A Land of Permanent Goodbyes Read online

  “Ibni.” Fayed’s shoulders dropped even lower than they had been. “You must stop. Please.” His voice was weak and his words soft. “Do it for your sister. She can’t keep hearing this—it will only hurt her more.”

  Tareq shifted his gaze toward Susan, who was fast asleep with her mouth open and head pressed on the red-haired plush lovey. The doll survived the bombardment that killed more than two dozen men, women and children. He found it in the rubble during the days he was searching for the body of his little brother. Susan’s first smile after the air strike came when he handed her the doll, and she hadn’t let go of it since. It’s a connection to a life she will barely remember as the years pass, but the feelings of tenderness and love will forever be encapsulated in that ragged and tattered little doll.

  Tareq didn’t respond to his father, and he knew to stop asking. Not just for Susan, but also for the man behind the steering wheel, the only parent he had left—their shattered caregiver who lost his wife, mother, daughter and three sons while he was at the shop. The man who just left his own brother behind in that destroyed city in order to give his remaining children a chance, not knowing what that prospect would be.

  Instead, Tareq vacantly stared out the back window, watching the arid landscape that whizzed past. In recent years, the once-lush greenery that held beautiful loquat and citrus trees had disintegrated into dusty brown cracked earth. He thought of the news stories he’d read in social media posts since the war started, pieces trying to reason why his country had fallen into a bloody abyss. The parched ground seemed to advocate the article that accused climate change and the region’s drought. Did global warming kill my family? Tareq wondered. More than ever before, he wanted someone or something to blame for his loss.

  The article Tareq thought of was one shared primarily by friends and family who supported the government. It claimed that the loss of fertile land sparked the anti-government revolt in 2011, beginning in an area where farmers were feeling more than a pinch in their wallets because of the decade-long dry-up. The protests started in the southwestern city of Daraa, where some audacious teenagers sprayed graffiti opposing President Bashar al-Assad’s government for not doing enough to help the croppers.

  That online piece, and many articles for that matter, made a lot of claims about what may have ignited the war. In reality, there were many sparks that started the inferno that burned a great civilization into the ashes—there always are.

  Fayed steadied the vehicle as he saw another checkpoint ahead, the third since leaving their home city. And not the last before they would reach their destination.

  After the strike that killed his family, Fayed decided that he needed to get his two surviving children out of his homeland, a decision he would regret putting off for the rest of his life, as the ghosts of his other children and wife constrict his every breath.

  But before leaving Syria, he needed financial support for the journey. And his older brother had promised to lend him the cash as long as he could come pick it up. Fayed didn’t want to go to Raqqa—deeper into the belly of the beast—to take his children there, but that was where his eldest brother lived.

  The city had become the de facto capital for Daesh, al-Dawla al-Islamiya al-Iraq al-Sham—or, as the world started to call it, ISIS. Since forcefully taking the city, the fundamentalist organization had created their own laws, calling them religious but not caring whether they contradicted Islam and humanity.

  As Fayed let up on the accelerator, the crumbling of dirt, glass and broken concrete pressed deeper into the rubber tires, waking Susan. She stretched her arms and let out a loud yawn. “Baba, are we here?”

  “No, albi, just another checkpoint. Nothing to worry about, go back to sleep.” Susan nodded in approval and let her lids drop again before leaning back on the car door.

  “Baba, who are they?” asked Tareq. The knots in his stomach returned, as they had at every checkpoint.

  “Don’t worry, we will be fine.” Fayed scratched the beard he’d started growing in preparation for heading into Daesh-controlled land, part of their strict uniform. He stopped his car behind a halted bus. There was a group of about ten men standing outside the coach, drinking water out of thin plastic bottles and smoking.

  Inside the car, both father’s and son’s palms began to sweat as a young disheveled man approached their vehicle. He was not with the gaggle ahead. His green camouflage uniform identified him as a fighter for the government army.

  “Merhaba.” The soldier scanned the car as he offered a lackluster greeting.

