Of course, Sami said in a voice he hoped exuded calm and confidence, of course he had completed his military service. He was honourably discharged, after a couple of months’ additional service.
Sure, he had sought out a media centre at the start of the revolution, he admitted it freely, but he had broken off contact with them when he realized they were traitors.
Yes, he had stayed in Homs when the shells started falling, but only to look after his gravely ill grandfather. What illness? Cancer, his lungs were black with tar, may he rest in peace. Then he had stayed in the besieged area, focusing on finding food and shelter – he only mentioned the practical, the harmless, the things that didn’t have anything to do with avoiding being in places where bombs were falling.
‘Mhm,’ the general said sceptically. ‘Fascinating story, truly.’
He looked to the left with his healthy eye and straight ahead with the glass one, then snapped his fingers at the soldier who had brought Sami in.
‘That one’ – the general pointed to an emaciated prisoner over by the wall, who had stuttered his way through a handful of questions – ‘and that one’ – the finger pointed at Sami. ‘Take them to Abu Riad tomorrow morning.’
Sami was led through the long corridors and put in a grey-painted cell with a steel bed and a bucket in one corner. His contact lingered by the door, like an impatient horse waiting for lumps of sugar.
‘That wasn’t so bad now, was it?’
‘Who’s Abu Riad?’ Sami asked and tried to keep his voice calm.
‘The interrogator. He has quite a reputation, sorry to say.’
‘This isn’t what we agreed.’
‘Yes, well. I’m sure it’ll work out,’ his contact said and wrung his hands. ‘There is just one other thing, a tiny detail…’
He cleared his throat when Sami showed no sign of wanting to continue the conversation, running his hands over his lapels.
‘Tomorrow morning, before your interrogation, a TV team will come here for an interview.’
Sami held his breath before asking: ‘What interview?’
‘The one where you admit to being a terrorist. A traitor. But that thanks to our benevolent leader Bashar al-Assad you have been pardoned and accepted as a citizen once more. To serve as an inspiration to your friends in the besieged area.’
Sami leaned forward and looked him in the eyes.
‘So they can arrest all of us later? Over my dead body.’
‘They have no other reason to let you go,’ said the man and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘Did they let you borrow a phone? Try to sleep and we’ll see how it goes.’
The cell door slammed shut and Sami called his parents. Since the call was sure to be monitored he kept it brief, but the sound of Nabil and Samira’s fragile voices jogged something loose inside him.
‘Why didn’t you tell us you were trying to get out?’
‘I didn’t want you to worry. What difference would it have made?’
His parents cried quietly and asked if he had eaten; he said he was being treated well, that it was just a matter of clearing up a few routine questions.
‘The battery is running low. I’ll call as soon as I get out.’
Sami lay down on the cot and closed his eyes, dozed off for minutes at a time, until his body finally gave in to sleep. He was an anchor at the bottom of the sea; light danced around the dark underside of a boat, high above, out of reach. He longed for it to be over: the interrogations, the mounting fear, the walls closing in on him. He made himself a promise that if he ever got out from here, he would go to wherever he could live freely.
He was woken up by a knock on his cell door and expected to be greeted by a bright white light, blinding cameras. Instead he saw the shadow of a guard and was taken to Abu Riad.
The interrogation room looked like a normal office. Abu Riad was several inches shorter than Sami, had grey hair and was dressed in black jeans and a moss green shirt buttoned all the way up. He smoked like they do in the old western films his dad used to watch, with his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, taking long, deep drags and blowing the smoke into Sami’s face. Abu Riad seemed to consider himself a gentleman but Sami had no doubt that when he left the neat office, it was to go downstairs to the basement where the torture took place.
He stuck to his story from the night before but let slip a few seemingly important things that were useless in practice. He told him where the rebels kept their ammunition – that was no secret, since the regime attacked that particular house regularly – and he told them about the bus explosion.
The official line was that it had been an accident. Around forty rebels died when a bus exploded in one of the besieged streets. Sami told him the truth, that the bus had been filled with explosives and that the plan had been to detonate it next to a house occupied by a regime-friendly militia, right next to the red line. For whatever reason, the bus exploded too early; at least that was the rumour.
The bait seemed to work; the interrogation revolved primarily around the ammunition and the bus. Then Abu Riad changed tack. He pulled a stack of photographs from the breast pocket of his shirt.
‘Tell me, do you recognize any of these people?’
Sami picked up one picture, then the next. A whirlwind swept through his stomach and he had to swallow hard not to throw up. The pictures were of dead people in prison corridors, bodies showing clear signs of torture. Infected wounds, marks from straps, blueish-black, swollen arms and legs. Even if he had known any of them when they were alive he wasn’t sure he would have recognized them. The pictures could have been of anyone: a neighbour or childhood friend, his brother or sister.
‘I don’t recognize anyone. Can I have some water?’
‘Are you sure? Absolutely sure?’
Sami went through the pile again, studying a couple of pictures more closely for show, running his finger over the sharp corners.
‘Absolutely sure.’
‘That’s too bad for you.’
The interrogation continued with trick questions and traps designed to uncover lies. Sami listened closely for allegations he hadn’t admitted to, which would become confessions if left unopposed. Like when he worked as a journalist— He hadn’t worked as a journalist, Sami broke in. But he had said so in his last questioning? No. What he had said was that he had visited a media centre, but when he realized they were enemies of the country he had broken off all contact. Abu Riad mentioned the name of an international news agency.
‘Did they pay you well for the pictures you sold?’
‘I never worked for them.’
‘So how come they were calling you so often? A nobody, an amateur who likes to snap pictures?’