Yamen had meant to introduce me to Abdo, a few months after my twenty-ninth birthday. On that night I’d had more rage than it usually took to start punching walls. On that night, I couldn’t.
Abdo was a behemoth, making Yamen look freakishly small. After Yamen made an introduction, the two of them joined me for a smoke on the café patio. Yamen instructed Abdo to recount his first conversation with Kareem. He gave Yamen a look as though to check whether it was a good idea. “It’s okay. Adam knows Kareem and they are not on speaking terms anymore.”
“Why?” Abdo enquired.
“Long story! Just leave it for later. I am intrigued, please do tell.”
“Kareem welcomed me when I arrived at his place…”
“It’s actually their place,” I pointed to Yamen.
“Thank you,” he gave Yamen a gracious look.
“Two days ago, during my first night at their place, Kareem came into the living room and sat by the couch.”
“He was sleeping on the couch,” Yamen interjected.
“Yeah, so he asked me why was I here.”
“Do you mean at their place?” I asked.
“No, he meant in Malaysia. I told him, like him, I am here to further my studies. He said I should have stayed in Aleppo.”
“How come?”
“He told me that I should be ashamed, running away from the fight like a coward.”
“Do you mean that he wanted you to carry arms against Al-Assad?”
“Yes!”
“Then, why is HE here?”
“I asked the same question.”
“And what did he say?”
“He told me that he is away from the country for a reason.”
“What would that be?”
“He said that he is part of the revolution. He is in Malaysia because, should the regime know of his involvement, his whole family would be targeted. He is in more danger in Syria than any fighter. And he holds a vital role in the opposition and it’s critical that he continue his work from a safe location.”
I gave Abdo the serious face before attesting, “Well, actually… emm, it is the case. Kareem is in charge of bringing the international community together to face Al-Assad’s military. You can see why it’s critical to keep him safe.”
“Really!?”
“Yeah, why would I make that up? But please don’t tell anybody” I bit my lip so I could keep myself from cracking up. I added, “Man, it is no joke. If you tell anybody, his family would be in grave danger. Kareem is a brave man; one of a kind. He is too humble… keep it a secret!”
“I am sorry I didn’t know. I won’t, I promise you brother.”
“It is okay, just keep it between us.”
“Of course brother. Brother, I need to buy some groceries.”
“Please go ahead. We’ll be here whenever you come back.”
Yamen asked Abdo, “Do you want me to join you?”
“No, no, it’s okay.”
Once Abdo left, Yamen mocked me, laughingly trying to copy me, “Kareem is in charge of bringing the international community…”
“Your new friend is so gullible. I like it.”
Maybe there were other Syrians, far from the homeland like me, who found sympathy and care insufficient. I compensated through my ritual, which might not be a global regulatory tactic. Maybe there were those who found refuge in deceiving others into equating them with the braves. I questioned myself on the phenomenon, deducing, it doesn’t work that way. For one, assuming others do their rituals to counter their state of discomfort, then deceiving others of that fallacy is merely a matter of communicating a desired self-image. Facing the conflict within us should call for more than wearing another’s skin, claiming their triumphs, and understating their sacrifices in the pursuit of a stronger desired recognition. For a ritual to bring comfort, one has to be lulled into a false sense of security. But this requires an element of self-deception, which is a blasphemy against the souls of the braves who departed for us to be dignified free. It also makes you somewhat psychotic. Extrapolating on its danger, one should question the folie a deux epidemic, as the shared psychotic disorder is contagious. It could be social media borne.
Part of Sami’s nightly tales were the ones of Shakeeb, his friend during college. He had left Ar-Raqqa shortly after Sami. I saw him speaking about his proclaimed ordeal on a major news channel: how he was imprisoned and tortured, his escape from Al-Nusra and ISIL, and Al-Assad’s bounty on his head. Hearing him, you would assume that he was public enemy number one. Studying him on television, I murmured, “Nobody could sell a lie better than him.” Shakeeb was also a drug addict. After things started to go south in other cities and before ISIL became an acronym, he took one of the migrant boats to Greece, before making it to Germany. From there he started a Facebook group with the name “Rights of the Free”. He promoted it as an existing political movement that countered ISIL. Sami called it a movement and sometimes considered it a party. For the delusional activist Sami had asserted himself to be, you would expect him to know the difference between secularism and democracy. Like Kareem, he had communicated more revolutionary endeavour as opposed to those, back in the motherland, risking their livelihoods and dying for a free and just Syria.
