‘Are you from the military base?’ said the man, peering at him.
Sami considered lying but realized it was obvious where he’d come from. Hopefully the man wouldn’t call and tell on him.
‘Yes, I’m on leave,’ he said and handed the man an extra note.
He jumped on the first bus to Homs and called his older brother. The signals echoed and faded away. When Ali finally picked up, it felt like Sami was already there, that he was sitting in the kitchen with his family around him. And Sarah, he was going to call her too and ask her to come over. After the shooting at Clocktower Square, they had only kept brief contact. But seeing each other, face to face, they could talk things over. He would make sure she was well. Tell her that he would soon be out and they could make a fresh start. Finally, he dared to let longing swell in his chest and lungs, like rainwater filling the cracks in dry soil.
‘Hello, are you there?’
But the reply wasn’t what he expected. ‘You can’t just come here,’ his older brother said. ‘Things have changed since your last visit.’
Silence fell, only the low rumbling of the bus engine.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ali went on. ‘Of course I’m happy that you’re coming, but you’d better get off the bus before you reach the city centre.’
‘Why?’ Sami frowned, even though his brother couldn’t see him.
Outside the bus window there was field after field of orchards, the fruit soon to be harvested.
‘Temporary checkpoints are popping up everywhere. I’ll tell you more later. It’s not safe to talk on the phone.’
His older brother gave Sami an address where he would pick him up in what had once been an industrial part of Homs.
For the rest of the journey, Sami tried to collect his thoughts. What had Ali really meant? But when they slowed down and Sami disembarked, he started to understand.
* * *
—
It was like arriving in a foreign country. Dark clouds towered over the rooftops, as if even the sky had descended over the city. Several stores were barred and on their metal shutters were tags and graffiti he hadn’t seen before. The street vendors had disappeared. Instead of the normal commuting traffic, the streets were full of funeral processions. Instead of car-honking, there was the sound of songs, cries and tears that rose and sank like waves. People in mourning clothes gathered in groups that dispersed at the rat-tat-tat of bullets on asphalt.
The fear drained out of Sami when he spotted his brother’s face across the street. Ali ran up to him and gave him a long, hard hug.
‘What’s with the rubber bullets? Seems a bit over the top.’
‘They’re real bullets. Come with me.’
Ali pointed out the snipers and took Sami’s hand, since he wouldn’t have budged otherwise.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ali tried to calm him. ‘They’re mostly to scare the people off gathering in big groups.’
Sami looked over his shoulder and hunched down, his pulse racing. During all his target practice in the army, he himself had never been the target. It was an eerie feeling of being watched, that every step could be your last.
* * *
—
It was afternoon by the time Sami was finally sitting in his parents’ kitchen, with steam on the windows from all the people in the room. Samira kissed his cheeks and stroked his newly shorn neck. Hiba smiled and moved her youngest over to his lap, took off her slippers and stretched her legs out under the table. The child cooed and grabbed Sami’s thumb. Ali was in a good mood but was moving about the room restlessly, topping up coffee cups and checking the time incessantly. Malik was the only one who seemed reluctant to hug Sami, and afterwards he sat silently on his chair with his arms crossed. He had turned thirteen but his plump cheeks and large puppy eyes made him look younger. Nabil looked across at Malik.
‘Well, I for one am proud to have a soldier in the family.’
‘Two soldiers,’ Hiba said and glanced at Ali, but their older brother shook his head.
‘Not any more. Not ever again.’
‘Like you would have a choice if they called for you.’
‘Please don’t argue,’ Samira said and turned to Sami, stroking his cheek. ‘Now, tell us everything. Have you made any friends? Are they hard on you? What do they give you to eat? You look thinner than before…’
‘Mum.’
They inundated him with questions and Sami tried to answer but it was as though their voices were echoing underneath the surface. He was still short-circuited from the snipers and funeral processions. Being home was like opening a door to the past. All the furniture stood as before, each item had its place. The black leather sofas, the crocheted cloth on the TV, the remote control in its plastic case. On the stairs to the front door stood a plate with leftovers in case one of the neighbourhood’s stray cats passed by.
‘Don’t you drink coffee any more? Maybe you prefer it with sugar these days?’ Samira said and pushed the sugar bowl towards him.
It fell to Hiba and Ali to tell him about what had happened since his last visit, while Nabil stroked his moustache and looked displeased. In July, a demonstration had been organized in Damascus and a number of famous actors, musicians and authors denounced the regime. One of the most powerful voices belonged to the actress Mai Skaf, who had subsequently been forced to flee the country. Ibrahim Qashoush, the man who wrote the popular revolutionary song ‘Yalla irhal ya Bashar’, was said to have been killed the same month. His body had supposedly been discovered in a river with its throat slit and vocal cords ripped out. In August, the well-known satirical cartoonist Ali Farzat had been pulled into a car by regime supporters by Umayyad Square in Damascus and had his hands and knuckles broken.
But the violence had crept in closer than that. Their cousin and a friend of the family had been killed at checkpoints controlled by regime-friendly militias. And regime soldiers had forced their way into their neighbour’s house and raped the daughter in front of her parents.
‘To dishonour the family,’ Samira said.
‘Isn’t the daughter’s pain worse than the family’s shame?’ Hiba said and stirred her cup violently. The child began to cry and Hiba took her back, rocking and shushing.
Samira told Sami about a newlywed couple further down the street. They had still been in their wedding clothes when they were stopped at a checkpoint and the man was told to leave his wife with the soldiers.
‘So, what did he do?’
‘What choice did he have?’ His mother lowered her voice. ‘They would have shot them both on the spot.’
Samira glanced at the baby. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to…’