  “Hello.” Fayed forced a smile.

  “Where are you headed?”

  He told the truth. “We are going to Raqqa to visit family.”

  The young soldier shook his head. Fayed couldn’t decipher if it was out of concern or judgment.

  “I have a brother there, and we need to see him,” Fayed continued.

  “Yes, I understand.” The university-aged man put a hand up. He’d heard enough. “That bus is headed there too.” He flicked a finger in the direction of the group. With a longer, more attentive glance, both father and son now noticed an aging woman among the riders ahead. “They came from Beirut. Our people are scattered everywhere.” He clucked his tongue. “But we need you to wait here for a while; there is fighting ahead and it’s too dangerous. We will let you know when it’s clear.”

  Fayed bobbed his head in agreement. He wouldn’t argue.

  Dark circles surrounded the young soldier’s sunken brown eyes. “But I don’t recommend you go at all.” He looked no older than twenty. His uniform was ragged, matching his unkempt hair and the dirt on his face. He examined Fayed’s face to see if that statement had changed the older man’s intention. When he saw that it had no effect, he gave up. It’s all the effort he could muster. What’s another life lost in a land where the devil roamed free? “Fine. It’s your death wish. I need to see your identification.”

  Fayed handed him the few papers and IDs he had found when searching the rubble, withholding the passports to keep them safe. The young soldier took the papers over to an older man with salt-and-pepper bushy eyebrows and a mustache to match. A cigarette hung limply from his lips as the smoke billowed up. He was the commander of the youth that surrounded him, fighters for the Assad regime. The officer didn’t know it, but he was the only one in his group who still believed in their mission—the frail conviction of a man who trusted no other option.

  There were non-Syrians in fatigues as well, including a couple of Afghan refugees and Iranians—sent by government ally Iran—and some Lebanese Hezbollah fighters. But it was the men dressed in black that they could see in the distance that sent a shiver down Tareq’s spine: the shabiha, the pro-Assad civilian militia who invoked terror for the government. He remembered the story of a university student in his town three years ago, walking back from her lectures. She was abducted by two shabiha men. Her body was later found raped and murdered. One man was captured by the rebels; the other escaped. When asked why he did it, the prisoner said, plain and simple, “Because I could. I was given the power and I took it.”

  The young soldier brought the papers back. “Your last name.” The boy tsked. “It’s on our list. We are going to have to arrest you.”

  “What?” Fayed said, suddenly frantic.

  “Baba!” Tareq, on the edge of tears, bellowed.

  “Shh . . .” The soldier put a finger to his mouth as Susan fidgeted in her sleep. “You will wake your sister,” he added sarcastically as he tilted his head. “So cute, she is.” He turned back to Fayed. “There is something you can do if you don’t want to be arrested.”

  “What is it?” Fayed trembled. He knew what heading to a state prison would mean. He would be better off shot here than forced to endure the excruciating torture of incarceration.

  “A payment of sixty thousand pounds can secure your release.” The soldier sniffed comfo
rtably, used to these negotiations.

  “I . . . I don’t have that much.” Fayed’s heart sank as he met his son’s gaze in the rearview mirror.

  “How much do you have, then?” he spat back.

  “Only twenty thousand.” His name was never on any list. He was sure of it. Yet he had no choice but to cooperate. Powerless, once again.

  “Okay, that should do. Give it here.” The boy snapped his fingers as Fayed reached into the glove compartment and grabbed an envelope holding the cash. The most he was able to pull out of the store’s register, leaving some behind for his brother. The little he had would now be gone, along with the token of belief that he could protect his remaining children.

  “Can I give you ten thousand, please? I need this for my children,” Fayed begged.

  The soldier grabbed the small package, his hands grimy and fingernails crusted with dirt, before handing back their papers. He was not interested in another sob story or compromise. Fayed smelled the body of an adolescent man who hadn’t met a shower in days, possibly weeks. The hygiene of war and corruption. “Wait here. We will let you know when you can leave.” He turned and dragged himself back to where his commander was standing.

