An Ishmael of Syria

by Asaad Almohammad

  I couldn’t look around for Kareem, not until they had made a run for it. Lying on the ground, I moved my head in both directions, trying to catch a glimpse of him. Then I realised he had just run. I didn’t blame him; I guessed his survival instinct must’ve just kicked in. His place was twenty minutes away, closer than mine. With my injuries, it took me thirty.

  Humour is all about being taken or taking someone by surprise. The sight of Kareem holding the squeegee standing by his condo brought forth my helpless laughter, causing painful coughs. It was then when I recalled how scared the Indian Malaysians had made him. He would try to avoid an alley with any Indian passers-by. There'll be no action movies dramatising tales of Kareem's courage, I thought. The shivering self-proclaimed Hercules didn’t say a word. “It’s okay,” I assured. It was a good job they hadn’t managed to take my wallet. I studied him trying to avoid paying the taxi fare by the hospital’s entrance. I couldn’t help but stand for a few moments, gesturing to him to pay the driver before finally telling him, “Take it easy man. I will pay it.” For whatever reason, he avoided me afterwards. I heard his version of the story from an acquaintance. It was very much the same, except he’d switched roles with me. I cannot not recall an occasion in which I have hurt him in any way. Regardless, trashing me behind my back was something he mastered.

  Kareem was certain. He thought it was a matter of months before an uprising would take place in the country, claiming, “The Syrian people will act decisively to bring the Al-Assad era to a halt.”

  I admit, even with that revolutionary spirit, it was almost impossible for him to escape the conditioning of Al-Ba’ath Party’s books of patriotism. Indoctrinated by the long course of conditioning, the nation was promoted to be at the centre of all regional and global affairs. Furthermore, Western powers were asserted as malicious in their endeavours to exploit the ‘wealth of Syria’. Kareem and Yamen had an unshakeable belief in the aforementioned conspiracy-based oversimplification of the world order, which was an insult to those with functioning brain cells. Before things went south between Kareem and I, in the presence of Yamen we had had plenty of political discussions. In the wake of the Egyptian January 25 revolution, Kareem claimed, “Soon it will be us.”

  “Impossible,” Yamen interjected.

  I wondered, “Why is that so Yamen?”

  He preached, “There is a common denominator between Egypt and Tunisia. It’s about their ideology, reliance on the U.S., and relationship with Israel.”

  “Bashar Al-Assad is also a friend of Israel,” Kareem cut in.

  Yamen had this sickeningly sanctimonious smile whenever he talked about Iran and Al-Assad. I recognised it as a sign of ideological victory. I thought, it’s a Shiite versus Sunni kind of thing. He wore that mask of unreasoned supremacy to ridicule malarkey and facts alike. For in him there was a Shiite common sense that served a higher purpose. Observing Yamen’s nonverbal counterargument, I argued, “I have no access to classified information and I don’t have the experience to intuit that friendship. I actually think Al-Assad is one of their nemeses in the region.”

  Kareem also wore Yamen’s ridiculing mask of intellectual supremacy. Bothered by his idiocy I collected my thoughts, “Emmm,” and continued, “well, I guess I’ve already hinted at my lower level of intelligence. That said Yamen, it seems to me that your opinion is very much shaped by Al-Assad’s rationalisation. I mean his interview with the Wall Street Journal. Your president first wanted to distance himself from the uprisings in Tunisia and Egypt and then ended up claiming that Syrians won’t follow the trend. He claimed that the Syrian regime, with all the difficulties facing the country, satisfies citizens’ ideological aspirations as opposed to those of the Egyptians.”

  “You read it,” Yamen wondered.

