Escape from Aleppo

by N. H. Senzai

  They passed a bus, its tires gone, blocking half the road. Beyond it rose the national flag, fixed to the Syrian army checkpoint, surrounded by sandbags. A short line formed at the front, where a group of men in black shirts and camouflage pants screamed insults at a young man who stood trembling in front of them, holding out his papers. Basel gulped, and began to hum a jaunty tune. Nadia grabbed his hand and squeezed, thinking how the feisty boy reminded her of Yusuf. Trailing off on the last note, he straightened, arms naked without his rifle, which Ammo Mazen had hidden beneath the cart.

  A bald, muscular man in white tennis shoes stepped forward, ice-blue eyes trained on Ammo Mazen. Behind him hung a portrait of the president. Under it someone had scrawled: If not for the fear of God, I would worship you, Bashar, although you are a human being. Revulsion filled Nadia and she wished she could tear it to shreds.

  “Identification cards,” the soldier barked.

  Eyes downcast, Ammo Mazen presented his to him, while Nadia peered at the handful of other men from beneath her visor. They were smoking and trading jokes. One of them had an image of Bashar al-Assad tattooed on his bicep. Realization dawned that they weren’t in military uniform. Fear curled up her back, like the icy fingers of a ghost. Shabiha . . .

  “Your family name is Kader?” asked the man. Ammo Mazen nodded. “Your qayd?” the man asked.

  “Born and raised in Aleppo for ten generations,” answered Ammo Mazen.

  Aleppo? thought Nadia. She remembered him saying he’d been born in a small village in the mountains. There were no mountains in Aleppo. But this was not the time to ponder such things.

  “Who are they?” he asked, squinting at Nadia and Basel, who tried to look as meek as possible.

  “My grandchildren,” said Ammo Mazen, pushing them forward. Nadia tensed.

  “Where are their identification cards?” the soldier asked, his stance relaxing a tiny bit.

  Nadia realized what Ammo Mazen was doing. He was using them as a shield: to show that two children and a feeble old man couldn’t possibly be a threat.

  “I’m afraid they were destroyed when our home was attacked by those ruthless rebel scum,” spat Ammo Mazen.

  Even though Nadia knew he was acting, she couldn’t help but feel angry at him for maligning the rebels.

  “He’s not on the list, so I guess we can’t arrest him,” said a laughing soldier with a bandage over his face, holding a pile of papers. He did a perfunctory inspection of the cart, flipping up the tarp and poking through the meager belongings and old books.

  “I don’t know,” mused the blue-eyed man. “We may have to take in his ID for verification. It may take a few days, you know. . . .”

  “Did you work for the rebels?” said the bandaged man, giving his cohort a wink.

  Nadia tensed. Dangerous, a voice hissed inside her head. The wrong answer could get you taken to detention, or worse.

  “No, I’m but a poor book repairer,” said Ammo Mazen meekly, pulling a small paperback book from his satchel. “This may help clear things up.”

  The soldier took it as if it were a smelly piece of dung. From the middle, he took out two crisp bills. Nadia squinted. American dollars! He tossed the book away and slipped the money into his pocket. “You can go,” he said, and stepped back.

  Legs trembling, Nadia grabbed Basel’s arm, and they hurried beside the cart. Barely a hundred yards away, behind another mountain of sandbags, stood six men in a mixture of civilian and military clothes, checking the papers for a beat-up old Jeep.

  “Salaam, brothers,” Ammo Mazen called out as the Jeep left. “What a lovely gift of rain Allah has been providing us.”

  “Something he should have sent years ago,” grumbled a bearded young man.

  “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” replied one of his companions, eyes stern.

  “Is Dr. Saleem not on post tonight?” asked Ammo Mazen.

  “You know Dr. Saleem?” asked the bearded man, the tension in his face easing a bit.

  “I used to work at the university where he taught history,” said Ammo Mazen.

  The man’s stance softened further. “He’s not here tonight. Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name is Mazen Kader. Barmeela destroyed our home, but thanks to Allah, we managed to escape with our lives and a few meager belongings. We are going to my sister’s house near the Old City.”

