Roundabout of Death Read online

  Saeed, who left for Lebanon, Turkey, Greece, and then Denmark, is learning Danish and how to quit smoking, but why? Because the refugee stipend he receives isn’t enough to cover the cost of his habit. They turned his house on Zahraa Street into a sniper’s den, installing a small group of fighters, a small window the size of a heart, and a sniper’s rifle with which they could strike enemy forces.

  People here were no longer afraid. Let’s say, for example, that there was an explosion, like there was on Friday, near the Faculty of Engineering, and a rocket landed on some building, making a crater in the foundation. It was as if nothing whatsoever had happened, everyone went to prayer and listened to the imam’s sermon, which discussed the woman who went to hell for failing to feed a hungry cat, for not helping it in any way. The imam spoke about the tortures of hell experienced by this woman, horrifying the worshippers. They all filed out of the mosque to go buy vegetables and fruit in the culvert, the same place they would buy dairy products, and then returned to their homes overjoyed by the bounty God had bestowed upon them.

  Dump trucks were hauling away debris that bounced around inside the vehicles, a totally unremarkable occurrence, ten, twenty, God only knows how many of them there were. Security forces had cordoned off the spot and were not allowing even a glimpse of what had happened where the rocket had exploded.

  When three missiles blew up here in the al-Jumayliyah neighborhood, everyone scattered for a few moments, but they reemerged and cleaned up the glass and everything else that had been broken, taxis took the wounded to the hospital, and then everyone went back about their business as if nothing had happened.

  Those of us sitting in the cafe weren’t interested in any of that, mostly we were more concerned with matters that affected us directly, like today, for example, I asked Muhammad D (there are so many Muhammads we have to place a special marker beside their names to distinguish one from the others) if he had watched the film Take Me and My Shame and he replied that he had seen Palace Walk once at the Granada Cinema. I told him that was the second release, and that the first run had been at the Fuad Cinema. You see, you don’t know a thing about cinema, I told him, and he objected, proceeding to defend himself by saying he had seen this film and that film, at the fanciest cinema houses. I asked him if he even knew where the Farouq Theater was located. He remained silent. Then the painter chimed in, which proved that he had been eavesdropping on our conversation the whole time, to say that it was located on Bustan Kull Ab Street, and that anyone who went inside feeling good would come out devastated.

  The interior section of the table was involved in this conversation, while the outer section was discussing the plight of migrants to Europe. I got involved in that conversation.

  “If you say that the birth rate in France is zero,” Muhammad D interjected, “then they need fresh blood all over Europe in order to maintain their societies. Doctor Ihab said that is a very high estimate, that French society is in the midst of a serious contraction. Haven’t you all heard the expression ‘the aging continent’? They need young children there so that they can raise them to be productive workers in their own society.”

  “But they grow up and all they learn is to buy and sell drugs,” said the painter, “and the whole society winds up strung out.”

  Nobody paid attention to the artist. I decided I would go to the checkpoint in secret, well, anyway I didn’t tell anyone about it. I said goodbye to everyone, paid for my coffee, and headed toward the Al-Mamoon secondary school. People were lined up in rows, many carrying empty bags under their arms while some had full bags and wheelbarrows as they approached the checkpoint. I pressed on deeper into the neighborhood between the main drag and the Al-Hikma secondary school, which had been a zone of car repair shops before that moved to Al-Ramouseh, and then I walked down toward the checkpoint.

  THE CHECKPOINT: WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT A CHECKPOINT?

  The checkpoint is located between two or three vehicles, the first stretches out as wide as the street itself, a run-down government bus, and the other two are more or less the same. There is a broad boulevard between them, a school on the right-hand side and commercial buildings with shops along the left-hand side. Lots of merchants are active around there, some who have come from the villages and others from impoverished neighborhoods. All have brought vegetables to sell, piling them up along the entire length of the street. The other two buses have been stacked one on top of the other, also in the middle of the road to block traffic, along with sandbags tossed helter-skelter to ensure the orderly, single-lane flow of people.

  I bought everything I was going to need for that day, then walked toward the bakery for bread, the first time in a long while that I had been able to buy it warm. Standing in line, I struck up a conversation with some of the people around me. I had to wait nearly half an hour for my turn. When I was able to buy three bags, I felt a kind of joy wash over me for the simple fact that I had been able to procure warm bread so easily.

  When I got back with just about everything that I had gone out to buy, I was greeted by sniper fire, and as I got closer to home the sounds became noticeably louder. But I still needed zucchini before I would be able to cross everything off my list. I stopped next to a young man in the middle of the street, sitting behind a mound of high-quality zucchini, which is why I chose him, and I proceeded to inspect the produce for the best ones despite the persistent gunfire.

  As the shooting intensified, I paid for the squash and rushed over to join some other people taking shelter together. All along the street I saw splotches of blood, more like droplets really, splattered all over, about the size of a gun barrel, and other stains that led directly to the spot where we had all congregated. People were huddled together in building entryways on both sides of the street, fear written all over their faces, and all over mine, too, I’m sure.