  “Yes, but what appears to be the case is that you and your president are distant from what is happening in Tunisia and Egypt. He was right on one thing; he should have stuck to talking about Syria exclusively. Neither in Tunisia nor in Egypt have I heard calls for ending ties with the West, let alone establishing a stronger relationship with Iran. Watching what's going on, the sum of demonstrators’ grievances is merely internal. To be exact, they are trying to bring an end to their states’ repressive regime. What I hear is ‘No more abuse of power’. At the core of it, people are demanding the end of autocracies and economic referendums. But of course, Syria has to have immunity in the face of this disease. A shocker, Israel has to do something with it. So Yamen, a client state of Iran or not, you cannot escalate your abuse of power and expect people to keep praising your grace.”

  **********

  Moayad moved to Penang days after Yamen, Kareem, and Mustafa registered at the university. I was their senior in time on the island. None of them had met each other before the day Yamen made it to my place. Some Iranian lady had given my number to Kareem. Before meeting him, I asked Yamen to tag along. When I took them to the office of higher education, Mustafa was waiting his turn. Kareem and Mustafa had both attended an event at the Syrian embassy while they were staying in Kuala Lumpur. During his first year on the island, Mustafa distanced himself from our compatriots. We knew about Moayed from my Jordanian housemate, Sameer, who had given him a ride to school. He called him a child. Sameer told Moayed that he shared an apartment with a Syrian. My housemate was a generous dude; he offered the new guy the empty room in our apartment, until he found a place. Meanwhile, Yamen and Kareem had been looking for a flatmate. Although Mustafa wasn't too keen on their place, I decided to make an introduction. They offered him a discounted rate for that windowless room; a price he couldn’t turn down.

  Kareem was the alpha dog in that rented apartment. Even Moayed and Yamen called their place, Kareem’s. The guys had their differences and I often found myself hosting each separately before mediating their conflicts. While Moayed didn’t let a thing slide, Yamen took all of their bullshit. He was and still is the least confrontational creature I’ve ever come across. I had no clue why he strived to please everybody; everybody but me.

  My Norwegian and German friends wondered whether they should kiss Moayed’s hand. He would shake their hands with the tip of his fingers, gently with the back of his upward. He was so soft that he would make the most feminine lady, in the stereotypical sense, look rigid. I didn’t know if he was aware of it. Hearing his drawn-out teenage girl-like voice ranting how men should act manly never failed to bring a few moments of silence that in turn ended with long repressed belly laughter.

  Moayed’s father was some toothless official in Al-Assad’s government. During the time of Hafez Al-Assad, he was a member of the parliament and was then promoted to leader in the national party committee. Before Bashar Al-Assad inherited his father’s monarchy, Moayed’s father was demoted to a “key”. A key was not an official position. It referred to a person hired by a powerful official, serving a proxy role for those seeking the corrupt system’s consent, be it legitimate or illegitimate. Moayed aspired to that kind of power; in his own words, “There is nothing better. It grants you respect and people’s love. People will, literally, do anything to please you; invite you to major events and buy you expensive gifts.” I had the habit of ridiculing that status fucking quo, “It’s like being arm-candy!” He would interject, his limp hand dangling from his weak wrist, “No it’s not like that. It’s like you are up here and they are down there.”

  I often added, “It’s like a modern day prince. Or to be blunt, that’s what it means to be a man in power in that corrupted shithole. People don’t respect you; they don’t looove you. You stand between them and what, sometimes, is theirs.” The guy was a classic example of those attaining such positions.

  **********

  After the Syrian regime retaliated viciously and repressed the peaceful protestors I thought, Al-Assad will lose his self-proclaimed support. During that phase, emotions were tense. When the killings started and footage of the atrocities made it to the online sphere, it was hard to talk about anything othe
r than the unrest.

  For hours, every day, I’d drift from major news channels to social media. Frowning from behind the screen, my place had become a haunted refuge; for in brutality there was indecency greater than that in pornography. On occasions when the sin was committed, the disapproval of those invading my privacy was cast.