**********
After work, I’d come back to find Jennifer waiting with everything in order. She’d made the Korean cucumber noodles I liked. There was no cake. We both were almost broke, so a gift was off the cards. Before going to our room she graciously noted, “I know you want to watch the news. I am going to the room and whenever you’re done, follow me.”
On the eve of my birthday, all major news channel headlines were the same. And they all were on Syria. Sunk deep in an unfamiliar wretchedness of my unfortunate species, I hadn’t dignified Jennifer’s soft breaths over the nape of my neck with a look. Aljazeera didn’t blur the gruesome aftermath of the Ghouta chemical attack although it was appalling. I switched to their website before moving to the-next-to-the-real-thing social media screen. I needed to prepare myself. Before witnessing the highest dosage of hysterical mayhem, I caught a glimpse of Jennifer falling to her knees, collapsing in despair. I would have been down by her side, if I wasn’t on that couch.
Lying on an unfinished floor, the toddler’s mouth kept expelling foam. The trembling hand of the keening man scanning the scene with his phone had captured less of that white substance on many shivering boys and girls; men and women had it too. Others had froth dripping down from their lower lips. The doctors and nurses on their knees wailed as though their almighty would have mercy on them, or dignify their pain at the least. On a large gurney three unconscious babies, who couldn’t have been more than few months of age, hadn’t a soul moaning by their little toes.
And then, the fucking buzzing sound found its way to my ears. The last time I had heard it had been about eight years ago. That awful sound meant haunting throes; it was yet another scar.
Moving my heavy head around, it seem as if a strong magnetic force was pulling my eyes back to sip more of that bitter bedlam. The fucking fly didn’t just have the pleasure of hovering over the late teen in convulsion; it had to keep landing over the strange-looking-iris of his eye. The mother, who almost ripped her veil to cover her departed family, had transmitted into me a force, tightening my grip on Jennifer’s hand. In excruciating agony, a yowling man’s cough kept breaking his high-pitched wails. The soaked cleaning sponge in that male nurse's hand dripped continuously as though it was mourning the deceased. Dissolved in tears, Jennifer rose to kiss me on the forehead as if that affection would relieve my aching soul.
I had to take her to bed. Strong as she was, witnessing that calamity for the fourth time would’ve broken her. Upon our entry, she rushed in to put out the melting candles that were arranged in a heart shape. Speechless, I stood by the bed before lying down over the uncomfortable bed springs, I watched her take off her robe. I should’ve told her how stunning she was, wearing that black lingerie. Instead
, I thought, she must have borrowed some money from somebody so she could make me happy. After she changed into her blue sweatpants, I invited her to sit by my side. Gobsmacked on that bed, we stayed awake for hours. At the end of it, I think she closed her eyes just so I could leave the room without guilt.
I thought the twenty-second of August would qualify as a global mourning day. Evidently, the world didn’t give a flying rat’s ass. Insofar, my species’ life expectancy had fallen by twenty-seven percent. The country was described as the humanitarian catastrophe of the twenty-first century. However, the celebrity story of the Zimbabwe jungle cultivated more sympathy than the innocents of my kind. As time goes by you come to the conclusion that the world ain’t gonna give a shit. That said, I had expected to sense the ache in my kind.
On my Facebook page, I noticed Yamen’s post of a smiley face with the phrase, “Feeling happy,” as though it was a clarification for old-schools, like me, who didn’t get emojis. His communicated emotional state was accompanied by its stimulus, “Green tea Frappuccino. This is the life.”
“What a fucking life,” I muttered.
