I had already made up my mind. I had to go to Syria without either my mum or dad praying for me. I had to pray for myself, wishing myself good luck. It was the first time I was arguing loudly with my parents. They cherished me so much, and felt betrayed that I was throwing caution to the winds in pursuit of fame. Dad, a retired civil servant, loved mum so much that he didn’t bother to take a second wife. We were seven children, but I was the only son in the midst.
Hosni knew Syria fairly well, and I wasn’t afraid of getting lost in Syria. As long as I didn’t take sides with any warring faction, I was convinced nobody was going to harm me. Hosni was a good friend; he helped me a lot to grow in the job before he was mistakenly killed by a burst of friendly fire from soldiers as he was filming a fight along Castello Road not too long ago –if I survive this risky trip across the border, I‘ll ensure that I chronicle his heroics in my memoir.
As I get set to say goodbye to Aleppo, I remember vividly the three years I have been here reporting the war. I have come close to death many times, but I have always been lucky to escape each time. I was once inside a Red Crescent facility interviewing a rebel fighter whose two legs had been blown away by a grenade when the building was bombed, claiming twenty lives. I survived by whiskers. I have tried to be as objective as possible in my reports, but the regime doesn’t like it each time I report of a child killed by a shrapnel or a neigbourhood denied of light or water supply in Aleppo. I don’t know why anybody expected me to turn a blind eye to the calamities being wrought in Aleppo. Besides, I have received death threats a number of times, but I have continued doing my job. I am glad my name has been the toast of the international media.
One of the most touching stories I reported from Aleppo was the Thaer family at Medin. The family house had been bombed out with everybody dead except a five-year, old, boy trapped under the rubble. As I was filming the devastation, I heard a distant sound inside the rubble. The locals gathered to rescue the poor, breaking walls and digging into the falling rubble. I filmed every detail until she was pulled out with bruises on her head and neck, blood oozing all over her body. I shed tears as she asked, ‘Where is mummy? Where is daddy?’ I had followed the Red Crescent to the hospital where she was being treated and secured a brief interview with her, which shocked the world when it was beamed.
But it wasn’t until four months ago that I started getting unease as the regime forces started reinforcing its positions around Castello Road front. If I was discovered to be Ali Abduljabbar, I wouldn’t know what would be my fate. Towards the end of June –that was two weeks ago –a rebel chief told me that the zone would be fully encircled within two weeks. My worse fear was confirmed when, on July 7, the soldiers took positions less than seven hundred metres from the road, and any vehicle spotted on the highway was hailed with bullets. I managed to capture a few of such attacks.
How do I escape from Aleppo? The question kept dancing in my head more often these days. I finally raised the issue with my Syrian journalist friend, Mojaheed, and he, too, was eager to live the city with his younger sister, Mariam. Like me, he wasn’t in the good books of the regime, for he reported their excesses and also those of rebel factions. If only we could escape Castello Road, it would be a lot easier to flee Syria with the aid of smugglers, he reasoned.
We have crossed the Rubicon. I shot a farewell video earlier today in my balcony, showing a snowing Aleppo at the background. Speaking in front of the camera, I said in an emotional voice, ‘Aleppo, I love you. I thought, with my pen and camera, I would stop the bombs from raining, but I have failed. I thought with the grim images and wailings in my camera, the world would come to your rescue, but I have failed. Aleppo, I will be leaving you tonight, but, if I fail to make it, let my drying tears meld with your endless grief.’ After videoing, I circulated it to the international media outlets to broadcast in case I failed to make it to the border –I am told we might encounter some unfriendly rebel factions and regime forces on the way. Even if I didn’t make it, I was certain I would be celebrated as a hero.
The moment I leave my room to join the waiting minibus, I am smitten by guilt that I am leaving Aleppo. It is never my wish to leave in this circumstance. I would have loved to film the tears of joy of the embattled dwellers screaming hurrahs and hugging one another at the end of the struggle. I would have loved to interview amputated survivors and those with broken limbs as they recount their experiences. Tears dribble on my cheeks as I pack my bag into the boot of the minibus as we say our last prayers and leave under the cover of darkness. His sister is in the car, too. She is evidently stricken, and manages to say hi to me, her greetings sounding like a mumble. I am a bit scared, but not as her. As a journalist, I was trained to be brave in desperate situations, for that is the only way you could get rare stories. Poor girl, I pity her.
