by N. H. Senzai
The fire Mohamed Bouazizi had ignited to protest the mistreatment by Tunisian authorities had leapt from one country to the next, across the Middle East. Throwing off the shackles of fear, people rose up with demands for aysh, hurriya, karama, adala ijtima’ia—bread, freedom, dignity, and social justice—and began a revolution. Now that fire had ignited Aleppo.
Chapter Twenty
October 11, 2013 2:44 a.m.
An hour after their departure from Professor Laila’s hideout, the small group zigzagged through the streets, heading east, avoiding checkpoints. Finally, they paused to rest at the quiet intersection of Zoher and Hafez Streets when Basel insisted he needed to go to the bathroom. Even Mishmish lay slumped in his favorite spot on the cart, behind Jamila’s tail. The donkey snorted, shaking her head in a huff, as she and Nadia eyed each other in weary understanding. Nadia collapsed onto the curb, staring down at her tattered shoes and dusty jeans. She pulled off her visor, thinking she’d never been so dirty and exhausted in all her life. One more stop, she thought with a frown. Ammo Mazen promised we’ll head north to Turkey after a final errand. And like last time, he hadn’t told them much about where they were going, just that they needed to meet someone in Jdeideh Quarter. The fact that he was so secretive was beyond irritating, and left her a little nervous. The old man had proven that he was far more than a book repairer, and she was trying to be patient, which wasn’t exactly her strong suit.
Laila and Rasheed had tried to get them to stay the night, insisting that Ammo Mazen needed to rest, but he’d refused. Nadia was relieved. With hugs and good wishes, they’d left. Professor Laila’s group, Nadia realized, no matter how dedicated and hardworking, was but a buoy bobbing in a tidal wave of destruction. Can saving a clay tablet, some books, and coins really preserve five thousand years of history and culture? She gazed at the nondescript multistory building standing on the opposite side of the street and couldn’t help but feel hopeless.
“That was the Italian consulate,” said Ammo Mazen, eyeing the building Nadia was blankly staring at. “The Italians left as soon as the fighting began. The Americans, Canadians, British, French—all gone.”
Basel’s face darkened as he returned from going to the bathroom. “Stinking French,” he muttered.
“What do you know about the French?” asked Ammo Mazen, amused by the boy’s fierce expression.
“My grandfather told me stories, sir,” said Basel, puffing out his chest. “His father was the leader of our village. The French tried to steal their land when they refused to pay their stupid taxes, so he led an epic battle against them. They still talk about it.”
The echo of a long-ago lesson from her history teacher popped into Nadia’s head. “It was the British, too,” she muttered. “After the Allied Powers defeated the Ottomans and Germans in World War One, they carved up Arab lands for themselves.”
“Looks like they’re teaching kids something useful in school these days,” said Ammo Mazen, a twinkle in his eye.
Stung that he thought she didn’t know much, the lesson came tumbling from her mouth. “It was called the Sykes-Picot Agreement,” she muttered. “Britain took Palestine, Transjordan, and Iraq so they could connect to their empire in India. Greater Syria and Lebanon went to France.”
“The French stole Lebanon, too?” squeaked Basel, outraged.
“Yes,” said Ammo Mazen. “And to control the people whose land they occupied, they sowed seeds of division among them. Originally they wanted to create an Alawite, Sunni, Druze, and Christian state. But in the end, they created six—Jabal Druze, Aleppo, Alawite, Damascus, Alexandretta, and Greater Lebanon.”
As Basel asked Ammo Mazen how the French were able to maintain power, Nadia couldn’t help but compare them to the Alawites, who also kept the majority of Muslims and Christians under their thumb. “Things would have been different if Faisal had become a true king,” she mumbled, remembering the Arab leader who’d brought Sunni and Shias together. He’d fought with the Allied Powers, hoping to create an independent Arab state.
Ammo Mazen shook his head in irritation, cheeks flushed. “They played Faisal for a fool, allowing him to be a puppet king—a lion without teeth. In the end, France and Britain did what benefited them.” He took a raspy breath and pulled out his handkerchief, suddenly overtaken by a fit of coughing.
“Are you okay, sir?” asked Basel as he helped Ammo Mazen sit on the back of the cart.
