An Ishmael of Syria

by Asaad Almohammad

  “I do!”

  “Whatever brings you comfort. I, for one wouldn’t call, “Wohooo! I am happy to be me,” respectful. It was on the day your best friend was killed. You are friends with his brother on your Facebook. Even his father talked to you on the same day.”

  “It wasn’t on the same day.”

  “Actually it was. I was with you then.”

  “No you keep forgetting.”

  “Yes I have dementia!”

  **********

  Right from the start it had become clear that the Bashar Al-Assad regime wasn’t like the British and thus, the Syrian people couldn’t be Gandhi forever. Starting from Daraa, the shit had been too gruesome to swallow. Mothers wailing over their departed children and spouses; fathers howling the eternal loss of their babies; soldiers jumping on those shouting out the indecent word, “dignity”; adolescents dragging the bodies of the fallen, risking being shot at in their endeavour to grant the deceased a dignified burial; chaotic mayhem; and had been slowly dawning on me over the last few days.' Al-Assad and his loyalists denying the braves’ existence. Al-Assad maintained his stance, putting the blame on terrorists and armed gangs. Yet at the time, those mysterious outlaws were civilians with a stomach to endure abuses that I never imagined could exist.

  You would expect a dictator to justify his brutality or to carry it out quelling his enemies without any explanation. But what had long puzzled me the most was his supporters. What could it be that made sane men and women take the side of that power-obsessed psychopathic maniac? I admit at some intellectual level, I was curious and fascinated by that conundrum. I craved for their thoughts and justifications. I wanted to know whether any possible validation could exist. And what could it have been to make the blood of their countrymen and women so cheap. Are some people predisposed to violence; are they morally corrupt; were they successfully conditioned by Al-Assad’s ruling party; are they that naïve; do they know something that most of the world doesn’t? I’d asked myself. Of course conspiracy was the initial popular theory. But I figured if you kept pushing the right buttons, you would get to the root of it.

  Al-Assad’s worst enemy then was his own media aids, from top to bottom. They made it easy to counter those nonsensical conspiracy impulses. While gruesome and real, it was funny when Al-Assad’s foreign affairs minister presented a video. It sickened me in ways I wasn’t aware of.

  Feeling the branch pressed against my cheek I turned right and then to the left. I wasn’t in pain and all I could see was two bearded behemoths; one holding the stick and the other laughing. Terrified and in agony, I woke up, out of breath, recalling the nightmare, the boiled oil that had been poured on me, from head to toe, then catching a glimpse of my naked fried chicken-like skin; just like in the video. The one presented by the foreign minister, who couldn’t speak more than two words a minute at his best moment, be it sad or happy. The video that was real, except not from Syria. That one that had been taken in some Lebanese village, years before March 2011.

  Yamen spent almost all of his days on Facebook. He wanted to marry so badly that I figured his childhood dream career must have been to be a husband. “Come join me for a cigarette, I am a real person,” I pointed to the patio and added, “please leave your phone inside.” He smiled, “She is a real person, thank you.”

  “Yamen I want to ask you something.”

  “No politics please!”

  “What can two Syrians talk about other than politics? Besides, what is more important at the moment?”

  “My fiancée,” he smiled.

  “She is not your fiancée yet! So let me ask you a very simple question. After all of this, how can you keep supporting Al-Assad? Really, why?”

  “Al-Assad is the only true leader. He is standing against the whole world. He is a key in the resistance movement. Tell me who else is standing with the Palestinian people?”

  “You know that he’s so ruthless that even the leadership of Hamas denounced him.”

  “But you’re against Hamas.”

  “But you’re for Hamas.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Come on man! Do you want me to get my laptop and show you the video? Even more, your beloved Hamas claimed that Iran sent them faulty missiles.”

  “It’s just politics!”

  “Indeed it is.”

  “Look the opposition will sell it all to Israel.”

  “If you mean peace, I certainly hope so. But that’s just wishful thinking. Nevertheless, we all know that the political opposition, who are not very representative of the Syrian people, are led by the Muslim Brotherhood.”

  “Fuck those assholes.”

  “Well, first I am happy that you’re using the words fuck and assholes. Coming from a guy who couldn’t say ‘butt’ when I first saw him, I am glad that I am wearing off on you. I don’t understand, if you like Hamas that much, how come you hate the Muslim Brotherhood?”

  “What do you mean? They are not like the Brotherhood in idiocy.”

  “Actually, they are the same. Hamas is made up of that brotherhood in idiocy. You can look it up!”

  “Politics.”

  “I don’t get it, are you admitting that politics is too complicated for you or are you justifying your dissonance as political?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Honestly, I don’t. But for the sake of the argument, I’m gonna assume it’s the latter. In a political sense, why is the Brotherhood good in Palestine and bad in Syria?”

  “They are fighting Israeli in Palestine. In Syria they are terrorists.”

  “Actually, one might argue the label is in reverse order. Just to be clear, while the umbrella ideology of Muslim Brotherhood is not deemed terroristic, I am still against them. But that’s not the point, which I will come back to later, of course.”

  “Of course!”