  “Identification papers?”

  Ammo Mazen handed him his identification card. “Unfortunately, we couldn’t find my grandchildren’s papers in the rubble. Mine was in my wallet.”

  “I hardly think he and the children are Assad’s spies,” scoffed the young man, eyes softening as he elbowed his bearded friend.

  Nadia and Basel returned a shaky smile, playing their part, as the men quickly examined the cart.

  “Keep out of sight of the radio tower!” they called out as Nadia and her companions moved on. “A bastard Syrian army sniper takes particular delight in shooting children.”

  “Come quickly, children,” said Ammo Mazen as they scurried toward billowing sheets, strung up along the road to protect travelers from the tower on the other side.

  Nadia needed no urging as she sidestepped pools of blood—some dried up and blackened, others still bright red and wet.

  • • •

  “Where are we going?” grumbled Nadia, wondering what stupid errand was so important to the old man. According to her watch it was nearly ten, and her leg ached horribly. They’d been wandering the back streets and every little sound set her nerves on edge.

  “It’s not far,” said Ammo Mazen, pausing to squint down a shadowy street. “Basel, can you tell me what the sign over there says?”

  Basel narrowed his gaze. “It’s some kind of furniture store, sir,” he said. “The sign has no name, just the picture of a cedar tree.”

  “Good,” said Ammo Mazen, and directed them to hide behind a cluster of steel drums lined up beside a metalwork shop. After making sure that Nadia, Basel, Jamila, and the cart were hidden, he hurried to the store and knelt beneath the sign. When he returned, Nadia saw a candle sputtering on the step.

  “What’s that?” asked Nadia, confused.

  “It’s a signal for my contact,” said Ammo Mazen, settling down beside them. He began to cough, and used his handkerchief to muffle the sound. He pulled his threadbare coat tighter and closed his eyes.

  More waiting, thought Nadia, as Basel drew on the ground with a piece of charcoal he’d found. Frustrated, she stared at the lonely candle flame, dancing in the darkness.

  Chapter Sixteen

  April 27, 2012

  Bashar is altogether a different beast.” Jiddo’s voice was heavy with worry. Nadia glanced at her grandfather, surprised again at how frail he’d become. The tall, robust man she’d grown up with was now a shrunken, faded version of himself who existed on a ration of medicines. And these days he appeared on edge, confused, as he watched the world as he’d known it disintegrate before his eyes. “He’ll not let Syria slip from his fingers like those other foolish rulers,” he continued. “Even though the world is pressuring Bashar to step down, including that President Obama of America.”

  Nadia’s father sighed. “I met a few of our business partners over dinner last night. Many of them still support Assad—their livelihoods are linked to the government.”

  Nadia set a pot of tea on the table, eavesdropping as the grown-ups sat around the living room. Jad sat in the corner, quietly surfing the Internet, face pensive. Over the past year Nadia’s interest in the Arab Spring had grown by necessity, since everyone at school was talking about it. After government troops gunned down protestors in Deraa, part of the Syrian army had revolted, splitting off to form the Free Syrian Army. Hundreds of rebel groups had sprung up around the country, including among the Kurdish people in the north. They all had their own agendas and ideologies; the only thing in common was a hatred for the Assad regime and the desire to bring it down.

  “He’
s terrified,” said Ammo Hadi in disgust. “And in order to maintain power he’ll do anything. You saw the videos coming out of the city of Homs. He killed innocent civilians for protesting, just like his father did in Hama back in the 1980s.”

  He’s right, thought Nadia, being more helpful than usual by passing out cups of tea. Unlike other authoritarian rulers, like Ben Ali of Tunisia, who ran away to Saudi Arabia; or Egypt’s Hosni Mubarak, who was put on trial; or Libya’s Muammar Qaddafi, who was killed, Bashar al-Assad had dug in his heels, keeping a death grip on power over Syria.

  “And the United Nations’ cease-fire was a total failure,” said Nadia’s mother. “Bashar, with Russian and Iranian support, still claims that he controls the country and that nothing is wrong.”

