by N. H. Senzai
“Where is he?” asked Basel, chewing on a sprig of tender mint.
“He was killed,” said Umm Anous, her lips pressed in a thin line.
“Oh,” coughed Basel, mint stuck in his throat. “I’m sorry.”
“Syria is stained with the blood of its people, struggling to find justice,” said Umm Anous with a sigh. “May Allah grant his mercy so that we find peace soon.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
October 13, 2013 9:49 p.m.
Water . . . ,” whispered a faint voice.
Nadia dropped the wooden spoon in the pot of lentil stew on the stove and ran over to the bed with a glass of water. Tarek propped up the old man’s head as she pressed the cup to his dry lips.
After a long sip, he said, “My pills . . . please, give me two.”
As he swallowed them, Nadia stood at the edge of the bed, the medicine bottle clenched tightly in her hand. Please, please, Allah, please make him better so that we can leave.
“Thank you,” said Ammo Mazen. He leaned back, and his frail body shook with rattling coughs. He covered his mouth with a kerchief, and when he pulled it back, Nadia was horrified to glimpse a dark streak of blood.
“Are you hungry?” asked Tarek.
He shook his head. “Where are we? How long have I been asleep?”
“We’re in a village called Shams,” explained Tarek. “At a healer’s house, the one you met earlier. She stepped out to get some supplies.”
“You’ve been asleep for over twenty-four hours,” Basel piped in.
“How did we get here?” asked Ammo Mazen.
While the boys filled him in on how they saved Jamila, Nadia stood at the foot of the bed.
“You did all that?” Ammo gasped in amazement. “What an ingenious idea, Nadia. I’m so proud of you, of all of you.”
“We need to leave,” interrupted Nadia. “We’ve wasted enough time.”
Ammo Mazen blinked, his face turning sober. “Yes, we must discuss how to continue toward the Turkish border.”
“Jamila has been fed and watered, so we just need to get you back onto the cart,” said Nadia.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Ammo Mazen.
“What do you mean?” said Tarek, frowning.
Ammo Mazen sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, conflicting emotions flickering across his lined face. “Actually, I’m surprised that I’ve made it this far.”
“What do you mean? What’s wrong with you?” asked Basel in his usual blunt fashion.
Ammo Mazen opened his eyes. “I have cancer,” he said.
“What?” gasped the little boy.
“The doctors gave me three months to live and that was six months ago,” he continued. “Every day I’ve had since has been a blessing.”
Cancer? thought Nadia, the ground dropping away from beneath her feet. The sensation of betrayal, which she’d decided to bury, rose up again.
“You didn’t tell us,” said Tarek, voice tight.
“Son,” said Ammo Mazen, “life on this earth is temporary, for everyone.”
“You lied,” Nadia blurted. “You’ve lied about everything: your sickness . . . your name . . . who you really are!”
The boys looked at her in surprise.
Nadia yanked her backpack from under the bed and pulled out the identification cards. “You are one of them!”
“What are you talking about?” asked Tarek, staring in confusion at the cards she’d tossed on the quilt.
Nadia snatched one up and handed it to him. “Read it,” she whispered harshly.
“ ‘Ahmed Mazen Makhlouf,’ ” read Tarek. He paused and uttered the next line. “ ‘Mukhabarat Commander.’ ” Shock registered on his face and he stepped away from the bed.
“You are mukhabarat?” said Basel.
Ammo Mazen looked at them with weary eyes. “Yes, at one time, I was.”
“Why have you been lying to us?” asked Nadia, tears running down her cheeks.
He looked at her with a steady gaze. “I have never lied to you, or to anyone else,” he said, a pained look on his face. “All the people who need to know, know who I am. They understand who I was, and who I became—a product of the choices I’ve made in my life.”
“But how is this true?” asked Tarek, still staring at the card.
“I was born in Qardaha, in the northwest mountains, on my family’s farm,” he began, eyes drifting off as if he were looking out over a grove of oranges.
“As an Alawite, I was granted many privileges when Hafez came to power,” he continued. “I was a young man, hoping to help build a bright new Syria.”
“You were a part of those who ruled over the rest of the country with an iron fist,” said Nadia, the words she’d been hoarding in her heart spilling out.
