The Pianist from Syria

by Aeham Ahmad

  “Challas, enough,” Tahani said. “Let’s go inside.”

  Inside, we continued our argument. When we finally calmed down, I set out to try to find a solution to our problem. I felt panicked, for we didn’t have much time. How could we save her life?

  The next day, we went to the hospital in al-Hajar al-Aswad. By that time, the hospital had already been under rocket fire three times, but so far, the bombs had missed. We asked for Abu Baraa, the doctor. Tahani had asked around, and he was the one everyone recommended. Before the war he used to be an anesthetist. Now he also did C-sections.

  He came out to greet us. He had grown out his beard, like one of the Salafists, the fundamentalist group behind the al-Nusra Front.

  Which meant he wouldn’t make eye contact with women. After all, that was haram. So it was up to me to do all the talking. Abu Baraa tried everything he could to get out of having to do a C-section, but he was the only one who could do it. So he had to make a decision: Which would be the lesser evil, letting a woman die or having to look at her? He grudgingly agreed to do it.

  I even found an IV bag, in a small bookstore next to the field hospital. I had to pay a security deposit of thirty-five thousand Syrian pounds, around seventy dollars, and I had to leave my ID as collateral. It was a small plastic card with the words LIMITED RESIDENCE PERMIT FOR PALESTINIANS. Then I had to sign a paper stating that I would return an IV drip with glucose infusion within six months. Otherwise I would lose my money and my ID card.

  I had always steered clear of the rebels. But now they were my last chance. There was a guy named Abu Manhal living in our neighborhood. He had a deep, monotonous voice and was one of the few people who didn’t seem to lose any weight during the siege. Probably because he was a member of a militia group affiliated with Hamas. He ran their charity outreach, providing himself and his people with plenty of food and medicine. This, of course, was an enormous incentive to join.

  Tahani had a friend named Hanin, a distant relative of mine who lived in our building, a very warmhearted and helpful person. Among other things, she often brought a hot lunch over to Abu Manhal. As a result, their relationship was quite friendly. Perhaps she would be able to help me. I went to see her. Together, we walked over to Abu Manhal’s office. Hanin entered first; a little later, she waved for me to come in.

  Abu Manhal sat behind his desk, which was covered with piles of paper. There was a small television set with a battery and—I noted with astonishment—an ashtray. I explained our situation to him and asked if there was something he could do for us.

  “All right, I’ll see. I can probably arrange something,” he said.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “I’m sure I’ll be able to justify it somehow. I’ll mention that your father is blind and that you’re in a tight spot.”

  “How are you going to get the syringes?”

  “Let me worry about that. Come back the day after tomorrow.”

  Two days later, Hanin and I came back. The office looked just like before, with Abu Manhal sitting behind his paper-covered desk. After we entered, he put three syringes and a glucose drip on the table. Suddenly, I felt scared, thinking he might suddenly hand me a rifle and recruit me on the spot. The items on his desk were more valuable than diamonds. Those three syringes with antibiotics were worth as much as a human life. If one of their fighters needed bullets removed or a limb amputated, his life depended on exactly this kind of injection.

  When Abu Manhal gave me the items, I started to feel my eyes well up with tears. At that moment, I would have done anything for him. If he had asked me to quit making music and become an al-Nusra fighter, I would have said yes.

  “Thank you, thanks a thousand times, Abu Manhal!” I cried. “Whatever you need from me, I am ready.”

  “There’s nothing I need from you. Don’t tell anyone about it, praise the Prophet, and pray for us, that’s all,” he said in Classical Arabic, as is fitting for a Salafist. “I wish your wife a speedy recovery.”

  “What, you don’t want anything? At least let me give you money for the IV!”

  “With all due respect, that’s enough! I don’t want to hear any more about it!” he said indignantly.

  “May God protect you, sir,” I said. “I owe you a debt of gratitude.” I had already started calling him “sir”! Just like a Salafist.

  “Take your syringes and your drip and go!” he said.