  “And the rebels are shouting as loud as they can that government forces are slaughtering civilians and attacking rebel strongholds,” said Nadia’s father. “It’s a stalemate. And with foreign embassies closing in droves, there’s no one to see the truth of what is happening here.”

  “What does the United Nations think?” said Khala Lina. “They sent in six peacekeepers to monitor twenty-three million people, over hundreds of thousands of square miles. Ridiculous!”

  “And to think we are in this mess because Bashar became president by accident,” grunted Ammo Hadi. “If his older brother, groomed for the presidency, hadn’t died in the car crash, Bashar would still be just an eye doctor.”

  “No point in dwelling on that,” said Nadia’s father. “His brother would probably have been as bad. As soon as Hafez finished burying him, he was getting Bashar ready for the presidential throne.”

  Nadia frowned, wondering how a doctor, sworn to protect the sanctity of life, had turned on his own people like a bloodthirsty vampire.

  Ammo Zayn took a sip of tea and finally got in a word. “A group of mukhabarat showed up at the factory this morning.”

  “What?” said Khala Shakira, shocked. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you, my dear,” said Ammo Zayn.

  Nadia’s father frowned at his younger brother. “You should have told me immediately. What did they want?”

  “You were out, so was Hadi,” said Ammo Zayn. “They wanted to know about an old friend of mine, from my university days. I told them I hadn’t seen him in years, or talked to him.”

  “That’s good,” said Ammo Hadi. “We do not want our family under their scrutiny.”

  “It’s okay, brother, you worry too much,” said Ammo Zayn.

  Jiddo closed his eyes and leaned back in his favorite chair. “Unlike people in other countries in the region, we Syrians have had a good life. Why experiment with something that could be worse? These rebels should go away.”

  “But the swell of rage from Deraa is spilling over,” said Nana, who’d been sitting quietly beside Nadia’s mother. “The people are no longer cowering, despite Bashar’s fist.”

  “The demonstrations in Aleppo are getting bigger and bigger,” Jad piped up.

  Jiddo just wants to stick his head in the sand, like an ostrich, and make all the commotion go away, thought Nadia, worry nibbling at her insides. Nana is right; the Syrian people are no longer staying silent.

  Chapter Seventeen

  October 10, 2013 11:22 p.m.

  We could have been halfway to Turkey by now, but no, we’re wasting time on some stupid errand, Nadia thought for the millionth time, huddled behind the drums, her patience spent. Mishmish kept growling, wanting out, but Nadia was afraid to release him. What if he disappeared again? She knew he didn’t need to pee; he’d done that an hour or so ago. So she put her hand in the sack and tried to soothe him with a lengthy scratch under the chin, the way Tarek had done. He should have come with us, she thought with a pang of remorse. How is he going to survive on his own?

  Basel was snuggled up next to her, his head lolling against her shoulder. Irritated, she looked down and was about to shove him away when she caught the look of tranquility on his small, dirty face. Like air exhaling from a balloon, anger drained from her and she let him use her as a pillow as he slept. At least he was warm. She was about to ask Ammo Mazen how much longer they were going to be, when he raised his hand in warning. She peered through a gap between the drums. From up the street shuffled a stooped figure. A lantern hung from his hand. As he neared, Nadia glimpsed shaggy white hair, a sharp nose, and a lumpy hand-knit sweater. Footsteps slowed as the man reached the spot where they hid. As if out for a nightly stroll, he stood and casually recited: “ ‘In captivity, a lover suffers in disgrace. And tears flood down his lonely face. In Byzantine land, his body must reside.’ ”

  He paused, as if having forgotten the last bit. Nadia recognized the words right away. It was one of Nana’s favorite poems, one she’d made all the boys memorize so that they would have some culture. Even though she wasn’t a particular fan of poetry, unless sung to music, even Nadia appreciated the words of Abu Firas al-Hamdani, one of the greatest Arab poets of the tenth century.

  To her surprise, Ammo Mazen slowly stood and responded, “ ‘Though in Syrian land his heart does still abide. A lonesome stranger and out of place! Where none with love may him embrace.’ ”

  “Mazen, is that you?” asked the man, holding up the lantern to see more clearly.