“The country had been in turmoil since the French left, and Hafez brought unity,” said Ammo Mazen, ignoring her outburst. “In the beginning, I was caught up in the glory of the moment, of the endless possibilities.”
“But you’re not with them . . . the mukhabarat . . . now?” asked Basel.
“No,” said Ammo Mazen. “As Hafez established absolute power, allowing injustice, inhumanity, and corruption to seep like poison into the country I loved so much, I could no longer do what was expected of me.”
“Then what did you do?” asked Nadia. What she wanted to ask was Who are you now?
Ammo Mazen caught Nadia’s troubled gaze. “I left the mukhabarat nearly forty years ago,” he said. “Tainted by their terrible work, I pretended I was ill and retreated into books, where there existed new worlds, people, and ideas.”
He began to cough, and Tarek gently helped him sip from the cup of water.
“Thank you, son,” he said with a grimace. “Soon after, I stumbled upon a path that led me to become a book repairer. And with my cart, I traveled to every corner of Haleb, meeting historians, bishops, professors, shopkeepers, beggars, archaeologists, and common folk. And as I grew to know them better, they shared their worries with me: a doctor couldn’t find foreign-made medicines he desperately needed, a journalist required a reliable source for her story on government corruption, a taxi driver’s son had been taken by the mukhabarat and he couldn’t find which prison he was in. Whenever I could, I used my network of contacts within the secret police, government, and army to help such people find the goods or information they needed.”
“That’s amazing,” said Basel, eyes wide.
The scorching anger that had flared within Nadia fizzled, leaving the deep affection that had grown over the past few days. He was a gentle old man who’d spent his life helping people. A man who decided to take a lost girl and two orphans to safety.
“I’m sorry . . . ,” Nadia whispered, collapsing beside the bed as she finally learned the reality of who the old man was. “Sorry that I believed the worst.”
“It’s not your fault, dear girl.” Ammo Mazen smiled. “I’m afraid I’m a man who has learned not to reveal much.”
“You are Ammo Mazen, no one else,” she said.
Tarek took the old man’s hands and knelt down. “Allah forgives all those who repent the past and pursue what is good.”
“Yes,” said Ammo Mazen. He looked at Nadia with haunted eyes, about to say something else, but then Umm Anous burst through the door. She stood panting. “You must go now. The black flags of ISIS are headed this way. They’ve taken the city of Azaz and are pressing their way east, battling competing rebel forces while the Syrian army moves in from the west.”
“We’ll be caught in the middle,” blurted Tarek.
Nadia stared at Ammo Mazen, eyes pleading. “Please, come with us.” She turned to Umm Anous. “It’s not safe here,” she said. “Everyone should come with us.”
“No, my dears, our bones are too weary to leave.” She laughed softly. “This is our land, our home. We will be buried here with our forefathers, in the dirt of Syria.”
Basel stood holding his gun to his chest. “You
have to come with us, sir,” he whispered, tears running down his face. “There are doctors there that can help you.”
“Children, time has finally caught up with me,” said Ammo Mazen, his voice gentle. “My body is too weak to journey further.”
“But we need you!” cried Nadia.
“My dear girl, do not weep,” he said. “You have not needed me for a while now. You are much stronger than you think. And together, you three are more than capable of finishing your journey north.”
Umm Anous nodded. “I will show you the safest path,” she said. “If you leave now, you can follow the road along the valley’s edge, hiding from the sight of the fighters. You will reach the border in a few hours.”
“Go,” said Ammo Mazen. “And take good care of Jamila for me.”
• • •
Umm Anous was wrong. It didn’t take a few hours to reach the border. It took over five, what with stumbling over rocky paths, the echo of gunfire and mortar rounds echoing around them. Twice they’d sought cover: once to avoid a troop of rebels and the second time when a group of refugees frightened them into a thicket of bushes. They’d skirted the town of Azaz a while ago, the black flags of ISIS fluttering against the brightening sky, the reek of diesel, gunpowder, and smoke carrying on the wind.
