A Woman in the Crossfire

by Samar Yazbek

  Not far from my window, hailstones fall, and my heart turns into a hunk of scrap metal in the face of my impotence, as Dar‘a is slowly dying for all of us to see, while the whole world watches. Among those of us who comfortably tuck in our children before going to sleep, there is a thin imaginary line separating real pain from hypothetical pain, and no matter what we say about feeling the sorrow of those mothers, it is a lie. Pain appears in the wake of actual loss. Pain is not purely coincidental now.

  Not far from Damascus, just an hour by car, there is a calamity taking place that seems more like the stories we read about in the papers, one we cannot believe is actually happening here. Entire families are surrounded by tanks and soldiers and snipers. Women hide out in their homes, shaking and shuddering from the popping sounds of gunfire, the gunfire that never stops. Anyone who dares set foot outside is a potential martyr. Nobody is around to bury the bodies lying outside the al-Umari Mosque in Dar‘a. Even as voices start to rise up in the city calling upon the authorities to let the martyrs’ families bury their dead, the wounded remain holed up inside the houses for fear of being picked off outside or bleeding out in the open without any first aid. I manage to confirm that several pharmacies have been bombed and burned. Why are they setting the pharmacies on fire? So that people won’t be able to treat the wounded, of course. Some residents escape the city and flee the country by crossing the Lebanese or the Jordanian borders, leaving death and destruction behind. What does today have in store for the city? Will demonstrators go out this Friday, this Friday of Rage that has been called for by demonstrators in every Syrian city? Will a single one of them dare cross the threshold of his house, with tank turrets and snipers’ machine guns all around them?

  Last Friday Damascus was a ghost town. It wasn’t Damascus.

  Despite the calls spreading throughout the Syrian cities for people to come out and despite the death of so many young people, security forces were deployed in all the squares, the number of their personnel and platoons rose into the thousands. With the road to Jawbar closed, my female friend and I drove through Abbasiyeen Square, and there was a strange deadly calm. As we circled the square, the security was just starting to gather; it wasn’t yet time for the demonstration. My friend drove us through the streets of Damascus as we looked for signs of life. My eyes played tricks on me, and I cried to see the city empty except for the screams of death and those murderous eyes that were gathering, the eyes of young people who stepped off government-owned tour buses. They carried sticks and chains. I thought about how I had lived in Syria for 40 years but had never seen anything like those faces, their dusky complexions, petrified wooden bodies, hate-filled eyes.

  Was 40 years enough time to create such a frightening generation of murderers?

  During the afternoon, on our second time around, the situation in Abbasiyeen Square was different: the number of security forces had increased, even along the side streets, and as our car looped around the square, we saw military checkpoints blocking the Jawbar road. There were many different groups assembling and somebody said shots had been fired. We didn’t hear any gunshots on our entire trip, but the next day when I met up with a friend, I tried to find out from her what had actually happened in al- Zablatani, not far from Abbasiyeen Square. She told me she had been there and saw a group of young Christian men standing and demonstrating right in front of the security forces, only a handful of them, no more than a few dozen. One of them had taken off his shirt and bared his chest to the security forces’ machine guns. He stood there for nearly a minute until the sound of gunfire rang out and brought down the young man. I asked her what happened to him. Although they were only monitoring the security forces from afar, and from behind a balcony even, she said that they opened fire and ordered everyone to go back inside, as those who remained on the street fled. Then the square was empty except for security forces, the sounds of gunfire and the bodies of five young men who had fallen on the ground. State television would later report that the security forces had captured five saboteurs who were killed during armed clashes.

  What happens in this moment between when the shot is fired and when the bullet hits the bare chest? How are the two related?

  What was that young man who exposed his chest to death thinking about at that very moment?

  How long will it take us to understand the language of life? How much sadness do we need in order to endure this fresh blood in a country succumbing to the forces of death? Did the bare chest of that young man, standing there alone in front of them, without uttering a word, frighten them? What did the machine gun that killed him and his friends do after this assignment?

  Questions upon more questions, and that afternoon, driving towards Barzeh, a checkpoint appeared in front of us. It was a different kind of checkpoint: there were not a lot of men, five of disparate ages, and it was obvious they weren’t security, but they and their machine guns moved closer to us despite the fact that the car wasn’t the least bit suspicious. One of them was a young man who could not have been more than 25, his machine gun barrel was pointed straight at us; his eyes were lethal. My heart quaked as we turned around. Beyond that checkpoint there was killing and gunfire. We weren’t allowed to enter Barzeh.