  I left. I had only a transparent plastic bag with me; that’s where I put the syringes and the drip. It was about as inconspicuous as carrying gold bullion. People were whispering. At first, I found it strange, then I understood how I must have looked. I quickly hid the bag under my jacket and dashed home right away.

  “Look what I found,” I said to Tahani, and pulled the bag out from under my jacket.

  “God has answered my prayers!” she called out, and hugged me. “He didn’t want me to stay away from you!”

  I went back to the bookstore to return the first IV drip. The guy couldn’t believe it: “How did you manage to do that? I never thought you’d be able to get a drip!”

  “Well, I found one,” I said.

  “If you don’t tell me where you got that drip, I won’t return your money or your ID!”

  Abu Manhal had sworn me to secrecy. Now, I may have been stupid enough to carry all that stuff in a transparent plastic bag, but it would have been a huge mistake to give out his name. I would have been executed for that.

  But the guy kept trying to pump me for information. I kept on lying. “Brother, I smuggled it in from outside, from the regime-controlled area,” I lied.

  “Wait, you have regime connections? Tell me! Where did you get the drip?” His eyes kept boring into mine.

  In the end, he returned only twenty-five thousand Syrian pounds—around forty dollars—out of the total amount I had left as a deposit. I insisted that he tear up the note I had signed, but he refused. And when he returned my ID, I saw that one corner of the plastic card was damaged. Damn! A damaged ID card could get you in trouble. The soldiers at a regime checkpoint might mistake you for a Salafist, a follower of Adnan al-Arour, a populist TV preacher with a hook nose and a bushy beard who told his people to destroy their ID cards. From that point on, anyone with a damaged ID card was suspected to be a supporter of his.

  If they snatched me up, I could immediately be charged with three violations—desertion, a damaged ID card, and distributing satirical songs. They’d probably think I was some kind of opposition leader, and I’d face certain death.

  I was fuming with anger about the damaged ID card and kept complaining loudly, until I finally thought better of it. After all, the guy was armed. So I took my twenty-five thousand pounds and my damaged ID card and went home. Now poor Tahani had to endure my rage. I once again accused her of getting us into hot water. We argued loudly and, yes, in my anger I might have even insulted the Prophet. Our window was open. Our voices could be heard out on the street.

  Suddenly, I heard a banging on the building door downstairs. Someone was kicking it! I heard a voice yelling, “You infidel, you dog!”

  Oh no! I looked out the window. I saw a man dressed all in black by the door. He had a black turban, black flowing robes, and a long beard. Probably a member of the al-Nusra Front. He must have heard me cursing. Tahani and I silently gestured at each other. She rushed down to the door; I ran up to the third floor. Over the past few months, the al-Nusra Front had instituted a Sharia court. Two people suspected of espionage had already been hung from a tree.

  “Yes?” asked Tahani through the closed door.

  “Who was cursing here, my sister?” the man asked.

  “I didn’t hear anything. I swear!” Tahani called out.

  The man didn’t believe a single word of it. “All right, this time I’ll let you off,” he said. “But we know the building. If we come by here again and hear someone cursing, we’ll execute all of you.”

  For three days I didn’t dare step out of the door. />
  * * *

  Tahani’s new due date was November 20, 2014. At least that’s what Abu Baraa had told us. When the day arrived, my mother accompanied Tahani to the makeshift hospital. She wanted to get there two hours earlier, so that there would be enough time for the generator-powered heaters to warm up the room. Tahani absolutely insisted I be there. My mother was strictly opposed. So, for the time being, I stayed at home. Until I couldn’t stand it anymore and walked to the hospital.

  Abu Baraa, the doctor with the Salafist’s beard, caught up with me and asked me into his office. He gave me a probing, serious look.

  “I hope you’re aware that your wife might die.”

  I nodded.

  “Here, sign this. I want you to assume full responsibility in case anything goes wrong.”

  He handed me a sheet of paper, which I signed.

  Then we went into the operating room. It was completely unsanitary. Surgical tools were lying out in the open. No one was wearing face masks, scrubs, or plastic coverings over their feet. Tahani was on a stretcher in the middle of the room. I went to her, took her hand, and smiled at her.