Jamila had periodically stopped, refusing to budge until coaxed with a soothing rub or a treat of tomatoes. Nadia knew how she felt. The faithful donkey had refused to leave Ammo Mazen’s side, until he’d whispered something into her floppy ear. After a final nuzzle, the donkey had allowed herself to be led from the house, Ammo Mazen’s last words ringing in Nadia’s ears: I was blessed to have been given the wisdom to leave the mukhabarat. I then chose to journey on a path filled with compassion and mercy. Now it is your turn—be wise in the choices you make.
“Look,” whispered Basel as they crested a hill, interrupting Nadia’s thoughts, which lay back at the village with those they’d left behind. He pointed along a path. It was Kilis, the Turkish town bordering Syria.
“We made it,” said Tarek. He muttered a prayer of thanks while cradling a grumpy Mishmish in his arms.
Nadia stood clutching Ammo Mazen’s compass and staring in wonder at the road, crammed with exhausted, frightened souls. Most were on foot, but a few cars and buses inched along the asphalt. Up ahead rose the border between Syria and Turkey, delineated by towering white walls. At the end of the road rose the arched gateway, Bab al-Salama. Red, white, and black Syrian flags fluttered in the wind. Father should be down there, on the Turkish side, she thought, then frowned. The crowd was suddenly acting like a flock of spooked sheep that had seen a fox; something was wrong, and the caution she’d learned from Ammo Mazen kept her rooted to the spot.
“Let’s go,” said Tarek, but she held up a hand for them to wait.
Finally, Nadia realized what it was. “Who’s manning the checkpoint?” she wondered out loud, staring at the gates on the Syrian side.
“No one,” said Tarek, confused. “Didn’t Umm Anous say the border was under rebel control?”
“Yes,” said Nadia. Ten feet beyond the Syrian gate flew a duet of red flags, marked with a white crescent and star. Turkey, Oncupinar border crossing. And Father, thought Nadia, heart thumping against her rib cage as she squinted at the squat guard towers on either side of the gate. Turkish soldiers with rifles perched inside, overlooking the crossing. Beyond the gate she desperately sought a familiar figure, tall, lean, wearing a bulky olive-green coat. But from this distance, she couldn’t make out the details of the people milling around beyond the gate.
Nadia double-checked the tarp to make sure it concealed whatever belongings they had left, including her backpack, which contained Ammo Mazen’s black velvet bag of money. He had insisted they take it with them. “Let’s go,” said Nadia finally, ready to pull Jamila on, but Basel grabbed her arm.
“Wait,” he said, staring at a battered truck parked upon a hilltop on the other side of the road. A familiar black flag flew from the back. The flag of ISIS.
“Oh no,” whispered Tarek, surveying the length of the road that led back toward Syria. “There’s another one,” he added, pointing to an armored vehicle parked on the route to Azaz, flying the same flag.
“It looks like they’ve chased the rebels from the border crossing,” said Nadia, now realizing why there were no rebels at the border. She eyed the men slouched in the back of the truck closest to them. A bedraggled family with crying children passed the truck, picking up their pace. The men in the truck observed them, but let them continue.
“They’re not doing anything, just sitting there,” muttered Basel.
“Maybe they were sent here from Azaz to keep watch and wait,” conjectured Tarek.
“Wait for what?” asked Basel.
“To take over the border crossing,” said Nadia.
“Then what are we waiting for?” squeaked Basel.
“Basel’s right,” said Tarek, placing Mishmish in his sack. “We need to get through before a battle breaks out, or they set up a checkpoint.”
“Okay,” said Nadia, adjusting her woolen cap. She touched the silver brooch for good luck and started down the hill toward the road, pausing to let a truck full of exhausted families pass. Cautiously, they merged with other refugees, and made their way toward the gate.
“Don’t look at them,” whispered Basel, turning his face away as they passed the truck on the slope to the left.
But despite the terrifying stories she’d heard about them, how ISIS destroyed cities, looted ancient sites, and ruthlessly murdered anyone who disagreed with them, Nadia couldn’t help but steal a glance. Instead of red-eyed, bloodthirsty barbarians, she found dusty, bedraggled men, many her brother’s age, dozing in awkward positions. The ones that were awake sat bleary-eyed, staring at the flow of humanity passing by. Nadia blinked in wonder. These are the fearsome ISIS warriors? She focused on the border crossing, not realizing she was practically running as Jamila picked up speed, weaving through the crush of traffic.
