🐭At the beginning of October in Damascus, the heat mixes with the cool, fresh air; it feels like you are living in two seasons at once. The sky is clear; the city is bathed in a soft light.
🥂Next to the Al-Hamidiyah souk, one can see the statue of Saladin on horseback, brandishing his sword as two soldiers stand by his side, dragging prisoners captured on Crusade. Behind the statue stands the citadel. Its battlements are pierced by the rays of sunlight, which recall old civilizations, wars, victories and defeats. For centuries, these places have told the story of this city, once occupied by the Romans, Mongols, Turks . . . all of them gone. The city has endured; it is still beaming.
𓆉Tired of waiting in front of the souk, Mohammad walks away, pretending to start a telephone conversation. Hiding behind junk items hung in front of a shop, he scrutinizes passers-by. Every time one of them turns towards him, he jumps.
🌟He regrets having arranged this rendezvous so close to his clothing shop; he risks running into one of his clients. He’s been working there for years. It’s a family business run by his father and grandfather before him, who spent their lives there. A good reputation is essential to keeping customers. What would they all say? Would they call him a faggot? Who would dare to enter his shop after that?
൲He notices a street vendor. He is afraid. These people often work for the intelligence services. He has known them for a long time, ever since the time they arrived at his home under the cover of darkness. He couldn’t even make out their faces. He vividly remembers their military shoes in the hallway crushing his father’s face: ‘You want to start a coup, asshole?’ As they took him to their car, Mohammad clung to his mother’s dress, shaking. He could feel urine running down his legs. He did not understand anything. He had only one feeling: horror. This is still the case whenever he crosses paths with an intelligence man. Mohammad’s mother had run after them: ‘Where are you taking him? Stop! Wait!’ His father had yelled at her: ‘It won’t be long. I’m sure it’s a mistake. Don’t worry!’
Ever since that night, every time Mohammad asked her where his dad was, she would tell him he was travelling. The years passed; they continued to live in their big house. His mother was hard on him. She kept telling him, ‘You’re not like the others. You’re the child of a hero. You must follow his example.’ He would nod, then ask her permission to watch Cinderella꧂, his favourite cartoon. Once, when he had joined other children on the pavement to play football, his mother came and beat him in front of his friends before leading him back inside. For her, the street was a wild world where he was not allowed to venture out on his own.
🥃It’s not yet time for his rendezvous, but as usual, he’s early.
(Excerpted from ‘The Last Syrian’ by Omar Youssef Souleimane, translated by Ghada Mourad; with permission from Seagull Books)
