighbors had seen the smoke and came running: “Everything all right?” they asked, handing us bottles of water. When my mother came home and saw what happened, she scolded him: “Ahmad, haven’t I told you a thousand times to wait until I get back?! You could have burned down the whole house.”

  “Challas, enough,” my father said. “Let’s go back in.”

  We began cleaning up the apartment. Finally, my mother said, “Abu Aeham, let’s go out for food.” I knew then that all was forgiven. My father’s name was Ahmad, but she only ever called him that when she was mad at him. Most of the time, she called him Abu Aeham, a term of endearment: “Father of Aeham.”

  The person most upset about this mishap was my father himself. He couldn’t believe this could happen to him! To him, the perfectionist! To him, who always planned ahead. He considered himself the master of his own destiny. When he was younger, he had trained to be a violinist, but then became a carpenter. Now he played the violin at weddings, in addition to building cabinets for the young couples. His two careers were intricately linked—just one crooked cabinet could spell the end of his wedding performances.

  Only once did I see him hurt himself while working. Afterward, he kept sucking on his finger for hours, like a lion with a thorn in its paw. But he couldn’t find the thorn. There was a tiny wooden splinter underneath his skin, and it had become infected. I used tweezers to pull it out.

  My father had built all our furniture with his own hands. Everything seemed massive to me. Only the colors were a little off. I loved to climb on top of the large walnut cabinet and hide. One day, a television crew showed up and shot a small segment about my father, the blind carpenter of Yarmouk.

  Another time, as we were walking down a street and I was directing my father this way and that, always trying to evade different obstacles, suddenly I heard a dull thud. My father had hit his forehead on an open window shutter. I had been looking down at our feet, without paying attention to what was right in front of us. His glasses had fallen off and he was bleeding from a cut on his forehead.

  “Papa, I’m so sorry!” I yelled, and burst into tears. He was still clutching my hand, not wanting to lose his bearings. By then, passersby had noticed us; one of them bent down to pick up the glasses. The man shot me a nasty glare. My father put his broken glasses back on. One of the lenses had a crack. Someone gave him a handkerchief and he wiped the blood off his face. I was still crying. “It’s all right, Aeham,” he said. “It’s all right, let’s go home.”

  Back at home, he took rubbing alcohol and a cotton ball from a cupboard, sat down on a chair, and dabbed at his wound. We were both silent. I watched him timidly. It was my fault that he’d been hurt! But then he stood up, gave me a kiss, and said, “Aeham, don’t worry! Things like this just happen; we can’t avoid them.”

  In those years, we often went to Duma on the weekends, outside Damascus. Duma had always been a wine-growing region, even back in the days of ancient Rome. Everyone knew that Duma had the juiciest grapes in the whole Middle East. But Duma also had many new buildings and developments. My parents had bought a small condo there. Each month, my mother set aside a fifth of her salary to pay it off.

  One morning, just after sunrise, my father and I were walking through the vineyards, along a small river and then up into the hills. Suddenly, one of the vintners who knew my father called out, “Ahmad! Come, my friend, let’s have some tea!” And so we went to his house.

  Islam tells us that God answers the prayers of the blind. Out in the countryside, where faith was extremely important, my father was always treated with the utmost reverence. We sat down under one of the gnarled vine trees. The farmer poured us tea. I leaned against the vine’s sturdy trunk and filled my belly with sweet fruit. The grapes were dangling above my head, and the rays of the morning sun made them gleam. The two men discussed the world while I enjoyed the sparkling sunlight. This is one of my most cherished childhood memories.

  When I was young, I used to draw my father as a stick figure with heavy black glasses. It’s the only way I knew him. Did he even have eyes? And if so, what did they look like?
I was curious. One day—I was already in elementary school—I asked him, “Papa, what happened to your eyes?” He looked astonished, then let out a loud, deep laugh. I joined in, high and clear, a countertenor to his baritone. “Do you really want to know?” he then asked. “I’ll show you my eyes, but promise me you won’t be scared.” I promised, and he took off his glasses, slowly turning his head from right to left. “Papa . . .” I said haltingly. It was terrible.

  His left eye looked gray and watery. The iris, the pupil, and the white uvea were fused into a dull, sightless ball. He had no right eye; there was only a hole. I learned that a student had accidentally run into my father when he was in elementary school, his index finger piercing Papa’s eye, an accident that permanently robbed him of what little vision he had left. Before that, he had only been able to tell day from night, and only with his right eye. The eyeball had been so badly injured that it had to be removed.

  I was shocked. My father, my all-powerful hero, had only one eye—and it looked terrifying. I almost cried. “I’ll always be here for you,” I stammered. “My eyes will be your eyes.” My father put his glasses back on.

  For a while, we sat together in silence. Then we couldn’t bear it anymore, and we changed the subject.

  When I think back on this moment today, in my apartment in Germany, it breaks my heart, for I left him and my mother behind in Yarmouk. I ran away.

  * * *

  Later I learned what had happened. When my father was eight years old, his eye had become infected. At the time, there were no doctors nearby, let alone eye specialists. Not then, not for a family of Palestinian refugees in a small village somewhere in Syria. My father said that several children had suffered from this illness—it must have been a virus. My grandmother made him herbal compresses. When that didn’t work, she brought him to traditional healers, who were supposed to cure the problem with the wisdom of the ancients . . . and other mumbo jumbo. The infection only got worse.