“Souvenirs”
Mike Sobaski
Our last interview for the night was on the other side of town, closer to the Syrian border. The city had expanded quickly to accommodate the thousands of refugees pouring into Turkey. It was late when we arrived and it had started to rain. Bailey, my American research partner, and our Syrian translator Ibrahim, stepped off the paved road and into the mouth of a narrow alley. Darkness enveloped us, with only a small light bobbing in the distance. As we approached the light my eyes adjusted and a woman holding a lantern materialized. She was standing in the doorway to a house, wearing a black hijab and dress that hung loosely over her entire body. Her eyes were dark and heavy, but she smiled as she motioned for us to come inside.
The sound of rain pattering on the tin roof reverberated between the cold concrete walls, giving the sensation that we had stepped inside a drum. In the corner of the room a small stove burned scraps of wood, but did little to ward off the cool damp night. Four children were huddled around the stove and from their small faces I guessed their ages varied from six to eleven. There mother closed the door behind us and I was careful to not extend my hand when I introduced myself.
“Ismee Mike,” I said, trying out one of the Arabic phrases I had recently learned. Bailey introduced herself in broken Arabic and tried to tell the woman not say her name. For security reasons we couldn’t record any identifying information, and if we knew her name we might accidentally share it, compromising her safety. Some people wouldn’t be happy she was speaking with two Americans doing research on the conflict in Syria. Despite taking years of Arabic Bailey still struggled with the language and it was clear the woman did not understand what Bailey was trying to say. Ibrahim stepped in and translated the message and then motioned for us to sit down on the cushions along the wall.
The tattered maroon mats were the only furniture in the room besides the stove and a small television that displayed images of men shuffling around the Ka’ba in Mecca. The woman disappeared into the other room and returned with a pot of tea and three cups. As she poured, Ibrahim lit a cigarette.
“Take one,” he said, holding the pack out to me. I shook my head, assuming his offer was just a common courtesy. But he insisted, so I gave in and smoked next to him.
I had only smoked a handful of times before traveling to Turkey, but I quickly discovered that here, as a man, I was always expected to smoke. Each night Bailey and I would go over to our Syrian neighbor’s house for dinner, but only one girl in the family spoke English and all the women would spend the entire night in the kitchen preparing or cleaning. While Bailey spoke with her, I would be directed into the back room with the men who would ask me something in Arabic and I would smile and uncomfortably laugh. They would always try two or three more times, expecting me to catch on, and then eventually give up. But when we smoked together language didn’t matter. We would sit, puffing on cigarettes and listen to Fairuz, one of the most famous Arab singers, or share pictures of home via Google Earth. They were surprised that my home back in Iowa had three garages; I was surprised their home back in Syria had been bombed.
After finishing the cigarette and tea we started the interview as usual, asking how she felt when the revolution first began. I expected to hear the same response I’d heard a dozen times, but as she started talking in Arabic I could tell something was different. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor and her voice was just hardly above a whisper. As she spoke, Ibrahim translated her story.
She had been working as a farmer in the countryside, but lived in Latakia, a large city that is dominated by Alawites, a sect of Muslims that support the Syrian regime. On her way to work she was often stopped at checkpoints and forced to explain why she was traveling. It was an expected delay for a Sunni Muslim in the area, but one day the police questioned her longer than normal. They finally let her pass, only to show up at her home the next day with an arrest warrant. The police didn’t believe that her daily crossing from Alawite to Sunni territory was for work, but instead thought she was smuggling weapons to the rebels in the countryside. Her husband tried to reason with the police—she was innocent, just a simple farmer—but his words were met with force. The police beat him for interfering and ignored her cries for mercy. She finally threw herself at the police, begging them to take her and leave her family, but not before they split her husband’s skull on the concrete floor. As the police dragged her out of the house her children cried, alone with the body of their father.
I looked at the kids, seated near the stove in silence, huddled together in a blanket. I expected to see fear or sadness in their faces as their mother recounted her story, but if they were afraid I couldn’t tell. She then started talking about her time in jail. She was interrogated, beaten, and tortured by electrocution. She gently touched her abdomen and right shoulder, indicating the places where the electrodes burned deep scars into her flesh. She paused, gathering herself, and then continued, her Arabic becoming sharp and angry. There was one particular guard that was nice at first—he brought her extra food and never beat her—but his kindness quickly turned into cruelty. He raped her week after week, promising to let her free if she didn’t cry. She let out a final fiery sentence before becoming quiet.
