‘What are you doing?’ Sami had asked.
‘Making sure I don’t fall,’ Hussein said as he made himself comfortable.
‘From now on, no lie-ins,’ said a soldier standing in front of them with his feet wide and his arms crossed.
He looked like a soldier from the movies. A caricature of a strict officer, with a neat moustache and rolled-up shirtsleeves that fitted snugly over bulging muscles. Everything felt cinematic and surreal. At any moment, someone would step through the backdrop and say, Cut, let’s try again. They were given heavy boots, thermal underwear and green camouflage uniforms. Outside in the yard, barbers were waiting to shave their heads, cheeks and chins. Bill’s bleached fringe fell to the ground, as well as Hussein’s dark beard. They both looked younger and somewhat naked afterwards, even if the uniforms added some years.
Sami’s own hair fell on to the dirt in soft tufts. There and then, the events of the past few days and weeks sank in, the open fields in al-Nabek and the meandering journey to the camp. There was no going back. From now on, he was a soldier.
* * *
—
The second morning they were woken up at half past four by the same banging on the steel door. They put on their uniforms, tied their boots and assembled in the yard. The lower edge of the clouds showed a glowing fringe. The sky turned a rich red and pink, which was then watered down by the light of the rising sun. It was as though someone was taking a firm hold on the blanket of clouds and lifting it up, and underneath was the dawn, cold and clear like spring water.
The morning began with a workout: push-ups, lunges and squat jumps. The Canadian asked when was breakfast. Soon, was the answer, they just had to go for a run first. The run was two miles through forest and over hills and then the same way back. Hussein was the only one who managed with ease. Bill threw up in the bathroom and Sami saved some breakfast for him: two eggs, bread and bitter tea. He felt like he had barely eaten at all, his body not yet recovered from his weeks in prison. Hunger was like a wild animal, tearing at him from the inside.
Their first class was weapons training, then they duck-walked for four miles, which entailed moving at a squat with their hands raised behind their heads. Lactic acid started pumping through their legs after just a few steps. The morning was wrapped up with a double session of martial arts and military strategy.
‘You are the pride and backbone of this country,’ said their instructor.
He told them Hafez al-Assad had joined the Baath Party at sixteen and shortly thereafter become a fighter pilot. He quickly rose through the ranks.
‘As we hope you will.’
Everyone knew that was a lie because in practice only Alawites were able to advance into the highest echelons. Their instructor continued by telling them how the Baath Party had saved the country from annihilation by assuming power in 1963. Hafez al-Assad had become head of the air force and later the country’s defence minister. Then he seized control of Syria, through a corrective revolution, in order to get the politics and the country back on the right track.
‘Finally, Christians, Sunnis, Alawites and Druze could live in peace and security together,’ their instructor concluded, leaving out the Kurds, since they didn’t exist in his eyes anyway.
Their instructor was called Bassel and was named after Hafez’s eldest son, who had been expected to take over the rule of Syria one day. Bassel al-Assad had been famous for his love of fast cars and horse racing. But Bassel never got to take the reins as the leader of the regime. One foggy January morning in 1994 he was driving his Mercedes to Damascus’ international airport. There was a car crash on a roundabout and Bassel, who was not wearing a seatbelt, died instantly.
There had been three national days of mourning. Schools, shops and offices had closed. Luxury hotels had abstained from serving alcohol. Bassel was declared a national martyr. Hospitals, sports arenas and an airport were named after him. When the confusion and grief had subsided, people started looking around. Who would now shoulder the burdens of governing if something were to happen to Hafez? It was Bassel’s less well-known brother Bashar al-Assad, the British-educated ophthalmologist, who stepped up. Granted, he lacked charisma and gravitas, but one day he was going to follow in his father’s footsteps.
When Hafez al-Assad died at the turn of the millennium, people didn’t believe it at first. He, the eternal father of the nation, couldn’t just die. Bashar was given the epithet ‘Son of Hafez’ in an attempt to have some of his father’s radiance rub off on him. At first, Bashar banned the public posting of pictures of himself and ruled more as his late father’s proxy. In time, however, he assumed his new role wholeheartedly and then some.
Naturally, their military instructor didn’t tell them all that. He also didn’t tell them that Assad, which meant lion, was an assumed name: Bashar’s grandfather had been a farmer who changed his surname from Wahesh, which meant savage or monster. Their instructor did, however, say that from now on, whenever they were asked where they were from, they should answer ‘Assad’s Syria’.
The afternoon and evening were conducted at the same tempo. Theory and training, a final lesson until eight o’clock, then dinner and rest until ten. Sami’s feet were red and swollen and full of blisters from his shapeless boots. He sent his parents a loving thought for having packed plasters for him.
Darkness engulfed the barracks when they fell into their beds. Snores ebbed and flowed in the dormitory until the banging and shouting woke them at half past four, and everything started over again.
15
SAMI SOON REALIZED the officers were targeting the weak. Either the physically weak or the ones who didn’t have the mental stamina to do the drills. And then there was Bilal, or Bill, who didn’t know Arabic. He had been given language teaching back in Toronto but only knew a few phrases he had practised with his grandmother. One of the other recruits was always with him, translating the officers’ commands, but sometimes it didn’t help.
‘Where are you from, soldier!’
‘Canada,’ said Bill.
The officer smiled and paused to draw the situation out.
‘Where did you say you were from?’
‘Assad’s Syria,’ Sami whispered, but Bill had already repeated: ‘Toronto, Canada.’
‘Wrong answer. Go to the shit pit.’
Bill went over to the shit pit, which was exactly that: a hole full of mud mixed with excrement from the latrines. The smell was putrid and sickening and a swarm of flies hovered above it. A fever had recently devastated their division and the officer had pointed out in their previous class how important personal hygiene was: wash your hands, don’t share cutlery, keep your feet dry and clean.
‘In the shit pit, you piece of crap.’
No translation was necessary because the officer was pointing with his whole hand. Bill hesitated for a second, then started unbuttoning his uniform with trembling hands. When he bent down to unlace his boots, the officer stepped in and gave him a kick in the behind. Bill fell head over heels and the mudhole swallowed him with a splash.