An Ishmael of Syria

by Asaad Almohammad

  I managed to get hold of them the same day. Over the phone Solaf recounted the scene. She added, “There were so many children.”

  “That’s bad.”

  “Bad doesn’t even start to describe it! There was a kid who put sunglasses on the crucified man.”

  “Ooh that’s insane.”

  “Wait! Some kids took selfies with the corpse.”

  “Fuck. Oh man.”

  “Even if things become normal someday; who will these kids grow up to be? What kind of lives will they lead?” Somebody in the background was yelling “indecent” or “one-eyed woman”; in Arabic the two words sound almost the same. It sounded like Sabrina, my youngest sister.

  “Is that Sabrina?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Solaf giggled.

  “What is it?”

  “Your sister went to the minimarket by the corner. She cannot walk wearing the burqa. She keeps tripping over her own feet. The shop is a minute away from the apartment so she didn’t wear it. In the shop an old man called her indecent. She confused the word with one-eyed woman. She told him that she had two eyes. And then she covered an eye with her hand and kept repeating “one-eyed woman.” He pulled her over and slapped her. She said he did it five times.”

  “That fucking piece of shit! She is only seven. She doesn’t even understand the word decent. Please put her on speaker.”

  “Adam they killed my dog!”

  “Who? Wait, do you have a dog?”

  “Puppy,” Solaf interjected.

  “Who did?” I asked.

  “ISIL,” Sabrina answered.

  Solaf added, “We think they did.”

  Sabrina questioned, “Adam why did they kill my dog. It didn’t hurt anybody.”

  “Ahh…”

  “It was white and beautiful.”

  “I am sorry my love.”

  “Why did they kill it?”

  “They are crazy criminals. They hate dogs. They believe that angels are scared of mirrors and dogs.”

  Sabrina sniffled, “They killed him because of angels?”

  “Maybe! I am very sorry my love.”

  Sobbing Sabrina yelled, “Adam said they killed him because of their scared angels. They killed him. I hate angels.”

  Far from behind her telescope, the war had taken its toll on Heela. I knew better than to ask resilience of her. After the perceived predisposition of our kind took a turn for the worse in Egypt she had been intimidated and threatened twice to seek a shelter in a different neighbourhood, should she be courageous enough to stay at the mercy of that unwelcoming host. Upon branding my species as a bad omen, terrorists, and indecent, Heela increasingly found she was only able to maintain the existence of body but not that of mind. She worked and studied for too many hours. When she couldn’t do either, she endeavoured to know and understand our clan’s anguish as though in doing this she would find refuge from misogyny and asininity. Her telescope was better than mine; it had a better angle through which she witnessed more of my clan sinking in floods of endless shit.

  I couldn’t only count on her slips of the tongue. I persuaded the few acquaintances I knew in the city to encourage her to keep me in the loop. I argued, “Sooner or later I will know what you know; I would rather know sooner. Besides, I don’t want to be dumbstruck by some idiot telling me about the fate of my own. I beg of you to be the one breaking it to me.” Hearing her recounting the horror, the only phrase I could think of was, Oh god, what have I done? Except I wasn’t the one dropping the bomb. Heela asked, “Do you know that grandmother Gammeek passed away?”

  “Yeah I knew about it.”

  “Do you know about Uncle Adhamm?”

  “Oh please, he is the only Uncle I like.”

  “Do you want me to tell you?”

  “Please do?”

  “A week after grandmother passed, he lost one of his children.”

  “Who?”

  “She was born in 2009; you don’t know her.”

  “How?”

  “She inhaled some powder?”

  “What powder? What?”

  “On her way back from school she inhaled this powder. There was this house that was attacked by Al-Assad’s air force.”

  “It wasn’t sarin gas, was it? I would’ve heard something about that.”

  “No they say it’s another chemical. They took her to the public hospital but nobody knew what it was. Uncle wanted to take her to Damascus but she was gone before they managed to get on the bus.”

