A Land of Permanent Goodbyes Page 5

  “Is he Daesh?” asked Tareq.

  “Yes.” Musa’s eyes were pained as he glanced at his cousin. “They are absolutely horrible, Tareq. If they are soldiers of God, God is truly the devil.”

  “He doesn’t look Syrian.”

  “Many of them aren’t,” said Musa. A car horn honked from a few streets away. “I mean, yes, there are Syrians among them. But this city has been taken over by the world. They come from France, Saudi Arabia, Tunisia, America, Kuwait, Britain, Libya—everywhere. I swear I hear them speaking more French and English than Arabic, wallahi!” Musa put his right hand on his heart, keeping the car steady with his left. “Although we prefer those, because they leave us alone. The ones who speak Arabic, especially the Iraqis, harass us the most. Always calling us kafers.”

  “The Iraqis?” Tareq wondered why they were in his country when they have battles going on in their own.

  “Yeah, they’re mostly the leaders, because that’s where Daesh was created.” Musa slid his hands around the steering wheel. “But really, they’re all bad. They come here to give false purpose to their lives while stealing the oxygen out of ours.”

  Tareq took a look around the grim surroundings as he tried to remember how it used to be, a small city that once held so much life.

  “You remember those apartments?” Musa pointed to the posh-looking neighborhood they were driving through. The coral-colored apartments were wide with beautiful balconies. Some were walled complexes with large metal gates for entry. “Most of the businessmen and government officials are gone. Some were even executed, and foreign members of Daesh took them over. It’s called the Thieves District now.” Musa pointed at a woman covered in black with a matching niqab covering her entire face as she pushed a stroller. Her husband was next to her, sporting a beard, a weapon strapped behind his shoulder. “It’s like two different worlds in this city now. Them and us.”

  “How is this Islam?” Tareq asked rhetorically. This wasn’t the religion he grew up with.

  “These people don’t know the first thing about Islam.” Musa squinted as the sun’s rays hit the windshield. “I guarantee most of them have never even read a Quran in their lives. They are criminals in their home countries. Literally criminals.” Musa looked at Tareq, unblinking. “Do you know that they even found out some of the guys who came here from England had purchased a Quran for Dummies book instead of the actual Quran?” Musa gave off a frustrated laugh. “The Salafi cancer has spread.”

  Although Tareq grew up Muslim, he didn’t know much about extremist Salafis. All he really was taught was that there were two main sects in Islam: Shia and Sunni. And although there were conflicts between the two, his parents shielded him from most of it. His mother always called it “a silly political feud, nothing to do with the religion.” He always knew that the feud was an important one, but he never gave it much thought. All he knew was that he loved his neighbors and didn’t care if they were Christian, Armenian, Alawite, Sunni or Druze.

  “If they are Salafis, why aren’t they all Saudi? Or from the Gulf? Isn’t that where they all come from?” Tareq asked, feeling ashamed for not having read more about this instead of playing games on his computer.

  “Oh, many of them are. But the Saudis have had the oil money to spread this deadly disease,” Musa said. “Think about it. The world buys Saudi oil—they’re so rich, they have golden toilet seats. They also have the money to print their own interpretation of the Holy Quran in every language you can think of and ship it out. They claim to have the purest form of Islam, when in reality they created it more than a thousand years after the Prophet Muhammad’s death!” He took a deep breath to calm his nerves. It didn’t work. “And then on the other side, you have President Assad, the Alawite, and his backing from Iran and the Shias. This is a proxy holy war being fought, and our lives—your family’s lives—used as martyrs!”

  There was quiet in the car. Tareq didn’t want his cousin to get any more worked up, and he really didn’t know much about the dynamics to contribute to the conversation. Musa regretted losing his cool. It was the first time he could talk to someone other than his parents about the situation, and he had underestimated how much it had built up inside him.