Catching a glimpse of Yamen and Moayad just outside the café, I felt the urge to smoke before getting my coffee. Facing the street, I inhaled the smoky air having to turn away from Moayed’s shit breath. “Take your arm off my shoulder,” I ordered, glowering at his soft hand. Yamen noted, “Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed! Let’s take a seat.”
“Do I have a choice?” I asked, irritated.
Moayed enquired, “Are you okay?”
“Have any of you seen the news?”
“What happened?” Moayed asked.
“I think you should see for yourself.”
“Don’t,” Yamen instructed.
“Why not?!”
“Please tell me Adam.”
“Yesterday your president’s army attacked Ghouta using sarin gas, killing around one thousand, four hundred and twenty-nine people, including no less than four hundred and twenty-six children. It’s so fucking gruesome that I cannot even start to describe it. What’s your deal with children? Yamen can you tell me who’s worse Saddam or your fucking president? You owe it to your people to see the price the country is paying so that your genocidal president stays in power. With what is happening, I have no idea how can you sleep at night. I just want to know what has to happen to wake you up from deluding yourself. Just…”
Yamen interrupted, “It’s not our armed forces. Al-Nusra front kidnapped the children from Al-Qardaha.” Hearing his counter version of the mayhem made my jaw drop. Repressing my fury, I wanted to listen to their fictitious tale. Yamen added, “The Free Syrian Army attacked them for two reasons. That is, to take revenge and get international support.”
Trying to keep my calm, I inhaled more smoke before asking, “Have you seen the aftermath? Is that what you think happened?”
“I don’t like to see the videos. Besides they are all fabricated. I am not making things up. You should listen to what Bouthaina Shaaban said!”
“So the videos are not real…”
“Not all of them are real. It’s hard to get hold of the real footage.”
“I see. For your information the footage has already been checked by experts. And they are not fabricated if you’d like to know. Moreover, you are trusting the word of a terrorist over the rest of the world.”
“Not everybody in the government is a terrorist! Please stop labelling respectable people as terrorists.”
“Are you taking about Bouthaina Shaaban? The same Bouthaina Shaaban who was involved in Samaha’s terror plot?”
“Come on man! You always disregard people who believe in conspiracies. Don’t be a hypocrite.”
“Excuse me!”
Moayed took a shot at me, “Well you call Mr President’s media consultant a terrorist; she is a very intelligent woman. I know her personally…”
“Stop Moayed. You know shit. Have you heard of Michel Samaha?”
“No!”
“Then shut the fuck up and listen! Samaha and your fucking president’s chief of security, Mamlouk, conspired to destabilise Lebanon using explosives; they wanted to use Sunnis so they could incite sectarian strife. Phone records uncovered the involvement of the bitch Bouthaina Shaaban.”
Yamen justified, “The Mossad…”
“Fuck you Yamen! Lebanese reports called him an undercover police informant. But be it the Mossad, what fucking difference does it make?”
Yamen retained his sickening sanctimonious smile. Mad as hell I harangued, “Does your fucking smile mean that all I just said is wrong? Or does it mean that you are proud of what your government is doing? Or does it imply that you don’t give a shit as long as you get the chaos the fucking terrorist republic of Iran wants?”
“You are so angry man!”
“No shit, as you should be. For you it’s not enough to ignore the pain your regime has inflicted on our country. And I am not only talking to you. One would rather the decimation of the country for some twisted doomsday theology and the other would ignore all atrocities as long as he becomes some corrupted shithead. Just let me be clear, the way I see it, you are both partners in one of the most atrocious ideological cleansings in this century. And for what? You are not embarrassed, not ashamed. Yamen, you are no different than those who support al-Qaeda. Moayed, for money and title you would sacrifice the lives of hundreds of thousands. Just admit it; not to me, to yourselves. Because if you knew that, you wouldn’t have the audacity to preach your fucked-up, intelligence insulting and fictitious tales. You would know better than to kill and then play the victims.”
Yamen gave Moayed a grin and mumbled, “He is angry…”
“I can speak for myself, don’t speak on my behalf.”