  “Oh my... Oh. Somebody should’ve told me. Oh…”

  “Yeah, I am sorry but father said that it’s better not tell you.”

  Sighing I muttered, “I need to know. It is better.”

  “Uncle couldn’t take it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He went mad and has barely spoken since.”

  “Oh, shit,” with my free arm, I fought the wall with punches, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”

  Inhaling and exhaling deeply, I demanded, “You must not keep anything from me.”

  “And…”

  “Enough for today! I will call you tomorrow.”

  “This is about our family.”

  “Have we lost anybody? Is anybody ill?”

  “No but it’s important”

  “I don’t think I can take more… I have to go to work knowing that uncle went mad after losing his little daughter. I should be able to work.”

  “Okay.”

  “I will call you tonight!”

  After talking to Heela, I needed to hit the road. Instead, I stood on the balcony for an hour looking down at the children playing ball. I smoked one cigarette after another, using the end of each tobacco rod to light the next. Worrying about what Heela had wanted to tell me, I realised, I will fuck this day up. I decided whatever it is, I have to deal with it; and afterwards I must go to work.

  “Hit me with it,” I greeted her.

  “Don’t you want to go to work?”

  “Yes, but it would be impossible now. I need to know first.”

  “Okay…”

  “Go on, cut to the chase sister!”

  “Except for father and Solaf, everybody else is in Al-Kasra.”

  “At mother’s parents place, why? Anybody dead?”

  “No, but they haven’t got the money you transferred yet.”

  “Solaf told me that they couldn’t find anything to eat.”

  “They couldn’t afford it and father couldn’t borrow from anybody.”

  “I am sorry I was a little late this time.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I should have transferred it earlier. You know it took me ages to get that money. It’s an advance from my clients; I won’t earn a dollar for the next two months. All I wanted was to avoid that situation. So why did they go there?”

  “Food!”

  “Shit, ahh…”

  “That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

  “Shit, please go on.”

  “There are rumours that ISIL is planning to arbitrarily recruit people from Ar-Raqqa.”

  “Ahhh, fuck.”

  “Father is stressed and scared that they might recruit Nyhad.”

  “Yeah, you don’t say!”

  “Father is thinking about moving to Turkey. ISIL is everywhere; with the aerial bombardment it’s very dangerous.”

  “The girls are not going to school anymore. Solaf cannot go to work. No electricity and water for days and weeks. I get it, it is so fucking shitty in there! Smuggling our brother Moath cost me over a thousand dollars. After he was sacked from his last job, I had to transfer him some allowances. And my guess is that none of them have a passport. That would add around sixty per cent more.”

  “Actually father has a passport!”

  “As though it would make a big difference.”

  “I will tell them that you cannot help, not that they have asked.”

  “Don’t. Just tel
l them to see how many passports they can get using my last transfer. I will take care of it. Even if I have to sell an organ.”

  “Don’t sell an organ…”

  “I won’t!”

  “Do you know anybody buying?”

  “Of course not!”

  Chapter 14

  An Ishmael of Syria

  During my last night at Sheila’s place, Solaf had called me couple of times before I noticed my phone. It’d been a while since we'd talked and I missed her and her sarcastic takes; something that had long bonded us. Solaf and her husband were staying in Ar-Raqqa. I felt an ache on hearing her voice. It was our first call since ISIL had taken the liberty to cut off the city from the outside world, as though getting in touch with anybody in Ar-Raqqa wasn’t well-nigh impossible already. It was yet another fatwa. The savages had gone all 1984 on the use of the internet. Solaf asked, “Have you heard about the latest from ISIL?”

  “The internet?”

  “Yeah!”

  “I did. I’ve tried to get hold of you millions of times but I couldn’t. Frankly, I was waiting for your call. Thank you by the way.”

  “Don’t mention it! I also want you to break some bad news to mother.”