  That was last Friday, and just as I was about to start recording these diaries, pain prevented me from doing so. I was too nervous to focus on writing. I wandered from friend’s house to friend’s house. I avoided going home in order to evade detention, because the security apparatus had fabricated more reports about me and posted them on their websites. It was getting difficult for me to go to Jableh or to move around freely in Latakia. I was a traitor to my sect for being on the side of the demonstrators. I wrote two pieces about the protest movement, in which I talked about the practices of violence and killing and arrest carried out by the security forces. They responded by posting articles on a mukhabarati11 website discussing my relationship with American agents, a ready-made excuse the security apparatus would always resort to in order to clamp down on people who have their own opinions. I was bounded by my own anxiety and fear, by my daughter and my family, who came under direct pressure from the scandal that ensued in my village when the regime told them that their daughter had betrayed her sect and her homeland. I could not write. The daily news of killing was more present inside of me than any emotion. Then there was the news of my friends getting arrested. Finally, there was the atrocity that ended with the siege of Dar‘a, which continues until today, the Friday of Rage.

  I awoke to the sound of hailstones rattling against the window. It was early. I had come home; I simply had to, despite the threats from the security forces, despite all the rumours that were being spread about me among the Alawites, provoking everyone on the coast against me. I must remain calm in order to make sure my daughter is going to be all right even after being threatened she would come to harm. Despite this, I decide to become even more active on the ground with the young people of the uprising, whether at demonstrations or in terms of providing assistance to those young people who had gone underground in order to work for the revolution ever since the security apparatus started following them. These days require a lot more effort, especially in light of the policy of media militarization to which the regime has resorted. We need voices to convey to the media what is actually happening, but most of the young people have been locked up, or will be arrested immediately after appearing on any satellite network.

  As of today the Syrian border with Jordan has been closed for five days. The Syrian authorities closed it, and all economic life between Dar‘a and al-Ramtha has stopped. 50 martyrs in one week, and the news is still ambiguous. Under the weight of the security forces, the soldiers and the shabbiha, the people of Dar‘a live in obscurity and darkness. News about them is vague, but the stench of death is obvious. Two days ago the son of a representative in the People’s Assembly appeared on television with tears in his eyes, saying, “No matter what’s happening in Dar‘a, why have they cut off the electricity a
nd water, why are they starving the people, why won’t they let people bury their dead, why won’t they help the wounded?” Of course, it is obvious that the regime wants to teach all of Syria a lesson through Dar‘a, even if they have to exterminate every last person in the process.

  Still no news in the afternoon. The army surrounds Damascus, its trucks and its soldiers patrol the city. Daraya is cut off from its surroundings and we hear that the power has been cut, as the people there fear the snipers who deploy up on the rooftops at night. The full strength of the army mobilizes along the Lebanese and Jordanian borders. There are major incursions in several cities. Now, at two in the afternoon, there are demonstrations in Amuda and Latakia, and there is perpetual news about gunfire. I am still waiting.

  I sit at home next to my daughter after she returns from two weeks back in the village. She tells me impatiently, “They’re going to kill you. In the village they said they’re going to kill you. Everybody’s saying that, everybody’s cursing you and insulting you, and in Jableh they were handing out flyers accusing you of treason!”

  I assure her that I am not going to leave the house, that I will stay there with her. She is happily following the marriage of Prince William and Kate. I try to find out online what is going on in the Syrian cities but she asks me to get off the computer and sit with her. I remain silent as she cries and accuses me of abandoning her. I try explaining to her what happened to me, how the security apparatus has smeared my name and incited people to kill me in order to silence the voice of truth. She argues that the situation isn’t worth sacrificing my life for, and that she doesn’t have anyone else in the whole wide world except for me. I fall silent and go to my room to cry. I don’t want her to see my tears, even as she continues yelling. I let her yell as long as she wants, because I know how much pressure she has been under in the village and in Jableh.

  Now security prevents people from making it to the demonstration squares in all the cities of Syria. In Homs security surrounds the district of al-Bayyada and imposes a curfew.

  In al-Qamishli the people come out to demonstrate. People emerge from the mosque in the al-Maydan district of Damascus. There are tear gas canisters and ten buses filled with security agents who beat up the demonstrators scattered throughout the neighbourhoods chanting for freedom and for the siege on Dar‘a to be lifted. They are unarmed. There are about a thousand demonstrators, but they quickly disperse because of the violent beating and the tear gas.

  I hope there will be very little bloodshed. Every Friday I have an appointment with pain, not simply pain as an aggravation, but the kind of pain that keeps me awake. Ever since the uprising began I can only sleep with the aid of sleeping pills: Xanax.

  Now there is news from Dar‘a: heavy gunfire, snipers are still up on the rooftops, nobody can move, there is a flour embargo. Why are they doing this? After the electricity and the water and the medicine, they’ll even cut off the bread?! Are they just going to let the people die from hunger? All the eyewitnesses who come forward confirm that the snipers will kill anyone who moves in the city. In the Damascus suburb of Saqba there are also huge demonstrations demanding the fall of the regime.

  It’s pouring with rain in Damascus now, and there’s news about the Jordanian army shoring up its forces near the border. My heart is in my mouth.

  I still pace around the house like a madwoman. I feel powerless. I can’t go out into the street, the net is shut off, there’s no news about what’s going on in the outside world. Hailstones pound the windows. My heart clenches. I feel dizzy. The rain keeps falling. Large hailstones. I think about the demonstrators caught out in this downpour when suddenly I receive a text message from a childhood friend: Dear traitor even god’s with the president and you’re still lost.