“I am telling him that you are under too much stress.”
“I am furious but not stressed. And disappointed that I actually tried to reason with you. You will never change. You are both fixated that no matter how high the price and how many injustices our people endure…”
“Enough Adam. Just remember what you always say.”
“What is that?”
“That you are not absolute and you can be wrong.”
“Yeah I can be wrong but not on this. You might need to entertain my philosophy. A hint, nobody wants to be you in that situation. I mean living with the knowledge that you’re wrong and you’ve been taking the side of the babies’ butcher.”
**********
Over the slow agonizing torture of the braves and innocents in our motherland, our exposure from such distance left us to either witness or be infected by the hometown syndrome. For in matters of struggle there is the legitimisation of sufferers’ claims and in matters of war there is fairness in all unjust affairs.
As the merciless demagogue stepped harder, crushing the throats of the free, their haunting voices called for the only holy prayer. In memory of their sacred remains, those mourning the loss of the free and those inspired by them congregated. In the name of the absolutist egomaniacal tyranny, the masses were forcibly dismantled, caged in the halls of sadists, or put down to sleep, once and for all. Worshippers of the true god, Freedom, across the motherland stood Gandhi-like in the face of the heretic; defiant in their chains, roaring “Enough!” But not all had the stomach for that conviction. The pilgrimage was a privilege of only the braves. Their enlightenment was inevitable in the pursuit of that godly prophecy of dignity. Spurred on by altruism, they endeavoured to show their fellow countrymen and women the light, freeing them from the dark spell of their doomed slave master.
Far from behind our telescopes, we chanted, shouted, we felt pain and rage, we wept. And from the distance some lectured. Overseas and far from the savage claws, those who originated from places of defiance had viewed the hesitation of those in other parts of the motherland as betrayal, marking patient zero of the hometown syndrome.
Sufferers of the illness showed low tolerance to the counter justification of tho
se from towns of heresy, be they on the ground or distanced. Urged on by the contagious disorder, they portrayed the roaring worshipers as hypocritical; shouldn’t these worshipers offer the ultimate sacrifice to the cleansing devil? It was as though being violated was equal to faithfulness. Consumed by tallying the beast’s selective evildoings against their regions blinded them to his fangs in the whole nation’s back. It was as if Al-Assad’s regime was Lucifer and the mayhem he caused was their sacrifice to the gods. From their safe havens, they bargained using their hometowns’ bedlam. Branded in victimhood, they claimed the rights to reap the fruits of the braves’ endeavours.
While the brute fangs inflicted deeper scars, the syndrome showed its next facet. As atrocities resulted in an unprecedented magnitude of decimation, the sufferers cursed the souls of early worshipers. Some only cherished it elsewhere; for Damascus was the oldest capital, Aleppo was in the heart of the country, and Ar-Raqqa contained the unfortunates’ refuge. It was the villagers’ takeover, they would curse.
Every part of the motherland had its roles and merits; tragedies were agonising, the sane could argue. Those captivated by the prophecy of dignity, from their telescopes, might have wished the struggle to occupy the deserted emptiness of the nation. But really, they shouldn’t have wished it for anybody, but acknowledge its presence no matter where.
**********
For a long time, I had realised that many members of my compatriots in Penang ranged on a spectrum of political ignorance between wilful and bumptious. However, notwithstanding their shortcomings, they were inclined to have their say in our common, complex misfortune. I also came to witness one of Syria’s worst enemies. That was, the overwhelming pursuit of a new deity. It went without saying that Al-Assad’s regime, ISIL, Iran, Al-Nusra Front, and Hezbollah topped the list.
Preaching on the danger of “Allah is Almighty”; I was disciplined for my lack of tactfulness by the faithful and not so faithful. Warning of the exclusiveness of Islamic chants, I was called sectarian as if I had a religion. Sami called me racist and after I argued, “As a Middle Easterner myself and given that Islam is not inclusive of ethnicity, the label was a naïve offence.”
An Ishmael of Syria Page 19