  Lost in the mayhem of Daraa, I pronounced the honour and shamelessness of my kind. That child looked just like me when I was his age. He was tanned and rough. He wore the cheapest of all clothes. He could’ve been me. His moaning father could’ve been mine. And just like that child, I wandered around that ghetto of mine; I’d played ball and enjoyed the outdoors. I’d also worn those cheap old second-hand football jerseys. I’d seen my father coming and leaving. He would ask me to be careful.

  I believed that child’s father was not any less than mine; or at least I choose to believe so. I could’ve been that child. He could have had a brighter future than mine, notwithstanding his upbringing. My father could’ve been that wailing, broken man, with a hand down against my shoulder blades, raising my torso. That saliva could’ve been his; it could’ve been his, falling with no care, not that he would’ve given a flying rat’s ass about swallowing it. And the other gentle, trembling hand could’ve been his; it could’ve been his hand, shaking, trying to hold my nearly severed head from falling. That disfigured face could’ve been mine. And that flowing crimson could’ve been the spill of my blood, stripping my father of his last drops of sanity.

  That video of Daraa’s child affected me in so many ways, arousing rage in me. Seeing him breathless, lying on the ground and then raised up by his howling father brought forth in my afflicted soul an urge to inflict pain on the walls of my messy room. The yells accompanying the punches had my usually loquacious flatmate worried about my wellbeing. Seeing the bruised knuckles of my shivering hands scared the guy into a state of speechlessness. The regulating tactic of venting the fury of my helplessness became a ritual. As time passed it became a habit. Upon seeing me in that state, Jennifer confessed, “I’m scared of you.” Although I explained that my anger was not directed at her and the only entity enduring my aggressions were the poor walls, she felt frightened by that repeated scene. My guess is that she wanted me to talk about it; she desired to be a part of that intimacy. I wanted to get her involved; she wanted to comfort me and I needed the help. But I couldn’t burden her. I had to repress my urges in her presence. But I didn’t have the resolve to relinquish my ritual all at once. It had just become a practice of solitude. But such a window of opportunity had become too slim, having to share my room with her. Even so, I had to persevere to put my urges to sleep but they kept on accumulating, overwhelming me.

  Riding my bike across the mainland highways, I glimpsed toward the woods. They were deserted of mankind. They were divine and sacred. They were holy in the absence of my kind. Those drives were willing sacrifices to lessen my burdened, overwhelmed soul. It was like praying in a place of worship rather than at home. It was like going to Sunday mass; except I was the priest and my soul would call Sunday whenever urged to cast away the curses of mankind.

  Sheila called the ritual a support system. She had her own. It was Suzan. After telling her about mine she wanted me to have a human-based one. She wanted to be it. And again, I’d started to change it. Still, I am trying. But in the back of my head I knew, I would relapse and go back to the woods.

  **********

  In Ar-Raqqa we had our ways of showing respect to the dead, be it a relative or a neighbour. We would build a tent in the neighbourhood, or hire someone to do it. It had to be big enough to host no less than seventy of those paying their condolences. The tent was for men and the house of the deceased was for grieving women. Thinking about the custom, I realise it was our method of grief counselling. Of course that only applies for the tent. Close male and distant relatives, friends and acquaintances, colleagues or classmates, and those who had endured similar or greater tragedies practised that therapeutic course of support.

  The first day started with paying respect after the burial. For the second day, those close to the departed were pressed to recount the tales of those gone. Some had to be harangued to take part. I have witnessed those outraged by admonishments for not making a contribution. When such anger was articulated, those closest to the one displaying the outburst would force him to leave the tent. An apology was required and a kiss on the cheek would be given by both as a sign of letting that episode slide. By any means, those grieving were pressed to recount their tragedies. On the third day, the tent was dedicated to those who had endured the same or worse misfortunes. In turns they would speak out about their sips of pain. They would recount from the start; the date, avenue, cause, and aftermath. There was a dramatization of the toll their depression took on their beloved ones. No matter how it started, it always ended up with, “This is the logic of life and thus you should go forward.” From the fourth day onward, people would bring up all kind of topics; they would even tell jokes. At that stage, those close to the deceased were urged to talk about anything but the tragedy. There was a lot of praying too, a part I always escaped.