  I am not going to respond.

  The internet connection is finally restored.

  There are demonstrations in all the cities. They’re calling for freedom and the downfall of the regime.

  The southern entrance to Damascus is closed as the army redeploys to al-Ma‘damiya. The people of Homs hold up olive branches. The news reports that people went out to demonstrate in spite of the stormy weather. But I am nervous. News of the dead still hasn’t arrived and there are reports of heavy gunfire in the al-Saliba neighbourhood of Latakia. How much Syrian blood will be spilled today? This mighty people that came out to die will not go back to the way things were. That is the message that arrived today. The Syrian people will not go back to the way things were before. For the first time all of Damascus went out, its centre and its periphery. The news still isn’t clear, but what is clear is that the people went out into the streets in force and the security apparatus carried out a sweeping arrest campaign.

  Today will not end without bloodshed, that’s what I assume anyway, but I hope for the best. News from my city of Jableh reports women and men coming out, forces from the Fourth Division and fire trucks are present. What is happening right now in those streets where I grew up? I know all too well what the shabbiha and the regime goons are willing to do in order to stir up the Alawites against the Sunnis; they will shoot at the Alawites to make them believe the demonstrators want to kill them. I wait for civil war to break out in Jableh at any moment; it still hasn’t happened, but the regime won’t hesitate to make it happen. Maybe they are waiting a while just to play on Alawite fear and stir up even worse sectarian strife.

  Now there is confirmed news that demonstrators are coming out in Aleppo. Here is something that will frighten the regime, in light of the city’s commercial and strategic significance. I see a report about demonstrators coming out in Hama, the city that still bears so many memories of death and destruction from the early eighties.

  My fingers start to tremble. I am under siege in my own home. I want to go out into the streets, but my daughter’s tears hold me back. Now I must make her feel safe, even if only a little. But nobody can feel that way amidst our daily fear.

  I have been thinking I shouldn’t stay here much longer. In two days I’ll move to a house in the middle of the capital.

  The Arab and non-Arab channels broadcast the wedding of William and Kate. I’ll go down and get some supplies. I tell my daughter I have to leave her for an hour, just a car ride through the streets of Damascus. On the verge of tears, she shouts, “Don’t go! I know where you’re going.” Then the tears spill from her eyes. I respond by sitting down next to her.

  I wait there until the end of the day, when I learn that the number of demonstrators killed is 62.

  30 April 2011

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  The cities of Syria are under siege. Water and electricity have been intentionally cut off for two days, and now there is a growing threat of humanitarian disaster. People began sending calls for help on behalf of children who might die of starvation. That all started yesterday, even as reports about the use of live ammunition against the people were still ringing in my ears.

  I am not all right this morning, either. I go to see a friend from Baniyas, I want to hear something true from him. He had left his house and his family behind because he was an Alawite who stood with the peaceful demonstration in Baniyas. My friend is staying with his wife in a small room in al-Mezzeh. He is a lawyer and his wife a public employee; he is an old friend of mine and I can relate to the pressure he is under because I suffered from the same thing, even if my story has been better publicized in the media, more distorted and more like an incitement to kill. The Alawites of Baniyas consider him a traitor, but as far as I know most of the Alawites in Syria think I am one. Entering Mezzeh 86, I am terrified. I happen to know that most residents of that neighbourhood are Alawites who had been brought together in the eighties by then President Hafiz al-Assad’s brother Rifaat12 in order to form the Defence Brigades, which were the forces that carried out the massacres in Hama and at the Tadmur prison. I tell my girlfriend accompanying me, “If they find out who I am, they’ll tear me to shreds!”

  “Kurds live side by
side with Alawites in this neighbourhood,” she says. “Nobody’s going to know who you are.”

  I am so worn out I start to feel woozy and weak inside my own skin. Today 50 women hold a demonstration outside the Syrian parliament calling for the siege of Dar‘a to be lifted, and security confronts them and arrests some. Reports of killing are still coming out of Dar‘a: the shelling of the city, six new martyrs, pictures of dead children and women who were put into a vegetable refrigerator. Images arrive from Dar‘a, and finally there is news of arrests. But the most disconcerting thing as far as I am concerned is the feeling of despair that starts working its way through my heart, all the signs of life informing me that the situation in Syria is going to last for a long time, there will still be a lot more death and killing and bloodshed before the regime falls, or before another crazy situation can take its place. I am unnerved by the latest threat – they hacked my Facebook page and deleted all the comments, insinuating that my daughter would be harmed. I had reached the point where I resolved to stay home and write these diaries in order to understand how the uprising began. Going out for the demonstrations has become impossible, but that means nothing to me compared to my tragic feeling of powerlessness. It is all I can muster to write down what happened in Baniyas. I also have an appointment tomorrow with a journalist who managed to break through the siege of Dar‘a, and who promises to tell me everything he knows about the accursed day when the massacres took place.