  “Of course, but why don’t you tell her yourself?”

  “Can you do it please?”

  “Sure, just give me a second.” Anticipating the worst, I moved out to the balcony and closed the door behind me.

  “Are you okay now?”

  “Yeah, go on.”

  “Do you remember cousin Freeda?”

  “Mother’s second youngest sister’s daughter, no?”

  “Yeah, she got married almost a year back. Her husband passed away six months back.”

  “Ah, I am sorry to hear about it! Was she the one staying with us?”

  “Yeah she is close to mother.”

  “I am sorry about that.”

  “It has been a while and mother knows!”

  “Okay, what is it then?”

  “She gave birth five months ago.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you know she is a nurse?”

  “No!”

  “So she is forced to work daily at the public hospital. Yesterday she was going to the bus station with her brother. She was using her scarf to cover her baby boy. I guess it was quite long. I mean with the burqa and everything. Her scarf was long. It was sunny and she covered her son’s face with it. On the way to the hospital, somehow the end of that scarf went under the wheels, dragging her and her son down.”

  “Shit!”

  “I am sorry…”

  “Shit, shit, fuck…”

  “Listen, her son is gone.”

  Loudly, I yelled, “Fuck!”

  “I am sorry.”

  “What about her?”

  “I visited her yesterday. She is in critical condition. Her face…”

  I kicked the wall, “Oh shit, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Sheila saw the whole thing but pretended that she was reading something on her laptop.

  “Just so you know, I am the one who broke it to her when cousin Abdorazaq was killed.”

  “Who’s cousin Abdorazaq? Is he related to mother?”

  “He was her brother’s second son. You don’t know about him. He was born after you left the country.”

  “How?”

  “What? Oh yeah. ISIL vehicles ran him over. They didn’t even stop!”

  **********

  Sheila had been on the road for the last few weeks. She had been spending a little too much time up in the air. She sent me her last itinerary. Flight paths tripled the distance between Sierra Leone and Malaysia. She was in charge of setting up an office over there on behalf of her company. On Sunday she messaged me every now and then. I promised her to give her a video call once I'd made it home.

  Over that call, Sheila talked about a feeling. A feeling I have long lived with. She was a people person too. On Saturday night and upon her request, the hotel manager had set up a meeting between Sheila and his Senegalese cousin. It had been years since she last spoke any Wolof and she had asked the hotel manager if he knew anybody in the vicinity.

  Over a few messages she told me that the guy was under the impression that she could get him a job. In our video call, we rationalised this was likely to be on the basis of desperation. Sheila hadn’t hidden anything, mentioning my name and recounting some of my share of misfortunes in my pursuit to secure a job.

  Foremost, we explored the feeling she had. It was a mixture of boredom, anxiety, and loneliness. Back on the island, she had enjoyed the company of her many friends. I assured her, “Whatever that feeling is, it’s normal to experience it in new places. It might even make you restless at night.”

  “Yeah, that could be it.”

  “Yeah, the story of my life. You see, during college back home I felt like that. In Malaysia, it wasn’t always like this.”

  “How come?”

  “Like you, I have the desire to be around people and to be part of their communities. I thought I could make that happen here. I have to admit for a while it was the case. I guess I was more patient then. I just can't do it anymore.”

  “What can’t you do?”

  “Keep trying to defy their stereotypical assumptions of my kind. Having to explicitly define myself. Having to defend my whole species. I mean first being an Arab. It’s like being guilty of something. I have to start almost any relationship on the defensive. I have been patient to do it. I remember telling Sami when we moved to a place together that on the island you might have no choice on who you befriend. They say you cannot choose your family. I told him for us over here, it is easier to choose your family than your friends. I've reached a point where I've grown tired of trying to convince people that I’m not who they think I am. I’ve become exhausted of having to defend my whole race. I’ve ended up alienating myself. I was never on very good terms with my Syrian clan. But I need to socialise with somebody. Although, we disagree on core issues and no one keeps in touch with the others if they leave this forsaken island.”