  “So it’s the good ol’ I-hate-them-more-than-I-love-you; except in this case your hate towards the Israelis outweighs the life of your own people.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “It actually is. So you are against the opposition because of your hate towards the Israelis.”

  “Because of our collective struggle as Muslims; you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I don’t have to be a Muslim to understand. But forget about my lower level of intelligence. Unfortunately, even if the opposition wins, there won’t be peace with Israel. Remember, you agreed that the strongest among the opposition are the Muslim Brothers. An ideology that your beloved Hamas is actually affiliated with.”

  “I told you, you won’t understand.”

  “Yeah, you keep telling me so. I promise you if you explain it to me, I will try my best to understand. Is it to do with the fact that you are Shiite and pledge your loyalty to Iran…”

  “I am Syrian, just like you…”

  “I am glad to hear that. But still, why the hypocrisy?”

  “Hypocrisy?!”

  “Yeah! You are against the Muslim Brotherhood anywhere but in Palestine. Do you support a secular government?”

  “No that’s against my faith.”

  “Why, in the case of our country, do you label all Sunni-based groups as terrorists while you refuse the label to any Shiite-based terrorist organisation, globally?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “It’s absolutely that.”

  “Al-Assad will stay in power…”

  “Okay.”

  “My people come first after his. He allows us to practise our ritual, open our Islamic centres, and permits Iran to support us.”

  “But for the others it’s not the case. I mean Sunnis. Just imagine for a second that Al-Assad is gone.”

  “Palestine…”

  “Enough with the Palestine nonsense.”

  “It won’t be the same to my people.”

  “What? Are you afraid they might be treated equal to the majority of the country?”

  “Iran will never be part of the picture.
”

  “So it is about Iran. You just claimed that you are as Syrian as me.”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t. But here's what I do understand: you would rather your country was decimated than cut ties with Iran. By the way, I wish that what you are terrified of was the case, though still I highly doubt it. Maybe I am wrong! Are you secretly in love with Al-Assad? I mean in the sexual and emotional senses.”

  “What the fuck, man?”

  “The fuck is on the issue you are trading for thousands of innocents. I mean for the sake of the country’s stance on Palestine; which I have to say, sadly, could be the same position any successive government could take; which means that you support that asshat of a dictator for no apparent reason. The other reason, you would rather children are slaughtered in the arms of their mothers than a probable loss of ties with the terrorist republic of Iran. Or maybe, it’s so vital that no Sunni should be in power that it justifies the genocide of tens of thousands of people.”

  On that balcony I could see the ocean if I stood on my tip-toes. Moayed handed me some wine. He’d started drinking and wanted to share his cheap red with me. He was so phony that he'd started to drink and smoke cigars just so he could claim the self-image of what he recognised as men with some sort of power. I have to say, at this point in our exchange, I didn’t bother to question him about it. After a sip or two he gave me a look as though he already wore the skin of a tycoon, trying to force a thicker voice, “Maybe you wonder why I support mister president Bashar Al-Assad?”

  “Okay,” I knew I shouldn’t say more; he would spill it out anyways.

  Moayed placed his soft hand on my shoulder and continued, “You know…”

  “I want to know but it’s too hot out here and you know I don’t like it that you’re so handsy.”

  “You know I hate gays! I am a Syrian, not a faggot.”

  “Syrian or gay, I just don’t like it. Anyways, you were saying.”

  “My father is very powerful…”

  “You mean he used to have some power.”

  “With my father’s connections, I won’t settle for less than the highest managerial position at any governmental department.”

  “Okay.”

  “A guy like me can never get something like that without this influence.”

  “Oh, I am really surprised that you acknowledge that. What influence?”

  “I mean my connections.”

  “Oh, I see. So you support your president because in that corrupted country, a guy like you can be somebody.”

  “Why can you not say Mr President?”

  “Ah?! You don’t mind me talking about you as though you are not qualified to do shit but still all you worry about is your president?”

  “I have very good potential.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “I am not an idiot like Yamen. You know, we call them pawns. So you see, you cannot blame me.”

  “Yamen may be an idiot and a pawn of some Shiite doomsday prophecy but, man, you are one sociopathic asshole. Your materialistic interest comes before the lives of hundreds of thousands of people. If all Al-Assad’s people are like you, I am proud to be your enemy.”

  “Do you know what I like about you?”

  “What!? Please take offence and don’t like a thing about me.”

  “Really, that you say whatever you want to my face.”

  “Actually, sometimes I say things behind your back. Bad things often.”

  “Ha, ha I still like you.”

  “Sure!”

  **********

  Ever since we shared our first apartment, Sami had been a couch potato. For someone who would leave home only to get supplies, I had always been amused by his strong take on Malaysian culture. Sleeping until every cell in his unused vessel screamed in agony hungry, the beast would open his eyes to devour our leftovers. Stuffed and glued to his laptop, he found time to lecture poor souls in the Middle East, most of whom I recognised from college. On the sound of my keys reaching the lock, he would start his tales. But not on that day. As he emerged from his room, I smirked, “I just called all the hospitals in the vicinity. I was about to reach out to the precincts.”

  “Why what happened?”