  “Salaam, Brother Rasheed, yes, it is,” replied Ammo Mazen.

  “Wonderful to see you,” said the man, looking a little startled when Basel popped up, awake now, followed by Nadia. She saw that he had black patch covering his left eye. “But I wasn’t expecting you for another week. Is everything all right?”

  Ammo Mazen smiled and angled his head toward the kids. “Is there anything truly all right anymore?” But it wasn’t really a question. “I’m afraid I need to head north, so this will be my last mission.”

  Nadia gave Ammo Mazen an odd look at the word “mission” and anxiety pooled in her belly. Is he a spy? Who does he work for? Assad’s forces or the rebels? Her blood ran cold. Or the mukhabarat? But that didn’t make any sense. He’d been avoiding their cars whenever they’d run across them.

  “How is your eye?” asked Ammo Mazen.

  “I had hoped to regain my sight, but I’m afraid it’s gone. At least I am alive. But forget that—I’m saddened to hear that we will be losing you sooner than we hoped,” said Rasheed. “And it’s lucky I was still home and spotted your signal from the window.”

  “A blessing indeed,” replied Ammo Mazen.

  “All right, then, follow me. Things have changed much since we saw you last. Operations had to be shifted to a more secure location after one of those foreign rebel battalions began to harass us.” Rasheed extinguished the candle and led them down a narrow street between the shop with the sign of a tree and a shuttered café.

  “I don’t know about this,” muttered Nadia, pulling her coat tighter.

  “It’ll be okay,” said Basel, giving her a smile as he slipped a piece of charcoal he’d been using to draw into his pocket. He stayed beside her as they darted through a series of streets until they came to a nondescript, low-slung concrete building in a rubbish-filled lot, the shuttered door behind a broken-down truck. Following the men inside, Nadia stilled, inhaling a familiar, sharp metallic scent, a smell she’d recognize anywhere. Phosphate. Dug up from mines in the countryside, the mineral had arrived in trucks at her grandfather’s factory, where it was made into fertilizer.

  If phosphate was not handled properly, it could cause an explosion, her father had warned them during one of his lengthy chemistry lectures. The talk had come soon after her birthday party, when Jad and Malik had gotten into trouble for experimenting with the mineral. Her father had grounded Jad, but had also been impressed by how the boys ingeniously used phosphate to make colorful smoke bombs. Thankfully, Jad and Malik had kept their mouths shut and not named Nadia as a co-conspirator. When she’d caught them watching Internet videos on how to make smoke bombs, she’d blackmailed them into letting her help them, sayin
g if they didn’t, she’d tell their parents. Initially ticked off, they’d soon realized how useful she could be: She was the one who got them needed ingredients, like sugar and aluminum foil, from the kitchen. An image of Jad, Malik, and her father flashed in her mind and she clenched her father’s cap in her fist. I have to reach them.

  Rasheed relit his lantern while Ammo Mazen pulled out his flashlight, illuminating a cavernous hall. Nadia squinted into the musty space, looking for the source of the smell. A few ripped bags of fertilizer sat against the wall, where rainwater dripped, forming a pool on the floor. Trailing behind the others, she saw that the room was separated into two sections by a wide arched doorway in the middle.

  “You can leave Jamila here,” said Rasheed, pointing to a spot beside the doorway. Unlike the other side of the building, this one was crammed to the ceiling with all sorts of odds and ends: towers of old newspaper, bales of hay, wooden boxes, and an assortment of cardboard boxes.

  “This way,” said Rasheed, pushing aside stacks of folded cardboard. He shuffled toward a tall wooden crate leaning against the left corner.

  “Where are we going?” Basel whispered to Nadia. Nadia shrugged, feeling as confused as he did.

  At the crate, Rasheed pulled aside the front panel. Behind where it had been, a set of stone steps descended into darkness.

  “Wow,” whispered Basel, eyes wide. “It’s a secret hideout, like the one in ‘Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.’ ”

  “Watch your step,” cautioned Rasheed, starting down.