“She said she wanted to kill him. But her children needed her. So she didn’t fight,” Ibrahim translated. She started speaking again, her anger cooled to a simmering bitterness.
She wasn’t sure how much time passed in the prison because the prison was underground with no access to daylight, but she never lost faith. She held her hands up and said she knew always knew Allah would protect her. Finally, after months of torture, she bribed a different guard to free her and escaped back into the countryside, only to find her brother and father had been killed along with her husband. Her voice stiffened as she recounted how alone she was, there was no man to protect or provide for her. She regrettably relied on charity to support her children because the torture made her unable to work.
After finishing her story she wiped a tear off her face and said something quietly to Ibrahim as she stood up.
“She says she has a CD with X-rays that show broken bones from the torture. She wants you to have it,” Ibrahim said.
Bailey and I made eye contact, silently deciding how to respond. Bailey blinked and uncomfortably shifted her weight around her seat.
“We actually… we can’t take it,” she mumbled.
“It’s for security reasons,” I added, “we can’t take anything with us, but we believe you.”
Ibrahim translated and she looked disappointed. She nodded and quietly sat back down. I looked down at my notes, trying to maintain my composure.
“Have you told anyone about your experience?” I asked solemnly.
She looked confused and asked Ibrahim to translate again.
“Have you told anyone about what the regime did to you? Have you shared your story?” I clarified.
She spoke in a flat voice to Ibrahim.
“Nobody has ever asked her,” he translated. “Nobody has ever cared.”
Ibrahim added that her story was awful, but not unique. Everyone in Syria knows what happens in the regime jails, they just aren’t doing anything about it.
After several more minutes of conversation the children started to squirm. It was clear they were getting tired and ready for bed. We stood up to go and thanked her again for speaking with us.
“You are such a strong woman,” Bailey said, fighting to hold back tears. “You have lived through so much.” I could tell she wanted to say more, to offer some sort of comfort, but didn’t know how. We told the woman about an organization that was documenting war crimes and encouraged her to get in contact. Her story needed to be told.
She smiled and held up her hands up to her face, covering her trembling chin. As we moved towards the door she noticed Bailey’s thin jacket. A frown crept across her face and she shook her head slightly, looking concerned. She walked into the other room, returning a few seconds later with a large brown winter coat. She held it out to Bailey and repeated something in Arabic.
“She says you will be cold on your walk home,” Ibrahim translated. “She wants you to take the jacket.”
“No… I, I can’t,” Bailey said, her jaw hanging in disbelief. We should be giving something to the woman, not the other way around. “I’ll be fine, but thank you.”
The woman insisted again, saying it was a gift.
“Really, I can’t take it. But thank you.” The woman begrudgingly relented and said goodbye one final time.
As we left, Ibrahim said what we all knew: she was offering Bailey her only coat.
Ibrahim handed me a cigarette and I gladly accepted.
#
Two weeks later I was back home in Iowa, sitting in the living room. I quietly watched two of my younger cousins excitedly search through dozens of colorful presents underneath the Christmas tree. After dinner everyone would crowd together in the living room and exchange gifts as the snow silently piled up outside. I imagined my parents’ reaction when they opened my gift, a wooden trinket I bought off a street vendor in Turkey. It would mean a lot to them, but it held no significance to me. In the kitchen, cheese, crackers, and every type of Christmas cookie imaginable covered the table. The house was noisy and warm as family mingled over drinks, discussing the results of the recent election and my uncle’s new dog. Eventually my absence was noticed and a group walked over to me.
“Stop hiding!” my sister said, tousling my hair like a child. “Tell us about your trip! We all want to hear about it.”
“Yeah,” my aunt added, “did you ever feel afraid? What was the food like? Tell us some of your stories!” My family stood around me smiling, waiting to hear something funny or exciting. I stuttered, trying to find a story that would be appropriate to share. After a few seconds I faked a smile and half-heartedly told a story about getting stuck in a room with a 99 year old Syrian woman who tried to teach me Arabic by yelling for hours. They all laughed at the end and then made their way back to the kitchen to refill their wine glasses. As they left, I escaped to my room and grabbed a pack of cigarettes that I bought the day before. Making sure to avoid getting drawn into any conversations, I stepped out into the cold Iowa night, frustrated and confused, and lit up.
