The mice were another problem, even though he sometimes appreciated their company. At night, they climbed over his legs and back as though he were part of the sofa, an immobile piece of furniture, already dead. He slept with an arm over his face so he could swat away the most intrusive little tails.
Sometimes Sami wondered what the end of the siege would be like, if there ever was an end. The Free Syrian Army was too weak and fragmented now to resist the regime forces and liberate the city. They could possibly withdraw to one city block and regroup, maintain at least one stronghold. Otherwise, it was likely the army would go in and clear out the city centre.
* * *
—
In the spring of 2014, after drawn-out negotiations between the regime and the UN, there was an opening. The green city buses that people had used before the war now entered the besieged zone to evacuate civilians, but not without restrictions. Any young men were likely to be pressed into service. It was unclear whether there would be an amnesty for people who were wanted by the secret police. As a consequence, the people leaving on the green buses monitored by the UN were mainly women, children and the elderly.
‘See you on the other side, little brother?’ said Leyla.
They hadn’t seen each other since the sheepskin meal with Muhammed. Leyla stroked his cheek. It was an unusually tender gesture, but then it might be their last time together. She had stuffed her backpack full of textbooks, some of whose thick bindings had been hollowed out to hide memory cards.
‘Remember what we agreed,’ she said.
If he hadn’t heard from her in twenty-four hours, she had probably been arrested, and he was supposed to get in touch with his contact at Facebook and ask them to close her account. If she was brought in for questioning by the secret police, she would be forced to tell them her password and thereby put others at risk. By closing the account, they could at least protect other media activists Leyla had been in contact with.
Sami asked her to send his love to his family and to Sarah, if she managed to see them. Leyla climbed on to the bus and waved through the window, but she didn’t smile.
The green buses left, as did the UN, and the checkpoints closed behind them. He felt both sadness and relief. Several of the children from their school had also been given a seat on the buses. But not Mona and Amin, whose faces he involuntarily scanned the crowd for.
There was another way out but it could hardly be considered an opening. It consisted of relying on people outside the siege, people who had good connections and could negotiate the passage of their friends. But there were no guarantees. Some managed to get out that way but it was mostly a matter of luck. It only took one sniper not knowing about the negotiation or disapproving of people being let out, or one stray bullet, and it would all be over. There was also the risk of disappearing in the labyrinths of underground jails. To Sami, the odds seemed too long to take the risk.
‘I’m doing it,’ said Muhammed, who despite his placid nature was growing impatient. He was speaking faster than usual; his nails were chewed to the quick and he had lost more hair than Sami. There must be another way, Sami said to his friend. Wait a few days.
‘I’ve waited long enough.’
When they hugged goodbye, he could feel his friend’s ribs.
‘Do you know the first thing I’m going to do once I’m free?’ Muhammed said. ‘Drink a Coca-Cola.’
‘Are you serious? Pepsi is so much better.’
Muhammed shook his head and smiled.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Sami thought of everything they had been through together. From when they were young, trying to get each other to laugh during the military class at the schoolyard, to the excursions with the Pink Panther, and all the times that Muhammed had got Sami out of danger. Without him, the siege’s difficult years would have been even more challenging.
‘So, where are you planning to go?’ Sami asked.
‘Beirut, probably. My cousin has invited me to stay in his flat. You’re welcome too, when you get out of this hell-hole.’
‘If I get out.’
‘Don’t talk like that. We are both getting out.’
They stood in silence, neither of them wanting to leave.
‘Hey, by the way,’ Sami said. ‘My parents are going to try to persuade you to testify.’
Muhammed bowed his head. ‘You know I can’t.’
‘I know, and it’s fine. That’s all I wanted to say.’
It was about his little brother. In order to produce a death certificate for Malik, the regime required two witnesses to testify as to the cause of his death, which was tantamount to admitting you had been in the besieged area and were a rebel sympathizer.
‘I’ll explain to my parents, they’ll understand.’
The two friends said goodbye again, then a fourth time and a fifth.
It was the last time they saw each other.
* * *
—
No one was able to explain to Sami what happened next. Maybe it was a sniper who didn’t know Muhammed had negotiated free passage in exchange for leaving the Free Syrian Army and handing over his gun. Maybe it was a bored regime soldier doing target practice. Maybe Muhammed had a change of heart halfway and tried to turn back. Maybe he paused one second too long, a moment of hesitation. Whatever happened, his body now lay on the red line, in no-man’s-land, only starving cats daring to approach him, sniffing interestedly.
Sami’s deepest grief was not being able to grieve. One by one, they had disappeared from his side. His little brother, Yasmin, Anwar and now Muhammed – soon he would have no one left. He wasn’t even there himself. He was a shadow, wandering through ruins.
* * *
—
In April, a third and last route out was offered. This time, the agreement to bus people out of the besieged zone to a town north of Homs had been brokered by the Russians and Iranians, both allies of al-Assad. But Sami would not be safe in that town; he had written negatively about FSA soldiers there. Once again, the green buses arrived and left.
April wore on and the situation became increasingly dire. It was only a matter of time before the regime forced its way in, reclaimed the city centre and purged whoever was left. Sami was still staying in the house near the red line and considered moving to a different street, but then what? It was like being back in that tunnel watching the water rising. Should he have tried to get out on the buses, even though he would have been arrested on the other side? He thought about Younes, the electrician, and how little it took for the regime to brand you as a threat. The cable mark on his forehead, the smallest of visible scars.