The old man cleared his throat. “Tired lungs, my boy,” he said, taking a sip of water from a plastic bottle Nadia handed him.
Basel was about to ask something when a few blocks up Nadia saw a set of headlights cruise by. A Mercedes. Is it the same one we saw earlier? Fear flared through her.
Ammo Mazen rose from the back of the cart, eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. “Come, children,” he said urgently. He grabbed Jamila’s reins and hobbled past the consulate into a narrow alley.
They detoured north toward Gare de Bagdad, the deserted train station, and cut across the train tracks. Nadia eyed the ghostly blue-and-white carriages standing idle on the tracks, and a derailed engine. She remembered riding in a similar carriage, watching the countryside flash by, and shelling salty-sweet pistachios from the trip to Damascus she’d just taken with her family. She’d been eight. Oh, how I would give anything to be back with them again.
Ammo Mazen, his breathing heavy, slowed upon turning onto a wide, tree-lined avenue, distinctive with its mix of European and Middle Eastern architecture. Missiles and bombs, unimpressed by the upscale apartment blocks and villas, had wrought their damage here as they had on the rest of the city. As the group turned left at the next intersection, heading north, bright lights and the sound of pulsating music startled them. A string of cafés were filled with well-dressed young people drinking coffee and smoking shisha; the sweet smell of apple-scented smoke filtered down the street toward them.
“Where are we?” asked Nadia in amazement.
“Aziziyeh,” said Ammo Mazen.
Aziziyeh, thought Nadia. An affluent suburb in the northwest of the city. A few young men hovered on ladders, connecting a generator to wires strung with brightly colored lights. They were acting as if they didn’t even know a war raged around them.
“Do you think they have something to eat?” Basel muttered longingly.
Ammo Mazen eyed the throngs and shook his head, his face pallid and lined.
“Wait,” said Nadia desperately. “Maybe they have a working telephone. I can call my father.”
“No,” said Ammo Mazen, moving on, but more slowly this time, wincing as if he were in pain. “It’s not safe.”
“But . . . ,” began Nadia, but he’d already turned away, leaving her feeling angry.
“Ammo is right,” said Basel, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “Something doesn’t seem right. . . . It’s best to go.”
Reluctantly, she followed as a soulful voice floated toward them. It’s Abdul Karim Hamdan. He’d been a contestant on Arab Idol that summer, a local boy. Haunting lyrics wove over them as they headed down the street, piercing her heart anew: Oh, Aleppo, oh, my country, you are a spring of suffering in my country.
Coming to the end of a narrow street, Nadia saw something sparkle high above their heads and slowed.
“Wow,” whispered Basel, staring at a glittering arrangement of CDs strung between the buildings and spelling out “Art is peace.” Wondering who had risked their life to spend hours creating the display, Nadia hurried to catch up with the cart, dragging Basel with her.
As they turned the corner, they heard the screech of tires and saw a car barreling toward them. It stopped, angled sideways, blocking the street. It was a Mercedes. Like the one they’d slipped past hours earlier.
“You two,” whispered Ammo Mazen. “Get behind the cart.” He reached under the tarp to open the secret compartment. From within its depths, he extracted something. Something metallic.
A gun . . . it’s a gun, thought Nadia, heart racing. She share
d a panicked look with Basel as Ammo tucked the weapon into the back of his waistband.
The driver-side window rolled down, revealing a burly, thick-set man with a craggy face. “Salaam, Brother Ahmed, I’ve been looking all over town for you!”
Nadia frowned. Who’s Ahmed? She glanced at Ammo Mazen. A relieved smile had replaced the look of apprehension. “Walaikum assalaam, Brother Sulaiman,” he said. “Unfortunately, I haven’t had a chance to swing by to see you.”
Sulaiman got out of the car and came toward them, his heavy leather jacket hanging loosely above his khaki pants. “Who’re the kids?” Sulaiman asked suspiciously.
“Don’t worry about them,” said Ammo Mazen. “They have their uses.”
What does that mean? thought Nadia with a frown.
“Brother Ahmed, I’m in a tight spot,” said Sulaiman, his tone weary. “My commander’s been breathing down my neck all week. He wants the information you promised me.”
