I wish I was there with you, he finally wrote.
Sami, Malik and Muhammed had consulted the internet and made their own gas masks, even though they would make almost no difference in case of a chemical attack: sarin penetrates the body through the skin as well as the airways. Firebombs filled with napalm and other chemicals were also impossible to protect yourself from. They broke up like a rain of fire, like fireworks, in the pitch-black night.
Sami studied Malik’s silent face as he built the gas mask. He tried to remember his little brother from before, sparkling with life, and realized he had adjusted to the situation all too fast, all too well.
There was no room in their lives for the suggestive or ambiguous any more. That was one of the biggest casualties of the war: the grey area. There was warmth and cold, being full and being hungry, friends and enemies – but in between, nothing of any real importance.
And then there was life and death. One day, his little brother was alive. The next, he was dead.
32
THAT OCTOBER MORNING Sami heard birds tweeting. He couldn’t remember when he had last heard the sound of birds and thought he was imagining it. But there, perched on a chair, was a sparrow. Sami tried to beckon it but the sparrow twitched its head and refused to budge. Then it spread its wings and flew out of the window.
He didn’t know if it was because of the bird but he had a bad feeling that morning. He didn’t normally worry about his little brother, but when it happened, he knew. He knew it when the doorbell rang and an acquaintance was standing outside. He knew it when the acquaintance said Malik was injured and had been taken to the field hospital. And he knew it when he jogged towards the hospital in fits and starts, as though he both wanted and didn’t want to get there.
A couple of volunteers had put up bunting in the street, the kind that had been used for parties and weddings before, to help people find their way to the field hospital. The green and yellow ribbons ran down ditches, into basements, through private residences where missiles had opened up holes in the walls, up staircases and over boulders. The acquaintance tried to keep up with Sami. Outside the field hospital, he apologized to Sami for not having told him the whole truth, then he leaned his hands on his knees and looked down at the ground.
‘I’m sorry.’
Sami pushed past him, feeling no desire to be held up by this man when he could simply talk to his brother himself and find out what happened.
* * *
—
Malik was lying on one of the hospital beds, next to Anwar and two other boys. His little brother’s body was less bloody than the others, but just as rigid. Anwar’s tall body barely fitted the stretcher. He had grown lean in the siege and no longer resembled the healthy chef he once knew.
The heat drained out of the room and a white chill spread from Sami’s chest to the rest of his body. He fell to his knees wanting to scream but no scream came out. It was Malik and at the same time it couldn’t be him. Sami pulled himself upright again and stroked his brother’s cheeks. Flies were buzzing around his eyes, which were white as though his irises had vanished into his body in terror. Maybe this was death’s way: to freeze the features that had once made a body into a person.
‘What happened to you?’ he whispered.
A medic came up to him and told him in a soft voice. Malik, Anwar and the two other boys had gone to a street in al-Hamidiyah to put up cloth screens to block the snipers’ view.
‘That was when the missile hit. They were crushed under debris.’
Sami thought about his parents. They had thought he and Malik were safe here. At least here, the regime couldn’t get to them. Here they couldn’t be arrested, tortured or pressed into military service.
But there were missiles, every day.
A medic and two rebel soldiers helped him move the bodies. Sami carried his little brother and put him on a flatbed truck. He sat down next to him and held his hand, stroking his forehead. The truck drove a few blocks and then came to a stop. Sami looked over his shoulders, scanning the roofs for snipers, but all he could see in the sky was a pointlessly shining sun. The ashes and concrete only reflected its light.
It was not easy to find an open patch of ground by the mosque. They had no shovels so they dug with whatever they could find, scraps of metal and bin lids. Sami took his brother’s ID card and searched Anwar’s pockets, but there was nothing in them to give to his family. Then he remembered the necklace with the gold ring, gently removed it from around Anwar’s neck, and carried on digging.
‘Do you mind if I take his shoes?’
A skinny boy with streaks of dirt on his face was pointing at Malik’s feet.
Sami stood still. Sweat was streaming down his face, or maybe it was tears, and the salt reached his lips. Then he bent down and pulled the shoes off himself.
‘Here, they might need to be polished.’
* * *
—
When Sami’s grandmother died, Grandpa Faris said, ‘When there is nothing left, only rituals remain.’ But now, not even rituals remained, at least not in their ancient form. Before the war, an imam would have read verses or said a few words at the funeral. Before the war, a procession of cars would have driven through the city and out to the countryside, either the same day death claimed its victim or the next. The body would have been swathed in white cloth tied at the head and the feet. The family would have hosted a three-day reception, in their home or at a mosque, where friends and relatives could come to offer condolences.
Now they had neither the time nor the ability to organize a procession or reception. The four martyrs – Malik, Anwar and the two boys whose names they didn’t know – were lowered into the ground and covered with sand and stones. Dusk fell quietly.
* * *
—
Back at the basement Sami had half a can of water left but didn’t want to wash. There was blood on his arms and hands but it was his little brother’s blood. He sat on the basement floor, rocking back and forth. He was alone. Muhammed was out doing battle and didn’t know what had happened.
When there was a faint but clear knock at the door, Sami was sure it was his brother coming home. He hurried upstairs and took a step back when he saw the three men in black trousers and kaftans. The man at their head was Abu Omar, the leader of the al-Nusra Front, who raised a calming hand.
‘We’re here to offer our condolences.’
They greeted him with bowed heads, kissing his cheeks, without seeking eye contact.
‘I think it would be best if you…’ Sami was unable to finish the sentence.
‘Tea, my brother?’
Abu Omar stepped inside and unpacked a basket on the coffee table. What persuaded Sami to let them stay wasn’t the thermos of tea, it was the glass jar full of honey.