  Father and son stayed quiet as their racing hearts steadied.

  Fayed, feeling broken, eventually cracked open his car door. “Tareq, I’m going to step outside and have a cigarette. You stay with your sister.”

  “But, Baba, my legs are getting cramped. Can I please get out?” he asked, afraid of staying and enduring the silence. He needed to breathe.

  Tareq’s father didn’t fight him. He nodded. “I will just smoke right out here. You go and stretch your legs. I’ll watch your sister and keep an eye on you. Don’t go too far.”

  “Aa rasi, Baba,” he thanked his father.

  • • •

  Tareq avoided the soldiers and militiamen as he stretched out his hamstrings and calves. He could hear passengers chatting near the bus. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but it was impossible not to listen in.

  “You have to change your pants,” said one man as he took a drag from his cigarette, the orange tip reflecting off his black plastic sunglass lenses. He tugged on his flowing white button-up that draped over his loose-fitting charcoal pants.

  Tareq scanned the small crowd. All the men were bearded; most of the beards were longer than the one his father was trying to grow out and much manlier than his own kitten whiskers.

  “What’s wrong with my pants?” replied the younger man wearing a black T-shirt and tight-fitting denim jeans.

  “They’re too tight, wallahi! Believe me! You look like a party boy from Beirut. They won’t let you into the city.”

  “Come on, it’s pants! I’m covering my body, and I’m not a woman. They have to let me in.”

  Other men started to chime in.

  “Inte ghabi! You really are an idiot if you don’t know how much Daesh hates jeans,” said another college-aged passenger as he puffed out a cloud of smoke. “They symbolize the West to them. They don’t want a dark-haired Justin Bieber coming into the city—they want young Osama bin Ladens to join.” He let out an uncomfortable snicker. A laugh that had become common in Syria as the jokes got darker and light humor slowly disappeared while the war intensified.

  “I’ve done this trip several times, and at least twice I’ve seen Daesh fighters at checkpoints pull a man off the bus for wearing tight-fitting pants and tell him to walk the two hundred twenty kilometers back to Aleppo,” said a middle-aged father in the group. “Wallahi, I’m not lying.” He put a hand on his heart. “And that’s the best-case scenario.”

  “Fine. I will see what I have in my bag.” The boy gave in and headed back onto the dingy bus, knowing that the last thing he wanted or needed was to be singled out by fundamentalist thugs or any group at that point.

  “And, you guys, those cigarettes will have to be thrown out before we get to the first Daesh checkpoint.”

  “Yes, yes. We know, ammo,” said the man in sunglasses as he threw his cigarette to the ground. Digging the disintegrating butt into the dust with the tip of his shoe, he reached into his chest pocket, pulling out a fresh roll. “But in the meantime, we get our fill!” The men all chuckled.

  “Laugh it up! And while you’re at it, pull out your prayer beads.” He raised his own. “And if you don’t have any, you better see if anyone has extras.”

  As Tareq turned to go back to the car, he caught the eye of the only woman there, dressed in black from head to toe. Her eyes were sad but warm. For one brief moment he thought it was his teyta, until reality sank in. This rattled his heart and retied the knot that had been slowly loosening in his stomach. The old woman smiled at him as she fiddled with her own wooden prayer beads.

  Tareq will never know that for a moment she saw her grandson in him, a teenager who died in this relentless war. A boy who was forced to fight for something he didn’t believe in. A soul I met far earlier than either of us would have liked or expected.

  After an hour passed, the regime fighters got a call that the fighting had ceased for now and the roads should be clear. The bus and the few cars that had piled up were told they could leave.

  Tareq’s father sighed in relief. He wanted to get to Raqqa before it got dark and the onslaught of air strikes began. He threw away his anger as he took a final look at the young man who had stolen his money, choosing not to see a thief, deciding instead to see him as a young man who, too, was a victim of this war.

  The drained soldier caught his eye before quickly turning away, not wanting to remember the faces of the man and children who left with another chip of his soul. He had enough to haunt his dreams.