  • • •

  War has always fascinated me, as much as it has hurt to observe. The beginnings are so unpredictable, like a small spark. You’re lucky if your eyes catch even a glimpse of the golden flicker. Oftentimes the faint fiery glint cannot even light the kindling in a fireplace. But at certain moments, that first flare can be what sets off a blazing inferno, burning everything in its path into ash. This war was no different. What some thought might bring about small changes and freedoms broke apart a country. And the paths of people like Tareq and Musa were forever changed. The saddest part was that different responses and choices to those initial sparks could have brought positive alterations, but people with different plans got in the way.

  • • •

  Musa broke the silence. “You see that?” He directed his eyes at what was once a white building. “That was the city’s church before. They’ve painted it black, like their flag, and now it is used as a brainwashing preaching center for Daesh.” He looked away. “God, I wish the uprising never happened.”

  “I’m hearing that a lot,” Tareq said.

  “Don’t you?” Musa asked. “I mean, we all wanted it at first, but now look.”

  Tareq shrugged. It didn’t matter to him anymore. He knew those thoughts wouldn’t bring back the family he had already lost.

  “All we wanted was freedom. Instead, we received a different type of oppression.” Musa shook his head.

  “Yeah, but the strike that killed my family was Assad’s.” Tareq looked out the window. “No matter who we turn to, they all want us dead. Even if the war is won by someone, they all have blood on their hands.”

  He stared at some young boys digging through a garbage bin. A sight he’d become familiar with at home. Behind them was an old poster advertising what looked like a clothing shop, but the models’ faces had been covered with red paint. As they drove on, Tareq saw more people on the streets. He suddenly recognized the area. They were pulling up near the square where he had seen the severed heads. “What are we doing here?”

  “This is where the shops are,” Musa replied. “It’s hard to find shops these days that sell things for women. The storekeepers are tired of being harassed by the Hisbah.” He referred to the group that enforced Daesh’s laws and punishments in public.

  “Can’t we go somewhere else?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “We passed this area yesterday, and there were heads . . .” His words trickled off.

  “You passed Naim Square,” Musa said, unmoved. “That’s where Daesh carries out a lot of its punishments. It’s not the only place. It’s horrible, but it is now our new normal. You can’t avoid it.” Musa found a spot to park his father’s car. “Ironic that Naim means ‘paradise,’ but it has become our city’s hell.” He sighed before pulling the keys out of the ignition. “Yallah, let’s go. Try not to talk too loudly. The Hisbah are always around and they have spies everywhere. I’m not in the mood for lashes.” He winked.

  The boys walked into a shop. Musa asked the storekeeper for women’s hair color. “Over there,” the old man said, pointing to a shelf by the window, blocked off by a curtain. When they walked over, they saw boxes of hair dye, the faces of the models on the cartons blacked out with permanent marker.

  “Do these boxes get lashes if they don’t wear niqabs and cover up too?” Musa asked the man, ignoring his own order to not speak loudly.

  The old man with graying hair and a matching scraggly beard looked up at him. “They will be fine. I will be the one on the receiving end of the lash.”

  Musa picked up a box and took it to the register to pay.

  “My son,” said the storekeeper, “be careful when making these jokes. You don’t know who is an informant these days.” He eyed Tareq, the unfamiliar face. “I have young children coming in here asking me questions. Daesh pays them to be their moles. We weren’t free to talk under the regime and we’re not free to talk now.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry,” Musa said. “And don’t worry, he’s my cousin from out of town. He hasn’t had enough time here to be recruited.” He smiled at the old man.

  The boys walked outside, their feet crunching on the dusty pavement. They were moving toward their car when they heard the loudspeakers nearby blaring orders. The vibrations sent chills up their bodies. The panic was palpable, a murky flavor of defeat and frailty. And that’s when Tareq felt a sharp object hit his back.

  “Yallah, yallah!” he heard a man yell in accented Arabic.

  He felt it again, the tip of a rifle digging into his spine, forcing him forward.