  The street in front of the school was totally deserted, the sniper’s bullets had the place to themselves. Some people who had piled into the building lobbies and were now plastered against the walls had begun to recite Quranic verses like Al-Qassar, Al-Ahadeeth, and Al-Aqwal, each of which expresses the mood of just this kind of situation perfectly. By the time the blood had started to dry, a twenty-something man had invited us all to pray with him, and many obliged.

  “The important thing, my friends,” the young man said, “is that we all get home in one piece.”

  Indistinct words were muttered in response.

  The collective fear lasted nearly three hours, and a young woman passed around water to everyone who had sat down in the doorway just beside me.

  “The sniper shot him in the head, he was just selling vegetables right there,” one man said, pointing out the splotch of blood.

  “Are we killing each other over tomatoes and cucumbers? Can you see us, Lord?” an old man bellowed.

  There was a long silence heavy with fear and sadness. At this point those in front started marching slowly, then gradually accelerating. The road was open and the sniper fire was drawing to an end.

  All of a sudden people started pouring out from all directions, packing the area, all of them running toward the Bustan Al-Qasr checkpoint.

  After passing through the checkpoint I waited in the Al-Fayd neighborhood for a shared taxi. The communal van I was accustomed to taking wouldn’t come through this neighborhood. The driver let out passengers and brought on others from over there. I waited so long that it was starting to seem pointless, but just then I heard a car horn that made me jump, and I pulled myself together as I clung to the vegetables and other items I had bought, and the honking gradually filled the space, piercing my nerves and pulverizing my senses.

  “Now they’re using even more bullets,” I said as I climbed on board.

  I watched the shared taxis passing by, all bursting with passengers, until a police motorcycle, which it turned out was the vehicle making that infernal racket, pulled up beside me.

  “Give me your ID,” the officer spat out in a way that start
led me.

  “I don’t have it on me,” I replied.

  “What the . . . ? ” he said, as if something had caught in his throat.

  “I don’t have my ID with me right now,” I repeated. “And why would I give it to you anyway?”

  “Aren’t you the one who just said, ‘Even more bullets to boot’?”

  “No, I didn’t say that.”

  “I can bring a dozen people who just witnessed you saying that to me.”

  “No, I never said that.”

  “Come with me, please.”

  “I take refuge in God from the accursed Devil.”

  “You seek refuge from Satan, huh? Well, you’ve just met him.”

  “Brother,” I said. “I never cursed you, you’re not the Devil. Where do you want to take me anyway?”

  “Down to the police station so we can come to an understanding with one another.”

  “What a day, brother. Even if I did say an unkind word, it was to the motorcycle, certainly not to you.”

  “Well who do you think did the honking?”

  “The insult was directed at the sound of the horn. I apologize profusely if you misunderstood.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. Personally, I’d prefer that you come along with me on your own recognizance, otherwise . . . ”

  “And what about all this stuff I’m carrying,” I said, gesturing toward the vegetables and other groceries.

  “You can leave them right there. I don’t think you’re going to need them anymore.”

  I turned the whole thing over in my mind. This policeman wasn’t about to let me reach the shores of safety unless I went along with him, but they were just going to paint me as a terrorist, claim I was wearing an explosive vest or something, that I was trying to blow myself up near them, that they had arrested me before I could carry out my suicide bombing. I put down what I was carrying, reached my hand into my pocket, and pulled out two hundred liras that I pressed into the policeman’s hand.

  “All good now?”

  “All good now,” he said, taking the money. “Don’t let this happen again.”

  He sped away, his horn blaring as people cleared out of his way, everyone silent, including me.

  MY SON, WITHOUT ANY PROTECTION

  I barely had time to put down the groceries and say hello to my wife before there was a knock at the door. I hurried over to open it and found Muhammad A, my son’s friend from medical school, standing there. It was strange for him to show up without my son.

  “Please come in, Muhammad,” I said. “You’re most welcome.”

  “I’m sorry, uncle,” he said from his very tall height. “It’s Nawwar, I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  “What is it? Has something happened to him?”

  He started to turn pale and then blurted out, “Nawwar’s fine.” I remained silent as Muhammad A continued. “He’s been detained . . . security agents raided the university. There was a conference. They arrested him while he was just sitting there taking notes.” After saying this he turned around and darted toward the staircase.

  I looked back at my wife to find her nearly collapsed, so I grabbed hold of her and helped her inside. The two of us sat there in shock. Because he was an only son, he had been exempted from military service, and she spoiled him as if he were an only child. We had just one son and one daughter. My daughter holds a doctorate in engineering. I’m an Arabic language schoolteacher. I go off to my work every morning and return afterward to the Island Cafe, where I sit for two hours or so and then go shopping for fruits and vegetables and other groceries we need for the house. That’s how things used to be anyway, but now with the siege of the city, the only thing ahead of me is the checkpoint.