  • • •

  The scenery of the drive was much the same. Arid land and run-down buildings with bullet holes throughout. A far cry from the lush greenery speckled with vibrant wildflowers and cotton fields that he remembered.

  “Ibni, help your sister cover her head. We are nearing another checkpoint,” instructed Fayed. Beads of nervous sweat began to form on his forehead, the sixth time for the sixth stop.

  Both knew that the checkpoints from then on were under the control of Daesh; an extra chill blew through their hearts at the thought. They’d been used to the wicked dealings of the others, who guarded the regime- and rebel-held territories. But they hadn’t yet dealt with Daesh, and they were unaware of who and what would meet them at the next stop. They feared them as much as they did the shabiha. Especially because they had no money now for bribes.

  Tareq’s family always considered themselves good Muslims. They said their prayers, not always five times a day, but they believed in a forgiving and merciful God. That was the Islam they knew and loved. His mother wore a headscarf in mosques and in areas where she deemed it necessary, but never thought of it as a requirement. His father disliked the hijab and all those who thought themselves better Muslims than he or his family—he believed a true Muslim would know not to judge, “because God is the only and final judge,” he would tell his children. Tareq’s teyta had worn the hijab and prayed five times a day, but she had never judged those who didn’t because, like her son, she’d believed the only judge should be the Almighty.

  For that reason, Tareq had not been back to visit his uncle since before Daesh took over. His family had refused out of fear; Daesh was unforgiving and ruthless in their atrocities and horrors. They were not alone in their evil actions, but still the risk did not outweigh the reward to see family.

  Like many before them and many that will come in the centuries ahead, Daesh is a group of thugs who latched onto a religion in order to spread their darkness. Not unlike the shabiha. I have seen it throughout time and in recent history with groups like the Nazis, Al Qaeda, the Ku Klux Klan and the Taliban, among so many more. Some believe in their cause because they know nothing else, but most join because it gives them a sense of importance.
But when I finally meet them at the end of their deeds, their path has never led them to the place they imagined. Minds like theirs are brainwashed and delusional. Even at the end of their journey, they are surprised at the nightmarish destination their path led them to. As much as I hate going there to meet someone, I feel a sense of relief that they will finally pay for their atrocities. Because it is their actions that have me meeting decent people in situations that they did not deserve—that no one deserves.

  Out of habit, Tareq’s father reached for his packet of cigarettes and pulled one out, placing it between his lips. It’s what he did when his blood pressure began to rise and heart raced.

  “Baba, you have to hide those!” Tareq said, frightened.

  “Ya Allah!” Fayed remembered. He rolled down his window and threw all the cigarettes out. He fumbled to open the glove compartment and found a lemon spray his wife had put in his car to help it smell fresh. For once, he didn’t have time to reminisce and quickly pushed the nozzle down over and over to spritz a citrus mask over any lingering smell of tobacco his car’s old fabric interior may have absorbed.

  Tareq wrapped Susan’s head in a blue scarf, stuffing every last curly strand of dark blond hair into the bulky fabric made for an older woman. Susan’s wide-eyed confusion broke yet another piece of her big brother’s heart. He grabbed her doll and put it back into her lap. “Habibti, don’t worry. Everything will be fine. You just play with her.”

  “Farrah,” Susan said to her brother.

  “What?” Tareq asked, feeling the recently formed chasm in his heart crack further.

  “Farrah—her name is now Farrah. She’s my sister. I can talk to her and watch Tom and Jerry with her.” Susan picked up her doll and gave it a kiss.

  Tareq swallowed a painful serrated gulp of emotions. “She is pretty like Farrah was.” He forced a smile.

  “Different pretty, but yes.” Susan examined the barrel-bomb-stained toy in her hands. The teardrop in the corner of her eye didn’t go unnoticed by her big brother. He kissed her bubble cheek and enveloped her warm little hand in his before blotting the tear away with the fabric hanging on her head.