Henry Akubuiro

Goodbye, Allepo   

 My video camera is the last thing I am packing into my bag as I plan to leave Aleppo tonight. A while ago, I saved all the files in a secret email address only my nephew, Kabir, could access, apart from me, before thrashing everything. I am embarking on a perilous journey across the Turkish border. I don’t know what would be my fate. To get across the border, I have to first get out of Castello Road, which has become the highway of death. 

I have been reporting from Aleppo since 2013 as a freelance journalist for different international media organisations, mostly from the eastern part of the country, occupied by rebel factions. The western part of the city has been under the control of the Syrian regime. In July, the regime soldiers seized control of Castello Road, the only escape route from the city, nay the supply link for the rebels. Ever since, everything has changed. Now, I am desperate to leave Aleppo. If I get here out alive, I will always remember Aleppo.

 I didn’t start my journalism career in Aleppo, but I have found the most fulfilment in this city riven by politics. My first stint was in Lagos as a cub reporter with a leading magazine shortly after my graduation.  When the opportunity to travel to Syria came while I was rounding off my Masters degree in Cairo, I jumped at the opportunity. In Syria, I fell in love with the video camera, and, within a short while, through the help of Hosni Hossam, an Egyptian journalist I came to Syria with, I began reporting for foreign media organisations across the world. It has been a swell time for me.

For three years, my reports and video footages have shown the world the suffering in Syria. I missed the peaceful movement that led to the civil war, for I was at the University of Cairo then. With the gory images coming out of Syria after the failed uprising to topple the president, I decided to abandon my masters degree defence and headed for Syria with Hosni, who was on the staff of Cairo News – I was a fan of his and an occasional contributor of breaking news from the university. I didn’t care about my safety, not even the fact that I was the only son of my parents. I knew the dangers involved, because I saw many killed by government forces at Tahir Square during the Arab Spring. But I was desirous of making my mark as an international journalist.

‘Ali,’ dad had called me, when he was told of my intention to travel to Syria, ‘why did you want to pay us in a bad coin after sacrificing everything for you?’

‘Dad, I’m surprised at your remarks. You didn’t object when I wanted to be a journalist –you said it was a job you loved –so, why’re opposed to living my dream?’

He had waxed livid, ‘Don’t be silly, Ali! You’re the only son! Living your dream doesn’t mean that you should take unnecessary risks!’

The metallic voice had felt despondent as the decibels rose, ‘Ali, think about your family –the family that showed you love.’

I had tried to convince him, to no avail, ‘I understand what you’re saying, but everybody’d die one way or another. Though they’re aware of the dangers posed, new intakes’re still entering the army. Between the soldier and the journalist, who should be more scared?’

‘A soldier signed for death; a journalist didn’t sign for death. He is a watchdog watching others, including the soldier. Yes, the soldier can die, but the journalist needs to live to tell the soldier’s bravery and death. Both professions aren’t related. So, don’t tell me about a soldier who has already signed his death warrant before wearing a military fatigue. You’re there to write about the soldier’s heroics and probable death.’

‘Baba, take it easy,’ I had tried to persuade him.
‘I leave you to your own desert, Ali. Remember I told you!’ he had hung up.

Mum was more hysterical. She had begged me never to go to Syria, for I was lacking in experience to be a war reporter. She had cried and cried, but there was no stopping me. ‘I’d be fine,’ I had told her. ‘Just pray for me; you’ll be proud of me at the end.’

‘Don’t tell me that, Ali,’ she had retorted.
‘Please, understand me, mum.’
‘There is nothing for me to understand here.’
‘Please, understand.’
‘My son, you annoy me with those words.’
‘I’m working for your own good.’
‘There’s no good in travelling to Syria when everybody is running away from the country.’
‘It isn’t the same thing.’
‘What’s not the same thing?’
‘I’m a journalist, and I’m not a participant in the war. My duty is to report what I see, and not to take sides.’
‘Who says journalists don’t get killed in wars?’
‘Sometimes they’re, but not always. The percentage of war fatalities is very slim.’
‘Is there any announcements to say who’s going to die at a particular war?’
‘Mum, stop this; stop talking about deaths.’
‘How can I stop talking about deaths when my only son is toying with death?’
‘I promise, I’ll be careful. This is a rare opportunity for me to hog the limelight. The Syrian war is everywhere, and I can easily worm myself to the international audience. It’s my chance to make a name.’
‘You’re on your own if you choose to go.’
‘Mummy, all I need is your prayers; I’ll be fine.’

‘Ask your father for your prayers, I don’t waste my prayers on a risky venture. You should pray for yourself since you don’t want to listen to me. If you knew what I went through to have you, you wouldn’t tell me to pray for you to go to Syria and die. Are you better than those journalists who haven’t bothered to go to Syria? Did the minister of information report any war before he became a minister?’ she had ended the discussion on an angry note.

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