Sami was sweating and shaking and trying hard not to vomit. The only reason the regime soldiers were not climbing down into the tunnel had to be that they were afraid to get caught in a trap. Time passed differently in the alcove, where a second was an hour and an hour was a lifetime.
His phone lit up. Muhammed.
Soon in position. Pick u up when mission completed.
They had probably reached the regime stronghold. The rebels’ tactic was to return to the same tunnel entrance they had set out from, which meant Sami and Anwar had to wait. His phone lit up again.
Hold on.
Like they had a choice. The regime soldiers climbed up and down in the two access shafts but they never stepped into the tunnel proper. They fired at the alcove from time to time and threw four hand grenades, all of which missed them.
Above ground, the battle was drawing closer. Sami, deafened by the explosions, could none the less hear the sound of gunfire. But when he saw Anwar’s lips moving, it was as though the sounds were echoing up from the bottom of the ocean.
* * *
—
It was some time in the middle of the day that the guns fell silent and Muhammed wrote to say it was safe for them to climb up. Trembling, Sami waded down the tunnel behind Anwar to the access shaft from which the regime soldiers had been shooting at them for hours. He heaved himself up and started the long climb back into the sunshine.
The light hurt his eyes when he stepped out in a daze on to the battlefield. A white haze of smoke and dust surrounded him. He took a step and caught his foot on something, a bloody corpse in his path. A squatting rebel soldier was taking aim in the fog and signalling for him to get out of there. But Sami stayed where he was, frozen. He took out the camera and polished the lens and looked at the buttons, unable to remember how it worked. What was he holding? From the smoky mist, he saw Muhammed come running towards him; he grabbed Sami and Anwar by the arms and pulled them to safety.
As evening fell, the fighting died down. A grey dusk swept in between the buildings and for a moment Sami was unsure if it had all really happened. But when the bodies were lined up, it became impossible to deny. Around fifty regime soldiers had been killed, fifteen or so rebels. And thirty of the regime’s men had been taken prisoner.
* * *
—
It took several days for Sami’s hearing to return, and a monotonous beeping lingered. He started writing to Sarah, apologizing for staying, for not leaving with her. But when he was about to hit Send, he changed his mind and deleted the message. It made no difference now.
The action led to a gruesome aftermath that tarnished the Free Syrian Army in his eyes, even though far from all the rebels were involved. The rebels’ military council had been sceptical about the al-Qarabis mission from the start. It was considered too dangerous. Afterwards, the rebels edited together a propaganda film with religious overtones that the military council considered inappropriate, and banned. But someone shared it on social media anyway, which exacerbated the internal conflicts.
Before the siege, prisoners taken by the rebels had always been detained and then set free in due course. This time it was impossible. They would be a danger to the civilians in the besieged area. It was decided that some of the prisoners would help build a barricade by the red line. Coincidentally, those prisoners managed to escape back to the regime-controlled neighbourhoods, and coincidentally, they all happened to be Alawites, while the remaining twelve prisoners were Sunnis and Christians.
The civilian population was in uproar. Rumours spread in the besieged area that someone on the rebel side had negotiated the release of the Alawite prisoners – that the rebels had colluded with the regime.
One of the Free Syrian Army’s battalions in Homs proposed doing something drastic to calm the angry populace: the execution of the remaining twelve prisoners. A clear signal to the regime, which would also serve to regain the trust of the civilians in the area.
The proposal was unanimously rejected by the rebels’ military council. But after days of negotiations, opinions shifted. One night in late September, even though the decision was not sanctioned by the military council, the executions were to be performed.
Sami found out an hour before they were to take place. When he reached the square in al-Hamidiyah, he was soaked from the rain. Around twenty soldiers were present; Sami and Anwar were the only media activists.
‘You can’t take pictures,’ ordered the general of the battalion in charge.
Sami’s body seized up and he found it hard to think clearly. It didn’t need to happen, he was sure of that. There must be other ways to deal with this.
The twelve prisoners were tied up on the ground, face down. The rain was pooling around their bodies. Sami’s field of vision narrowed to a tunnel without light.
‘I don’t want to do this,’ said the FSA general. ‘They’re poor and were forced to fight for the regime against their will. I’ve talked to them. Several of them are really decent.’
Then he ordered the rebel soldiers to fire.
Two of the soldiers refused and stepped aside. For a few seconds, there was nothing but the sound of automatic fire. Then the general raised his hand, walked over to the mangled bodies and finished off the executions by putting a bullet in each head.
31
EVERYONE FOUND THEIR own way of surviving. Activists outside the siege zone supported them as best they could, by trying to smuggle in medical supplies and paying for satellite phone contracts. Others chose to stay and work for the regime while secretly supporting the resistance, using their connections to warn people about suspected airstrikes or help prisoners out. It required inventiveness and risk-taking, and it could be the difference between life and death.
One elderly man used to buy carp at a market in Homs. When the city centre was surrounded, this market remained open because it was in a regime-controlled neighbourhood. So the man continued to buy his fish, two or three at a time, until one day when he ordered a hundred carp.
‘My niece is getting married,’ he told the fishmonger, and took a photograph out of his wallet, leaning on his walking stick.
‘Mabrouk, ya hajji. May God smile on them and give them many children.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind. Do you have children?’
The fishmonger didn’t but he hoped he would one day – God willing. Meanwhile, he would sell his fish and save his money to buy a house for his future family to live in.
‘So, how many fish did you say?’
‘A hundred of the biggest and fattiest you have. And if it’s possible…’ said the elderly man. ‘No, never mind, it can’t be done.’
‘No, do say.’
‘I really think it’s impossible.’