  Abu Baraa gave her small, localized injections of painkillers into her stomach, the kind you usually get at a dentist’s office. It was the only anesthetic she received. But it seemed to have no effect. Tahani was completely aware of everything that was happening. She kept moaning with pain.

  “Sister, don’t be afraid, we’re almost done,” Abu Baraa said to her. “I’m sorry I can’t give you anything else against the pain. Just five more minutes.”

  “Aeham, where are you?” she moaned, her eyes closed.

  “I’m here,” I said, and squeezed her hand. With my other hand I stroked her head.

  “Don’t go away.”

  “I’m staying with you.”

  Of course, there were no drapes that could protect her abdomen from our gazes. But I couldn’t bear to look; I just kept looking at Tahani’s face the whole time.

  Suddenly, Abu Baraa held the crying baby by its feet, detached the umbilical cord, and handed the child to my mother. The room was still cold, so my mother immediately took the baby over to the table and put some clothes on it, despite all the blood. She rocked and comforted the baby, while Abu Baraa sewed the wound. I comforted Tahani, who was crying out in pain.

  “Is everything okay with Kinan?” she asked me, referring to our newborn son by name.

  “Yes, everything is fine.”

  And then she, too, was allowed to hold our baby in her arms. She was completely exhausted.

  But how should we get home? I asked Abu Baraa if we could borrow the hospital’s stretcher. It had wheels, after all. He said no.

  So I went looking for Hanin. Together, we went back to Abu Manhal. He managed to organize a minibus through his religious charity. The four of us carried Tahani on a blanket into the minibus. Her belly, freshly stitched, was poking out.

  Again, she moaned in pain. Later, she told me that at that moment she had felt like a cow getting slaughtered.

  At home, I gently led her up the stairs and put her in bed. Then I heated the apartment with wood. My mother took care of tiny Kinan while I went downstairs to fetch my father and little Ahmad.

  “What is that?” Ahmad asked when he saw the baby.

  “Your brother,” I exclaimed.

  “Where did he come from?”

  “You know! From Mama’s belly.”

  It didn’t seem as if he understood.

  My father bent down and whispered a traditional prayer in Kinan’s ear, the Muslim’s version of a baptism, the words that we hear coming from the minarets five times a day:

  God is great. I bear witness that there are no gods, there is only God. I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of God. Come to prayer. Come to salvation. God is great. God is great. There are no gods, there is only God.

  Then my father said hello to little Kinan. He gently touched him, from the nose down to the toes, forming his own mental image of the child.

  But I couldn’t be happy. My concerns were too great. I was scared for Tahani. What if the wound got infected? What if she died? What if little Kinan wasn’t healthy? After all, Tahani hadn’t been able to eat enough during her pregnancy, and she had constantly worried. But I had to keep on going. I took care of the household, I got us water and wood. I was neither proud nor happy.

  After two weeks, Kinan began opening his eyes. He started to move and make little squeaky noises. For Tahani, too, the worst was over. That’s when the tension finally left me. Soon, my parents took the baby into the downstairs workshop with them. My father played his violin for Kinan, and my mother sang to him.

  A few months later, I sat at the piano and was playing to myself when suddenly Kinan said “dadada,” as if he wanted to sing with me. My heart leapt with joy, and I took him on my lap to sing with him. That was when I finally understood: I have another son.

  — CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE —

  Late in the previous summer, when Tahani was still in Damascus, a film director from the United Arab Emirates named Aya Osman had contacted me, wanting to make a documentary, tentatively titled The Pianist of Yarmouk. She had been inspired by our videos, and asked that we send her as much footage as possible about our everyday life.

  I had my doubts, but Raed was all in. He absolutely wanted to do this film, and he didn’t want any money for it. The most important thing was to spread our message about what was happening in Yarmouk. So we agreed.

  Tahani was still in Damascus—this was right before Kinan’s birth. In those days, Raed constantly followed me around, making videos of me with his cell phone and an SLR camera. We were busting our chops, and we ended up with 240 gigabytes of raw footage.