  Women had a wholly different experience. It was a celebration of endless moaning. On many occasions it lasted long after the tent was removed.

  Neighbours had to show respect. Lowering the volume of music was part of it. A wedding ceremony within the next seven doors was taboo.

  For me, the rules of engagement through social media were analogous to those of my real world. As a fool, I thought that the whole purpose of the tool was to transmit experiences, opinions, and events based on one’s actual life. I struggled to reason past the incongruences that many had shown.

  As the stream of footage kept showing my people’s early pursuit of dignity and freedom, I tried to show my respect online as the seven-door rule didn’t apply to Facebook or Twitter.

  I still vividly recall the day my ritual failed to sufficiently repress my outrage. It was months after Al-Assad’s first speech. Even I hadn’t expected him to ridicule everybody calling for dignity. I didn’t think he would go so far as his atrocious retaliation, laughing in the face of those demanding the very least of recognised existence. I stopped to give some cash to Yamen. Moayed had been sitting with him in the living room. They insisted on sharing some of the Syrian coffee that Moayed had brought from his last visit. Over that cup of coffee, Yamen pressed, “Smile man.”

  “After watching the news, can you?”

  “I just finished watching the Syria news.”

  “You need to teach me how to deal with it.”

  Moayed butted in, “What happened? I don’t read the news.”

  Yamen clarified, “Some fabricated Aljazeera movie.”

  Sighing my irritation, “You are not in a battle with fucking Aljazeera. Enough with your conspiracy bullshit. Anderson Cooper responded to your president’s ambassador in the United Nations when the latter claimed everything is just a, ‘Foreign conspiracy against a sovereign nation.’ So I am going to use his line:

  Have all the human rights groups been wrong; all the countries now imposing sanctions, all the brave people inside Syria daring to stand on the streets with dignity and call out for basic freedoms, are they all making it up? If so, it would be one of the biggest conspiracies, biggest lies the world has ever seen, which makes Bashar Al-Assad history’s greatest victim.

  I added, “Come on man! What if Hezbollah and the Iranian-sponsored news channels had it wrong?”

  “I would blame those taking their children to demonstrations.”

  “First, the two-year-old in Lattakia was not demonstrating and yet the people you defend shot her in the eye. But even if her parents did take her, not that I would encourage it, she and her parents are victims and Bashar’s army is first to blame.”

  Starting from the moment I opened my mouth, Moayed was anxious to say something. He looked at me and spoke softly, “Even Americans call Obama Mr. President. He is our president. Why do y
ou keep calling him by name only.” I loathed Yamen’s poisonous smile. It’d resembled the one Al-Assad used when he mocked those calling out for dignity and labelled them as armed gangs and terrorists. But I had to keep my feelings to myself.

  Looking back at Moayed I vented, “A child, among many, taken to prison, then, tortured. And no that wasn’t enough! They had to cut his penis. Even after all of that barbarism, his little body still showed the burns of their cigarettes. And all you care about is the title of your psycho president. Let me put it this way, when he stops imprisoning children, killing children, killing civilians, and mocking them afterward… But actually, even then I still could not call Bashar a president.”

  Yamen was distracted, looking at his phone. “Adam,” he questioned, “why couldn’t I tag you?”

  I knew what he was talking about but the image of that little boy was so overwhelmingly gruesome that it took me a while to respond. I bought myself some time, asking, “What?!”

  “I wanted to tag you in the pictures from our last dinner but I couldn’t.”

  “Yeah, about that. I have to accept that first. Just an FYI, I won’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it’s not in me to disrespect the departed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If my neighbour passed, I wouldn’t turn on my stereo on the highest volume.”

  “Take it easy man. It’s Facebook.”

  “That’s even worse. I have to show respect to the dead.”

  “I know how to show respect.”

  “Of course you do!”