“I’m sorry, Brother Sulaiman,” said Ammo Mazen, extracting an envelope from inside the secret compartment, along with a bar of gold from the black bag. “It took a while to pinpoint the location of the men you’re looking for. They’ve moved their command post deeper into Salaheddine.”
Nadia looked from one man to the other. Why is Ammo Mazen giving information on rebels to someone from the mukhabarat?
“Thank you. This is very helpful,” said Sulaiman. He slipped the envelope and gold into his inside jacket pocket. “This will make my commander and his team happy; just enough information to go in search of the rebels, but not enough to actually find them. It will keep them busy for a while.”
Nadia was even more confused.
“Yes, it’s a tricky dance we perform,” said Ammo Mazen, exhaustion lining his face.
“Indeed it is,” said Sulaiman, giving him a conspiratorial wink.
“Thank you for the tip on the location of the rare manuscripts last month,” said Ammo Mazen. “We were able to save them.”
“That is wonderful,” said Sulaiman, checking his watch. “I must go, but I wanted to tell you to be careful, brother. Rumors are floating about, of an old man causing trouble, poking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Those higher up have given orders to find you.”
“Thank you for the warning,” said Ammo Mazen, exchanging good-byes before parting.
Chapter Twenty-One
October 11, 2013 4:07 a.m.
A metal bell lay dented and cracked on the cobblestone path. It had hung in a tower of a building that had collapsed, the victim of a bomb. Nadia glanced at the shattered blocks of sandstone, a hollow feeling spreading through her as she spotted a cross still dangling from the far wall. A look of disgust and anger flashed over Ammo Mazen’s face before he turned. They had crossed into Jdeideh, or “New Quarter.” It was a strange name, really, since the district had sprung up nearly five hundred years ago to accommodate the growing Armenian community. But compared with the Old City, which lay further east and had been inhabited since the time of the Ebla tablets, it was new. Nadia glumly remembered the last time she’d been here, during a particularly hot summer. After picking her up from school one day, her father had been in a rush to attend one of his boring business meetings. To make up for dragging her along, he promised her a treat. On the way home, they stopped at a famous shop known for haytaliyeh—a pudding served with clotted ice cream and orange blossom syrup. The sweet memory of sitting with her father at a small table overlooking the sunny patio faded as she hurried to catch up with the others.
“It looks like a setting from one of Scheherazade’s stories,” murmured Basel in wonder, craning his neck up and down as they traveled through the confusing warren of narrow alleys, some barely wide enough for the cart.
Indeed, entering Jdeideh was like stepping back in time. Lanterns hung from the walls. Once they would have lit the path, illuminating historic homes and mansions secreted behind heavy stone walls and wooden doors. Now all they could see was dark, gabled first-floor windows, balconies, and unruly bushes and vines trying to escape from private courtyards. Then, without warning, Basel darted through an open door on the left.
“What’s the boy up to?” muttered Ammo Mazen, slumped against Jamila, his face ashen and covered in perspiration.
“Are you all right?” asked Nadia, examining his haggard appearance.
“I’ll be better once I’ve made my delivery and had a cup of tea,” he said with a forced smile, pointing east. “It’s a short distance away from here, past the square.”
Nadia nodded. “I’ll get him,” she said. Passing through the door, she found herself in the inner courtyard of an elegant home. She could see that much of the contents of the house had been carried off, either by its owners or by looters. Past a fountain grew a garden, heady with the scent of jasmine. “Basel, come back this minute,” she hissed.
His small head popped up from between two trees, thick with shiny dark leaves. “Look,” he said, holding up something round on his palm.
Nadia crept closer and caught the familiar scent of figs. Sharing a grin, they filled a discarded plastic bag with as much of the plump green fruit as they could carry. As they left the house, Basel spotted a stunted tree, surrounded by overgrown vines. From a drooping branch hung a single perfect lemon, which he plucked and tucked away in his pack.
Nadia paused within the doorway, excited to share a fig with Ammo Mazen. But he was gone. Only Jamila and the cart stood in lane. She peered back up the lane they’d come down. “Where is he?” she gasped, as Jamila brayed in distress.