  CHAPTER 8

  Tareq could feel his temples pulsing as he and Musa were rushed forward. Through the pounding in his head, he could still hear the loudspeakers blare. This time he could make out some of the words. “Ii’dam!” They were announcing an execution.

  This is it, this is how I die. The thought raced through Tareq’s mind. I can still die with dignity. Don’t show fear and hold your head high. They may have my life in their hands, but they will never have my soul . . . at least I will see my mother again.

  He shifted his eyes to his cousin, finding slight comfort in the fact that they would die together. Musa looked ahead, hiding his fear, but Tareq knew him better.

  The broken Arabic by the rifle-wielding thugs behind them continued, but the boys didn’t respond. They were ushered to a crowd of men in the square where Tareq had seen the severed heads.

  “Ebqa huna!” The men with guns ordered them to stay in place. Another man with a long dark beard marched forward. Tareq instinctively put his hands up, preparing to be struck. Instead, he watched the man slap the gunman behind him.

  “You don’t force them with guns.” He pushed the rifle down before turning to Tareq. “These fools are new. My apologies, young brother.” He grabbed the goons and dragged them deeper into the square.

  Tareq waited until he knew they were far enough away and then mumbled to Musa, “What is going on?” The crowd continued to form around them.

  “There is about to be an execution.” Musa’s petrified brown eyes didn’t budge.

  “It’s not us?” asked Tareq. His body warmed with a relief that was immediately replaced by guilt. If he was not dying today, someone else was. He peered around. “But where are the heads? I saw the heads here yesterday.”

  “The ambulance probably took them away this morning—they will have new ones to replace them with today.” Musa’s face was still. “They keep them up for at least three days for the city to see, and no one is allowed to take them down but the ambulances.”

  “Ya Allah.” Tareq had heard the cruel stories about the various groups, including Daesh, but the reality was more frightening than he had imagined. It was a different type of fear than from bombs and air strikes.

  This felt more intimate.

  The idea of seeing your executioner face-to-face as you feel a blade run through your flesh made Tareq almost nauseatingly grateful for the quick deaths of his family members. “He said we can go. Let’s—”

  “I’m not going.” Musa’s voice sounded detached, as if he was already preparing his body and mind for what was about to occur. “We are a small city. We know almost everyone. I need to know who they are killing.” He handed Tareq the keys to his car. “But I understand if you can’t stay.” He gazed weakly at his cousin. Tareq knew that meant he wanted him near. Not wanting to witness this alone. Not again, not ever.

  And truthfully, Tareq was curious.

  That is what’s bemusing about humans—oftentimes curiosity drives you to do things that you know will haunt you, but you do them anyway. And you do them again and again. The worst of you take that curiosity to measures that are unfathomable to the best of you. But the curiosity is in you all.

  “Just keep still and stay strong,” Musa ordered gently. He was relieved his cousin hadn’t abandoned him. “Pretend that you’re watching a movie and that it’s all fake. Like a show with props and Hollywood makeup. It makes it easier.”

  A man wearing a thick black beard that masked most of his face started to talk; his eyes shone with darkness as he read his script. Tareq couldn’t make out his words clearly and tried his best not to.

  But some still seeped into his ears. “Insulting divinity . . .”

  Tareq knew there were Daesh eyes monitoring the crowds. He felt them on him—waiting for a gasp, a flinch or disgust. Instead, he stared blankly ahead.

  “Insulting the caliphate . . .” the black-bearded man continued.

  Tareq took in what was unfolding in front of him. A young man with disheveled brown locks was blindfolded and his hands were tied behind his back. He didn’t look much older than twenty.