  “You weren’t in the living room.”

  “Ha, ha you think you’re funny.”

  “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “I was skyping with Faysal when I heard you come in.”

  “Whatever happened to him?”

  “Actually he is still on. He wants to talk to you. Should I bring out my laptop?”

  “Yeah, by all means.”

  Sami got his laptop and handed me the earphones. He grabbed himself a cigarette from my pack after I had lit mine. On the screen, I caught a glimpse of Faysal. Exhaling the smoke, “So Saudi! It has been a while.”

  “Yeah I was surprised to hear that you are staying together. I told Sami that you’re an acquired taste and it is okay not to like you.”

  “So Saudi, how did that happen?”

  “My brother managed to get me a visa. I left the country last week.”

  “Oh, how was it? Foremost, how is your family?”

  “You have no idea. They ruined the country!”

  “Who did? Do you mean Al-Assad and his Shabiha?”

  “Not actually. Al-Assad is the only choice for now.”

  “I see, are you a Shabih now?”

  “Either against Al-Assad or Shabih!”

  “No, not actually, but you said that Al-Assad is the only choice for now.”

  “I wouldn’t choose those villagers over Al-Assad. They fucked the country in ways you cannot start to understand.”

  “How come? They’ve been shot at, bombarded, imprisoned, and tortured for longer than I had ever thought possible. I don’t want to assume, are you for or against Al-Assad?”

  “Neither!”

  “Can you explain?”

  “Have you heard about the ‘Third Wave’?”

  “They don’t even have a website. I thought they were only a Facebook group.”

  “It’s the only movement that puts the country first.”

  “What do they stand for?”

  “They are against the destruction, and for peace and development.”

  “So what is their solution to end the chaos?”

  “It has to be peaceful. Not this way. Not through the empowerment of villagers.”

  “Please correct me if I am wrong. What this ‘Wave’ stands for is that all of those people who have been fucked for calling out for freedom and dignity are ignorant villagers; they are destroying the country. The only viable choice is Al-Assad.”

  “Exactly! And the political elite are the ones to handle the advancement of our nation, through negotiation not anarchy.”

  “But it all started peacefully. People in Daraa didn’t demand the ousting of Al-Assad.”

  “You think so.”

  “Actually, I am confident enough to say I know so. I am not sure whether the people who pleaded to the head of intelligence in Daraa to free their children are villagers; all the people who came were from the city of Daraa.

  “Daraa is not a city.”

  “It is, actually. It’s official. But even if it isn’t, were all the people in Homs, Aleppo, and Damascus villagers? And what if they were! Are they lesser citizens; lesser human? And who are those never-heard-from political elite? Where were they when Al-Assad killed the first hundred or the first thousand? As far as I am concerned, Al-Assad’s government made it a point to persecute all of those against his party’s ways.”

  “The government should handle the negotiations.”

  “What government? What negotiations? Are you saying that Al-Assad has to assign his own people to negotiate with him a solution for the mayhem they created?”

  “It doesn’t work through violence.”

  “Well, have you witnessed your daughter, sister, and mother getting raped and
continued to do nothing but chant freedom? Have you endured Al-Assad’s assault taking a toll on you and everybody you love and still waited for him to assign this invisible elite of yours? Man… Tell the fathers who have collected their children’s body parts that they are villagers and freedom is exclusive to people from cities. Tell them that as long as they are against Al-Assad, they are ignorant…”

  “Take it easy man. I just said my opinion; you are like them.”

  “You mean the ignorant people who are dying so you and I can live with some sense of dignity?”

  “Dignity?! You really know nothing.”

  “So, if you are that close-minded why don’t you just say that you are for Al-Assad? Just stop deceiving yourselves that you are on the right side of history. Villager or not, fuck off!”

  **********

  Watching the slow decimation of my homeland had smothered me in a state of helplessness, arousing in me the desire to do something constructive. Far from it on this tropical island, I cared for the departed and those howling over them. From behind my telescope, I’d found myself sniffling and swallowing the dribbles, preserving my Eastern manhood. Seething and chained in a cage, I sipped more and more from that inflammatory river of anguish. Infuriated in the realisation of my cowardice, my fists found refuge in those defenceless walls before I turned to the woods. There and just ahead of bringing my ritual to an end, I had a moment of clarity. In those seconds or so, peace was made with the realisation of the fact: I am nothing compared to the braves; I haven’t survived their agony for my overwhelming guilt to keep building up; I am witnessing their cleansing and I am choosing to watch; my guilt is an admission of their sacrifices but even with the rage, I am taking no action and no action is nothing. With that painfully painted reality, I asserted to my conscience that I owe it to the harmed to help, assist, or care, at the very least. The least is something, even if equal to nothing in the physical struggle of people. But in doing the least, it would be a grave offence to the greats of my kind to have myself to claim to have acted.

  Abdo had a friend who was close to Kareem. They were all from Aleppo. Kareem and I hadn’t met each other for quite a long time then. It was my phase four for him. It had taken him longer than Yamen to make it to that category. Kareem had the habit of befriending people, getting close to them, and then, for unknown reasons, trashing them behind their back and cutting all ties with them.