  Eventually we concluded our take on the phenomenon. Before, we said to each other, “Sleep well.” Sheila asked, “Have you talked to Nyhad? You told me last time you might’ve upset him.”

  “That was over eight months ago.”

  **********

  On the night my family made it to Turkey, I made everybody promise to gather in one place so I could see all of them at once. Except for Solaf; she and her husband were in Syria. It had been six years since I had last seen any of them in motion. A video call was not in any way equivalent to a face to face reunion but it was all I could afford. Before that call, I’d danced and sang. Most of all, I was happy. I was full of joy until I caught a glimpse of my family’s demeanour. Father looked very skinny, weak, and twice the age of a man of his years. Mother wept before I had the chance to say, “Hello.” The grey covered her head and the toll the war had taken on her was clear in her eyes and face. Nobody would ever confuse her as my older sister; she could easily pass as my grandmother.

  I spent hours talking to them. Before Nyhad’s turn, I talked with Jomana, my second youngest sister. She had recounted part of her tale about their night in the wilderness before something else caught her attention. From behind my screen, I witnessed the whole thing. Distracted by some sound she froze. Silently, I waited for her to continue her story. Jomana’s lower lip quivered as she looked to her right and left. I Frowned from behind my desk. I didn’t hear the sound of her chair falling to the ground.

  Jomana had crouched under a table by the door of the spacious room, sobbing and trembling, as Nyhad made it to the screen. He adjusted his seat, whilst my mother sat by my sixteen year old sister’s side. She held her daughter’s hand and kept whispering something to her.

  Jomana’s trauma was in no way Nyhad’s fault. I kept my rage repressed for the best part of our conversation. I was aware of his need to build a future for himself. For long, I had come to label preachers of h
opeful fallacies in times of calamity as warlords. He had laid down his plans and I couldn’t show more disapproval. I wanted to let it slide. But when he made a mention of the UK providing a fast-track resettlement programme that was exclusive to our kind, I just couldn’t hold it in anymore. I vented, haranguing him on the danger of hope.

  **********

  Regardless of its varying narratives, the story of Ishmael has always fascinated me. Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike had it that Sarah, the seventy-five year old wife of Abraham, offered her handmaiden, Hagar, to her husband. Hagar was supposed to give them a child. She was a slave with no rights whatsoever. The late eighty-five-year-old had sex with his wife’s slave. In a matter of months, Hagar got knocked up. Envious old Sarah went all bananas on her, treating the poor thing like shit. Thinking about it, she must have taken shit to another level that even her slave couldn’t endure it. Hagar went AWOL.

  Hagar claimed receiving words from God, who persuaded her to suck it to Sarah. As a man for whom faith is absent, I can’t take her word for it. God must have been a very bored man with a lot of time on his hands. One, at that time, could only argue, “Why me?” Hagar claimed that God made her a promise that her son would father a great nation. To others, God called that son a “wild donkey of a man”; whatever that is. I can only assume that God loathed wild donkeys. God also wanted the child, for whatever reason, to be named Ishmael.

  After Ishmael turned thirteen, God told Abraham, his words not mine, that he would give him another son, Isaac, and that the father was to establish his covenant through the newborn. Abraham wondered, “What about Ishmael?” Abraham said that God had assured him that Ishmael would be just fine; even better than that.

  After giving birth to Isaac, Sarah accused her stepson and slave of playing with or mocking her son; we actually don’t know whether he mocked or played with his stepbrother. Sarah told her husband to get Hagar, the slave, and her son the fuck out of her sight. A woman known for nothing but the warmth of her heart didn’t want the slave’s son to share her husband’s inheritance; all of the goodies shall belong to Isaac. God was a friend of Abraham; an invisible friend who talked plenty to the ninety-nine-year-old. Whenever his friend got whipped by his wife, he told him to obey.