  At that time, we kept the Rama electric moped in front of our building, out on the street. We gave our Wi-Fi password to anyone who volunteered to pedal for a while. Of course, we changed the password every day. And so, every day, the neighborhood boys gathered in front of our building. Everyone pedaled for a while, and then they surfed the internet. That allowed us to charge extra batteries and run two routers at the same time. We managed to upload one gigabyte per day. Not bad for a siege, but it wasn’t enough. Even if our entire neighborhood had volunteered to pedal, it would take us fifty years to upload all the footage.

  But Raed was only getting started. He suggested to the director that we shoot even more material and send it to the Emirates on SD cards. His plan was simple: He was going to enlist a woman to smuggle the memory cards from Yarmouk to Damascus in her bra. From there, the cards could be sent to Beirut via a courier and then by mail to the Emirates. The director was delighted.

  Generally, women were not searched very thoroughly at the checkpoints. But I didn’t know that the woman Raed had chosen had already gotten busted before, and the soldiers at the checkpoints knew who she was. When she approached the checkpoint—this one was run by an FSA battalion called “Ababil Horan”—they pulled her from the crowd, and a female militia member frisked her. Guess what she found? Our memory cards, hidden in the woman’s bra.

  But at least Raed had had the foresight to encrypt the material. The fighters tried accessing the cards, but in vain. The woman was now under suspicion. They thought she was trying to pass secret military information about the rebels to the regime, and so they began to interrogate the hapless courier. In no time, she gave up Raed’s name. Half an hour later, a strike force showed up at Raed’s door and arrested him.

  Raed’s wife came running to me in tears. We ran over to Marwan. What should we do? We couldn’t possibly search for Raed ourselves. The militants would have arrested us all. But we’d made a promise to Raed’s wife. We had to do something. And so we began talking to all his friends and neighbors. But no one knew where Raed was being held.

  There wasn’t much time. Every day, we discussed our options. I kept Aya Osman, the director in the Emirates, up to date. At first, she pretended to be full of compassion: “Oh no, the poor man
! What can we possibly do?” And so on. But after a while, she didn’t even answer my calls anymore. She was probably terrified of getting involved. I tried calming her down, but there was an open question: What if the battalion asked for a ransom payment? Would she be willing to help? Her answer stunned me: “Well, I’m not sure. It’s a low-budget production.” After that, there was only silence.

  On the fourth day, someone had an idea that finally turned things around: We decided to go to the sheikh, the preacher at the local mosque, to ask him to look into Raed’s disappearance. Raed had always been a very helpful person to everyone. And thank goodness for that. He was a man with many friends. We were a group of twenty, knocking at the sheikh’s door. He stepped outside to greet us. He was old and heavyset, with a long beard and wearing a white djellaba. We explained our predicament and said we would vouch for Raed. The sheikh nodded and promised to see what he could do. “Come back in two days,” he said, then bid us farewell.

  Two days later we returned, the same twenty men. The sheikh said he knew where Raed was being held. Come with me, he said. Together, we went to a half-destroyed building in the no-man’s-land between Yalda and Yarmouk. Several cars were parked out front. The sheikh went inside. He must have been in there for a good thirty minutes, but finally he came out with the battalion commander. The two men approached us. After a few yards, the commander stopped and looked at us.

  “We want Raed! We want Raed!” we chanted, a choir of twenty voices. At first, we spoke hesitantly, then we grew louder and louder. We were looking straight into the commander’s eyes. The commander turned to the sheikh. The sheikh shrugged and gestured with both hands toward us, as if to say: See what I mean?

  Not a word was spoken. Both men left again. A short while later, the sheikh came out—with Raed! He was walking hunched over; his shoelaces were undone, and his shirt was unbuttoned. We crowded around him, beaming with joy. His hands were swollen, his eyes half-closed from pain and exhaustion. “I can’t talk right now,” he said, breathing weakly. We slowly walked back with him. This was a small revolution. When we turned into his street, his wife was waiting by the window. She thrust herself into his arms.