“Nadia, slow down,” Tarek called from behind.
“Jamila,” Nadia cried, leaning over to wrap an arm around the neck of the agitated donkey.
“ ‘Where is the beauty in a donkey?’ ” Nadia began to sing. “ ‘The stumpy body, long ears? It’s the heroic heart, stubbornness, and intellect behind the long-lashed eyes.’ ”
The intelligent animal blinked, slowing, and the boys caught up with them.
“We should go that way,” said Basel, pointing toward a gap in the throng that wound its way toward the gate.
Nadia nodded, scanning the area along the fence delineating the border.
“Do you see him?” asked Basel hopefully.
Nadia shook her head as the crowd heaved forward, blocking her view of the gate. She peered through a gap between a group of girls and their mother, but could see nothing. Jamila brayed, uncomfortable in the crush. They slowed beside a group of drooping children standing with their parents near an idling bus. Further on stood an old man, leaning on a cane. Nadia’s hip pressed up against the cart, sending a shooting pain down her leg.
The cart, she thought, and clambered on top.
“Good idea,” called Tarek, climbing up beside her.
From her vantage point, Nadia scanned the gate, peering past Bab al-Salama toward the Turkish Oncupinar crossing.
“There are soldiers there,” said Basel, pointing to a point beyond the guard tower. “And others . . .”
Nadia caught a flash of a man’s bald head and grabbed Basel’s hand. The man stood pressed against the gate, staring back into Syria, wearing a bulky olive-green coat that matched the cap on her head.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
On September 22, 2016, the Assad regime launched an offensive against rebel strongholds in Aleppo. Syrian troops, with the backing of Iran and Russia, pushed into the eastern part of the city, home to the famous souqs and the citadel through which Nadia journeyed. By the end of the year, only five per
cent of the territory remained in rebel hands, and a temporary ceasefire allowed citizens to be evacuated. A few weeks later, the Syrian army declared they had taken complete control of the city; Aleppo fell to the regime, giving the Syrian government control over one third of the country. Meanwhile, rebel groups, ISIS, and Kurdish forces continued to struggle for control over the rest of the country.
Reeling from six years of war, Syria is a fractured, broken country, its cities in ruins, its people deeply traumatized. The numbers are simply staggering. Since the conflict began, more than 450,000 Syrians have been killed, more than 1.8 million injured, and 12 million—half the country’s prewar population—displaced from their homes as refugees.
In the winter of 2010, my family and I watched the news from Tunisia with fear and hope. It amazed us how Mohamed Bouazizi’s suicide, in protest of mistreatment by corrupt government officials, sparked a regional revolution. But it was not really a surprise that he became the symbol of the frustration felt by millions across the Middle East; many lived under autocratic governments and desired a more democratic political system and a brighter economic future. News of Bouazizi’s death spread like wildfire, amplified by technology and social media, in particular Facebook and Twitter. Tunisia fell to the will of the people within weeks, and the president fled the country. This buoyed the spirits of those in neighboring countries, and soon Tahrir Square in Cairo bulged with the suppressed fury of the Egyptians. Within months they too had toppled their dictator, and the fire, now called the Arab Spring, continued to spread across the region. My husband, who teaches Middle East politics, and I have lived and traveled in the region. Through our friends there, we heard firsthand accounts of the turmoil.
Finally, the flame reached Syria in February 2012, arriving at a time when the people were in the midst of economic hardship and social unrest. Frustrations were amplified as thousands of farmers flooded into the cities, trying to escape a multiyear drought, precipitated by climate change. It was in the city of Deraa, where a group of boys was arrested and tortured for spray-painting slogans against the government, that the fuse was lit. Emboldened, ordinary people flooded the streets in protest. The Syrian army retaliated with brutal force and a rebellion was born. At first it looked hopeful, but months turned into years and the bloody battles raged on, with hundreds of rebel factions defending their territories and ideologies. Although the initial protests were mostly nonsectarian, armed conflict led to the emergence of starker, sectarian divisions within the country.
