A Night of Fear

In a war in which we have been trying to win for so long, we often feel that we are prisoners in our own country.

With their usual brutality, the army has tried to subjugate all Syrian cities and to suppress locals who had taken to the streets to demand freedom and basic human rights, and by so doing sparked the March 15, 2011 revolution.

My city, Kafr Nubbal, was among the cities the army seized control of. They set up checkpoints everywhere and the once fresh air smelled of burning. Every day, the army opened fire at protesters and whoever ventured out at night. They banned us from leaving our houses after sunset.      

But Monday evening, June 4, 2012 was very calm. The revolutionaries had decided to liberate the city so were keeping the streets quiet.

At midnight, my 16-year-old younger brother knocked quietly on the door. When I opened it, he ran to his wardrobe and took out a black shirt.

Concerned by what she saw my mother asked, “Why were you out till late? What are you doing? Why do you look so tired?”

“The revolutionaries are planning to liberate the city right now,” he replied. “Our first target will be the main checkpoint. We are hoping that soldiers manning other checkpoints will feel the pressure and decide to surrender.”

“And how do you fit in with all that?” she asked. “You are too young and I will not let you leave the house.”

“I’ll go with my cousin and be on standby to tend to the wounded,” he said. “I’m wearing a black shirt so as to avoid becoming a target for sniper fire. Just pray for me, mother.”

Then he left, paying no notice to our mother’s hysterical protests.      

We could not sleep that night. At 1:45am my mother decided to pray. After she finished, she began pleading to God to keep my brother safe. My father, my younger sister and I were also waiting, praying for his safe return.

Suddenly, we heard a revolutionary addressing members of the army trhough a loudspeaker.

“The checkpoint is encircled,” he said. “Surrender!”

Heavy gunfire erupted even before he could finish his words, The shooting lasted for more than an hour. Soldiers at checkpoints all over the city fired machine guns and mortar rounds.

The screams of women and children grew louder.

Without warning, the sky lit up as the army fired flares to expose the revolutionaries’ assembly points. Each flare was followed by a barrage of mortars to target the largest number of people possible.

The battle continued until 3:30 am. Suddenly, there was calm. We were petrified and still waiting to hear news about my brother.      

Then the phone rang. My younger sister answered and without thinking said, “My mother is performing the dawn prayer.” Then she hung up.

We felt sick with fear. My mother called the number back and found out that it was a hospital outside the city. When she spoke to staff there, they told her, “Your son is fine but the youth with him is in critical condition.”

Screaming and shaking, my mother asked the person on the other end to pass the phone to my brother so that she could speak to him to make sure he was alright.

Again she was told that my brother was fine, just not near the phone.

But a short while later, realising how distressed my mother was, the person she had talked to earlier called back and told my mother, “Here is your son. He is fine. Speak to him.”

When the phone was put on loudspeaker, we could all hear my brother crying. It was clear he was in pain but trying not to show it.

“I was slightly injured,” he said. “Do not worry.”

He and my mother spoke for a little while before she asked, “I beg you,  tell me how honestly how you and my nephew are doing?”

“I swear to you I am fine,” he said, before breaking down in tears and sobbing, “Muhammad was martyred.”

We were stunned. My parents went to my aunt’s place and we stayed at home until sunset when they brought my brother home.

He had been hit by shrapnel which had left a scar on his neck.

My sister and I sat with him and asked him to tell us what happened the night before.

“After we encircled the checkpoint the soldiers got frightened so they started firing cluster mortar rounds to kill as many of us as possible,” he said. “We were busy tending to the wounded. We stopped in one of the alleyways to wait for a car to pick the wounded up and to drive them to hospital. Suddenly, a mortar fell and exploded nearby.

“All of us who were there sustained shrapnel wounds.  My injury was frightening because of the heavy bleeding. A car soon arrived and Muhammad carried me to it and said, ‘Stay strong. You must survive. How would I face my aunt if you were harmed?’

“Half-an-hour into our journey, Muhammad started breathing with difficulty and slowly losing consciousness. As I rested my head on his legs I asked him, ‘What is wrong?’ He said, ‘I cannot breathe, cousin. I feel my chest is blocked.’ He then passed out.

“It was hard to tell that he was injured as there was no blood at all. When we got to the hospital he was gone. We then learned from the doctor that some tiny bits of shrapnel penetrated his body and ended up in his heart.”

So my cousin was martyred and my brother injured, as were many of their friends. The army remained in our city for a long time until it was liberated on August 10, 2012.

Nisreen al-Ahmad, 33, is from Kafr Nubbal in Idlib countryside. She is the mother of two boys. Due to the security situation she abandoned university when she was in her third year of a BA in Arabic Literature.