Only the fog light of the minibus is on as Mojahed drives through the neighbourhood of Sakhour as we set out by midnight. As we get to al-Shaar, the last one before Castello Road, Mojaheed becomes more careful. None of us speaks to each other. Panic mode is about to be activated. Our eyes flash left and right for any telltale sign of trouble. There is none until we are stopped less than one kilometre from Castello Road by seven masked men in black with Kalashnikovs and knives. Gush! Courage deserts me for the first time, and I remember my father and mother warnings before I travelled. We are afraid, praying they weren’t t Isil fighters. If they were bandits, they would probably rob us –that’s better. If they were any of the rebel factions, we would be much safer. With their fingers on the triggers, they ask for our ID cards. They recognise my name, and nod their heads. One of them says, ‘That daredevil journalist,’ as he hands it back. They scrutinise that of Mojahed and murmur something in Arabic. I know all is not well with my smattering of Arabic, which I learnt in Cairo.
We are asked to get out of the car, and marched into a nearby shop like prisoners of war. There, we meet other masked men, including their leader, who ask where we are going. We had already thought of a white lie to tell should we encounter rebel forces –from our journalist instinct, they look like them –‘We’re going to Turkey to present papers in an international conference on the suffering in Aleppo.’
Their boss turns to me, ‘Your ID card reads ‘Nigerian.’ What’s a Nigerian doing in Syria? Are you a Boko Haram-turned Isil fighter masquerading as a journalist?’ Some Boko Haram fighters, we know, are fighting for Isil. Are you sure you aren’t one of them?’
I shook my head. ‘I haven’t been to Nigeria in five years. I don’t have any contact with Boko Haram. I’m a just an ordinary freelance journalist; you may have seen or read my reports since the war started.’
His eyes peer into my face. ‘I’m conversant with your reports, Ali Abduljabbar,’ he admits, ‘but you can still be a regime or Isil sympathiser who wants to give our positions away. By the way, you don’t look Nigerian; Nigerians are supposed to be dark; you look like … like somebody from North Africa or a Tuareg, are you sure you’re Nigerian?’
I expected that question. ‘I’m Nigerian,’ I repeat. ‘A Fulani. There’re many Fulani like me in Nigeria. The Fulani look different from other Nigerians if you know our history,’ I explain. I couldn’t read his face because of the mask he is putting on, but I feel he has bought into my story.
‘Which province do you come from in Nigeria?’ he interrogates me further.
I correct that we don’t have provinces in Nigeria but states. Apparently, he doesn’t have a good sense of geography. Of all the states in Nigeria, the only one he is familiar with is Borno, no thanks to recurrent terrorist attacks in that part of the country. ‘Boko Haram aren’t our friends,’ he echoes, and hands back my passport.
I’m intrigued by his declaration. ‘Thank you,’ I smile my thanks, relieved momentarily.
It is the turn of Mojaheed to be interrogated. The boss paces up and down the shop before standing in front of him. ‘I like you sometimes, Mo,’ but you make me mad sometimes. He pauses and continues, ‘Why do you work against us at times?’
Mojaheed knows what he is driving at, but he feigns ignorant. ‘I’m not sure I worked against you,’ he says in a tepid voice.
5 Comments
Interesting! Story, mothers try more especially when the only son chooses to join the army not even the wing of journalism.
This is engrossing! Henry has a way of soothing his reader with words,guiding them through his narrative. Highly imaginative and timely.
It’s an interesting read, the gory sights of rotting corpses, arms and masks, trucks moving in the night, roadblocks, rain, howling beasts, fear, shame and unuttered feelings portrays the occupational threats involved in war journalism.
My literary icon, congrats! This work surpasses fiction – Just like a direct report. But this story is a replica of the Nigerian interior.
Henry! You’re an astounding excitement clothed in humanity. Thank you for this.