  Not too far away was a woman hidden in her niqab, covered from head to toe in black, even wearing gloves. She held back tears that only those next to her could see, and only then if they tried hard enough. But nothing she could do stopped her body from trembling. The loose fabric couldn’t hide her shudders. She was the boy’s mother, forced to watch the execution of her youngest son. Her husband had his arms around her, feigning strength, his sunken eyes visible even from a distance. Tareq noticed that his gray hair was neatly combed and beard coifed, a sign of a man living on autopilot and disbelief. Both looked like people who had nearly had the life beaten out of them and were waiting for the final blow.

  “This city was once famous for not praying, we saved it . . .” the sermon continued, prolonging the inevitable.

  Tareq’s attention darted back to the young man. He didn’t move, as if he were already dead, peacefully awaiting his horrible fate.

  There were others dressed in the same uniform as the man spouting off to the crowd. One man held up the black flag of Daesh, which read the shahada: There is no God but God, and Muhammad is the Messenger of God. They all carried their weapons. Two had pistols pointed at the blindfolded man.

  As the tirade stretched on, Tareq suddenly heard the chant, “God is great!” A call that had been hijacked by the maniacs, along with his religion.

  The cracks followed.

  Tack, tack, tack, tack, tack.

  A battery of bullets ripped through the young man, whose body convulsed. His mother collapsed; his father too shocked to try to lift her back up. The firing eventually came to a halt. But the horror didn’t end.

  The man who had been chanting made his way to the pockmarked corpse. He grabbed the limp head by its mane, lifting it from the puddle of blood it had rested in, and ran a sharp blade back and forth across the neck, slashing the flesh. The boy’s father finally fell next to his wife, thumping to the ground.

  A maroon pool formed from the faucet of blood.

  Then three strikes. That’s how many it took before his head ripped off and rolled like a ball in a play yard.

  All the while, the chants continued.

  Tareq felt like someone had punched him in the stomach and twisted their fist inside his gut. He kept his eyes on the executioner, remembering his face. He wanted to recall it for when Judgment Day arrived and he could be a witness against him. There was no way God would let such a monster into heaven, but Tareq wanted to make sure he emblazoned every detail in his brain—from the beady eyes to the mole on the man’s right cheek to the wrinkles on his forehead—just on the off chance.

  The crowd finally began dissipating. Most of the faces were pale and unable to mask the shock, despite seeing this time and again.

  Musa and Tareq tried to follow and hide among the crowd. But unknown to them, they had been spotted long before they started walking.

  CHAPTER 9

  The ride home was silent except for the motor’s clunking. The boys couldn’t muster the energy to talk, and even if they had been able to, they wouldn’t have known what to say. So they rode quietly, with vacant expressions.

  When a heart is clean but the eyes bear witness to such atrocities, the body falls into survival mode. Oftentimes there is numbness, followed by confusion and hopelessness. This is a feeling that has been shared by thousands of years of humanity in various parts of your world. It doesn’t change. And it baffles me how it continues, with all the wars and bloodshed throughout the generations, how anyone can still kill. The words never again are uttered but not attained.

  In this war, it’s not just Daesh who have cold blood running through their veins. The shadow this war casts reaches beyond one country. It’s a mushroom cloud, and Syria today is its ground zero. But like a nuclear explosion, the debris and emissions have widespread, long-term catastrophic effects.

  “This one was particularly bad.” Musa broke the deafening quiet. “They’re all bad. But I mean . . . I don’t know.” He stopped his failed attempt at trying to comfort his cousin.

  “Did you know him?” Tareq asked.

  “No. I don’t think so. But I’m sure someone we know did.” Musa took a deep breath before he wiped a tear from his eye. “His poor parents.”

  “What will happen now?”

  Musa shrugged. “The usual, I guess. They will put a sign on his body that says something like, ‘This man was an apostate. He was a kafer. And this is what will happen to you if you do the same.’ It’s about ruling us through fear.” Musa rubbed his forehead, containing his emotions. “Daesh have started putting up screens on the main streets broadcasting their executions. It’s put on repeat for everyone to watch.”

  Tareq shuddered. “How many executions have you seen?” He looked at his cousin, who took another calculated breath.