Free A Woman in the Crossfire by Samar Yazbek Page B

Sidon bridge in the Break the Siege massacre, which the security forces carry out against peaceful protesters who pour out to support the people of Dar‘a. In Hama, there are two security agents disguised as ordinary citizens at a demonstration, who suddenly try to open fire. The men of Hama pounce on them and beat them up until a political security patrol comes around to save them.
    In the end there are 83 martyrs, including women and children in Dar‘a, where dozens of houses are bombarded.
    Is there any other news left? Is there anywhere else left in my heart for death?
    Now I am home at last, my daughter is upset, and I can’t feel anything but upset either.
    A moving corpse, I smell rusty odours, and my eyes never stop watering. The taste of rust is in my mouth. I remember I have an important appointment tomorrow with the journalist who managed to break the siege of Dar‘a.
    And so, in utter despair, I fold in on myself and sit down, to sleep for an hour right where I am. I open my eyes some time after midnight, sitting there until dawn smoking cigarettes, stoking my anxiety in anticipation of imminent death.

4 May 2011
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    I begin my day with this headline: “From a reliable medical source: Security forces transported 182 civilian bodies from Dar‘a to Tishreen hospital in Damascus on Saturday, and 62 bodies on Sunday; 242 bodies in all. In addition, 81 bodies from the army arrived at the same hospital, most of them were shot in the back.”
    That’s how things are in this country…
    Sheets of agony are the dividing lines between the sea and the desert, between the mountains and the valley, hung on thin threadlike ropes supported by poles in the sky that vanish into thin air.
    That’s how things are in this country…
    Every bit of territory is separated from every other and tethered to the abode of the Lord’s blessings. The mountains are suspended over the open veins of the earth. Beyond the veil of death is the screen of prayers and pleas for relief. Eyes accumulate like soap bubbles floating behind the windows; unafraid, they have lost all their fear. Eyes open onto the void, hunger and anger; they cannot make out anything but a dreary wall blocking their sight. The veil – we live according to the roots and branches of that magical word. The veil grows and grows until it becomes an entire country.
    A few days ago, before becoming a creature besieged by the death of my loved ones, I had been in the city and at the seaside. I had thought about getting closer to the body of a tank. I say ‘the body’ because when I was a little girl and would see them in pictures or on television I liked imagining they were giant amphibians, which would disappear as soon as we filled the bathtub with water and plunged in. Children have such a vivid imagination. I try as hard as I can never to give it up. I am always struck with wonder, which is why my childhood remains a witness to all this pain. It was an odd military checkpoint. We might have expected it near a border, for example, or in a movie when two enemy countries are at war. But what a sight to see their artillery aimed right at domestic windows.
    It never occurred to the miserable soldiers hovering around the body of the tank that I might approach them. Soldiers are also waiting for unfathomable death, just like all the unarmed people, who want to know the answer to one question: Where are all these murderers coming from?
    One of the soldiers told me he was sure he was going to be killed by a sniper’s bullet.
    â€œYou’ll find out someday,” I told him, a painful lump in my throat. Should I have said instead, You’re a sitting duck, you and everyone else in this country, everyone who fails to obey the orders of the security forces and the ruling family?
    I wanted to touch the metal. I placed my hand against the tank, closed my eyes and listened to an exquisite wet