Basel ran toward the cart. “Here!” he cried.
Near Jamila’s front hooves, Nadia glimpsed a hand. “Oh no,” she cried, running over and finding the old man lying on the ground, blood oozing from a cut on his forehead. She pushed away the donkey’s head to put her ear to his chest, and heard a steady rhythm of a beating heart. “He’s alive, girl,” she said, petting the worried animal. “Ammo,” she asked, “can you hear me?”
Ammo Mazen’s eyelids fluttered open. “What happened?” he asked, confused.
“You fell,” said Nadia.
He tried to push himself up, but couldn’t. “I have to go,” he said, voice growing fainter.
“Uncle,” said Basel, fetching the water bottle. “Please, you have to take it easy.”
“The package . . . the one Alaa gave me,” whispered Ammo Mazen. “Get it. It’s for the bishop, I gave him my word I would find it.”
Nadia retrieved the package, but as she knelt by his side, he fell unconscious again. “Ammo, please wake up,” she whispered, shaking his shoulder.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Basel, clutching the bag of figs.
Nadia sat trembling, drowning in a sea of worry and fear. She was lost in the middle of a city at war, with a mysterious, sick old man whom she trusted one minute and questioned the next. She glanced at Basel, who wanted to fight with the rebels and would probably get himself killed. She screwed her eyes shut, wanting to make everything disappear. This is too much . . . , she thought, overwhelmed with panic. Why is this happening to me? I should just ditch them and go find my family on my own. It would be easier and faster. . . . She clutched the silver pin so hard it cut into her hand.
“What do we do?” Basel whispered as his skinny arms encircled her in a hug.
The warmth of his body punctured through her riotous emotions. Reflexively, she hugged him back, eyes opening. Get a hold of yourself . . . , came a voice inside her head.
I can’t leave them behind, she thought. She stared down at the writing on the package. It was the address of a church. Ammo Mazen’s last errand. He’d given his word to the bishop—as he’d given it to her, to find her family. He had helped her when she needed it the most. And now she would help him. For now, the questions she had didn’t matter. She would trust him.
She rose, filled with resolve. “Come,” she said to Basel, kissing him on a wet cheek. “It’ll be okay. We need to find the bishop. I’m sure
he can help us.”
• • •
Compass in one hand, Jamila’s reins in the other, Nadia strode east, the responsibility of leading their group heavy upon her shoulders. Praying that Ammo Mazen, cocooned within the cart, was all right, she hurried down a sloped street, past a resplendent domed mansion situated at the edge of a square. Jamila halted obediently while Nadia used the mirror stick to peer around a corner. The square sat silent, lined with shuttered cafés, restaurants, and antique shops. About to continue, she froze. A group of armed men had come into view, carrying boxes and packages. The one in the lead, beard neatly trimmed, in flowing dark robes, urged his companions to hurry. Once they’d disappeared into an alley, Nadia scooped Mishmish from his perch behind Jamila and slipped him into his sack. Irritated at being cooped up, he sank his claws into her wrist. Oblivious to the pain, she set the cat next to Ammo Mazen, who lay on the back of the cart, still unconscious.
From the middle of the square, the silhouette of an iconic bell tower rose against the full moon. Nadia recognized it at once; its picture flashed on television practically every day. It was one of the oldest churches in Aleppo, the Forty Martyrs Cathedral, a spiritual home for the city’s Armenian Christians since the fifteenth century. Since the day Jesus arrived in Syria to heal the sick and spread the word of Allah, his followers had worked hard to increase the city’s prestige and wealth. It should be nearby, she thought as they approached the compound that housed the cathedral.
A group of armed men materialized from the shadows. Nadia swallowed, lips dry, and stopped. “Brothers,” she called out, wincing at the waver in her voice as she held up the package toward them. “I’m looking for this address. Can you please help?”
A middle-aged man, his worn face not unkind, stepped forward. “It’s just down the street, past the Catholic church,” he said.
Thanking them, they hurried on, past the Greek Orthodox and Maronite churches, until they reached the Catholic one. Past it rose the destination they sought; a square sandstone building with a trio of heavily armed men guarding the main doors.