  Now my son is being held in state security prison: what am I supposed to do? His mother casts me a meaningful glance, as if to suggest that I’m the one who detained him, who threw him into my own personal jail with the state security. She didn’t say a word at first, just glared at me.

  Then she let loose, saying I was to blame for what happened to her son.

  “Good grief, woman, pull yourself together. What have I got to do with what they’ve done to him?”

  When our daughter got home and we informed her what had happened, she just sat there in silence, in a moment of total oblivion, and then my wife got up to change her clothes.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To the security station,” she said.

  “I’m going with you,” my daughter chimed in. “At least we can bring him some lunch, a blanket, and some warm clothes.”

  “And a bed and bedding.”

  “What are you talking about?” my wife asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all.”

  We agreed that my wife and daughter would go, and that I would stay home and feed the chickens. We didn’t actually have any chickens or anyone for me to grieve with at all. My wife had said that purely out of spiteful sarcasm. The two of them grabbed those things and left. I expressed my wish that they would be back soon with Nawwar because there was no way he could have done anything against the government. They loaded everything into the car and took off.

  Nawwar was a very respectful boy, and before he got arrested, he was a fourth-year medical student. For a while he had participated in the demonstrations, chanting with his friends in the public squares and at the mosques for the fall of the regime, and the regime nearly did fall, otherwise he definitely would have already been arrested, which is to say, if armed people hadn’t gotten involved, and when those armed people first got involved in the revolution, he said the revolution had failed. He gave up on it altogether and focused entirely on his studies.

  He was once held for a week by the criminal police. He had gone to the Al-Hariri neighborhood because there was going to be a demonstration there, but by the time he arrived it was already finished, and they were confronted instead with police who had congregated there. They wrote up a report claiming he had been arrested on suspicion of involvement in some crimes: arson of public buildings, assault with a deadly weapon, and fomenting sectarian hatred.

  It was Ramadan, the month of fasting to mark when the Quran had been revealed to the Prophet Muhammad. My wife and daughter started delivering Nawwar two grilled chickens, along with pickled vegetables and garlic sauce, two loaves of bread spread with hot pepper paste; they’d also bring him a blanket, fresh underwear, and plastic flip-flops.

  Our son was sentenced to one week in prison, accused of taking part in a demonstration, and they later released him in accordance with the promulgation of an amnesty for all who had committed bloodless crimes. After he got out, we asked him about the underwear, but he said he never got it. Then we asked him about the chicken, and he said they used to give him one wing every day, which led us to conclude that they would not provide him with any protection.

  That was the first time, and now it’s the second time, but that was the police, while this is state security. What’s the difference, though, I thought to myself.

  When my wife and daughter got back, I asked how their visit to state security went. My wife wouldn’t respond but my daughter told me they weren’t able to see him. “They told us they’d deliver him all the stuff we brought.”

  Then I asked if they’d found out why he was arrested in the first place, and she said, “Apparently he’s wanted in Damascus.”

  My wife started moving back and forth, venom dripping from her all the while. Whenever I asked her a question, she’d walk away. Now I just let her go and dropped my head in my hands. “May God release us from this burden and free him from prison.”

  “What are you saying?” my wife asked.

  “Nothing,” I replied. “Nothing at all.”

  The time our son spent languishing in prison dragged on, and, according to our understanding of what was happening, he had been transferred to Damascus for questioning. We went to see them the very next day, and they told us something or other . . .
and so we kept on kissing the hands of those who might be able to do something for us as well as those who couldn’t, speaking with some person who I wouldn’t even buy an onion skin from and then another who had been elected a member of parliament and who would help people in circumstances like this one. I went to see him, kissed his hand, and prayed for his good fortune, though as the Syrian saying goes, nothing came of that prayer but cumin. I’ve never been sure exactly what that phrase is supposed to mean but somehow it still seemed perfectly apt to our situation. And then there was the writer whose reputation spread all across the country for participating in the revision of the constitution; we also went to his house to see him, where he told us he couldn’t really do anything to help. We paid a visit to the head of the Arab Writers’ Union as well, who was also a member of parliament, and this man did what he said he would, going to visit our son at state security, but he couldn’t do much of anything helpful in the end either. We visited and visited but nobody was able to get anything done for us. The responses we received were all the same: there was no record of anyone by that name.

  My wife would wake up in the middle of the night screaming, weeping until her voice rose up into the seven heavens, only the sky would remain closed and as her voice reverberated its way back down to her she would shove it aside and send it to hell. In the end, nobody could hear her cries, and she told me our son was gone for good. If I told her that patience was the key to salvation, she’d explode into screaming and wailing. What was I supposed to do? On the one hand, my son was stuck in jail, while on the other, I had to contend with his mother and her infernal voice. Soon I was walking in a perpetual daze, she’d be talking to me from the east and I’d reply to her in the west, sometimes I wouldn’t even respond at all. The folks at the cafe who knew about my situation would say, hang in there, everything’s going to be fine. I never knew what to say in return.