<\/p>\n
<\/strong>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\u2019t 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. <\/p>\n I<\/strong> 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.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n 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 \u2013 I was a fan of his and an occasional contributor of breaking news from the university. I didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n \u2018Ali,\u2019 dad had called me, when he was told of my intention to travel to Syria, \u2018why did you want to pay us in a bad coin after sacrificing everything for you?\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Dad, I\u2019m surprised at your remarks. You didn\u2019t object when I wanted to be a journalist \u2013you said it was a job you loved \u2013so, why\u2019re opposed to living my dream?\u2019<\/p>\n He had waxed livid, \u2018Don\u2019t be silly, Ali! You\u2019re the only son! Living your dream doesn\u2019t mean that you should take unnecessary risks!\u2019<\/p>\n The metallic voice had felt despondent as the decibels rose, \u2018Ali, think about your family \u2013the family that showed you love.\u2019<\/p>\n I had tried to convince him, to no avail, \u2018I understand what you\u2019re saying, but everybody\u2019d die one way or another. Though they\u2019re aware of the dangers posed, new intakes\u2019re still entering the army. Between the soldier and the journalist, who should be more scared?\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018A soldier signed for death; a journalist didn\u2019t 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\u2019s bravery and death. Both professions aren\u2019t related. So, don\u2019t tell me about a soldier who has already signed his death warrant before wearing a military fatigue. You\u2019re there to write about the soldier\u2019s heroics and probable death.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Baba, take it easy,\u2019 I had tried to persuade him. 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. \u2018I\u2019d be fine,\u2019 I had told her. \u2018Just pray for me; you\u2019ll be proud of me at the end.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Don\u2019t tell me that, Ali,\u2019 she had retorted. \u2018Ask your father for your prayers, I don\u2019t waste my prayers on a risky venture. You should pray for yourself since you don\u2019t want to listen to me. If you knew what I went through to have you, you wouldn\u2019t tell me to pray for you to go to Syria and die. Are you better than those journalists who haven\u2019t bothered to go to Syria? Did the minister of information report any war before he became a minister?\u2019 she had ended the discussion on an angry note.<\/p>\n Hosni knew Syria fairly well, and I wasn\u2019t afraid of getting lost in Syria. As long as I didn\u2019t 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 \u2013if I survive this risky trip across the border, I\u2018ll ensure that I chronicle his heroics in my memoir.<\/p>\n 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\u2019t 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\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n 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, \u2018Where is mummy? Where is daddy?\u2019 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.<\/p>\n But it wasn\u2019t 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\u2019t know what would be my fate. Towards the end of June \u2013that was two weeks ago \u2013a 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.<\/p>\n 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\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n 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, \u2018Aleppo, 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.\u2019 After videoing, I circulated it to the international media outlets to broadcast in case I failed to make it to the border \u2013I am told we might encounter some unfriendly rebel factions and regime forces on the way. Even if I didn\u2019t make it, I was certain I would be celebrated as a hero.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n 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\u2019t t Isil fighters. If they were bandits, they would probably rob us \u2013that\u2019s 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, \u2018That daredevil journalist,\u2019 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.<\/p>\n 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 \u2013from our journalist instinct, they look like them \u2013\u2018We\u2019re going to Turkey to present papers in an international conference on the suffering in Aleppo.\u2019<\/p>\n Their boss turns to me, \u2018Your ID card reads \u2018Nigerian.\u2019 What\u2019s a Nigerian doing in Syria? Are you a Boko Haram-turned Isil fighter masquerading as a journalist?\u2019 Some Boko Haram fighters, we know, are fighting for Isil. Are you sure you aren\u2019t one of them?\u2019<\/p>\n I shook my head. \u2018I haven\u2019t been to Nigeria in five years. I don\u2019t have any contact with Boko Haram. I\u2019m a just an ordinary freelance journalist; you may have seen or read my reports since the war started.\u2019<\/p>\n His eyes peer into my face. \u2018I\u2019m conversant with your reports, Ali Abduljabbar,\u2019 he admits, \u2018but you can still be a regime or Isil sympathiser who wants to give our positions away. By the way, you don\u2019t look Nigerian; Nigerians are supposed to be dark; you look like \u2026 like somebody from North Africa or a Tuareg, are you sure you\u2019re Nigerian?\u2019<\/p>\n I expected that question. \u2018I\u2019m Nigerian,\u2019 I repeat. \u2018A Fulani. There\u2019re many Fulani like me in Nigeria. The Fulani look different from other Nigerians if you know our history,\u2019 I explain. I couldn\u2019t read his face because of the mask he is putting on, but I feel he has bought into my story.<\/p>\n \u2018Which province do you come from in Nigeria?\u2019 he interrogates me further.<\/p>\n I correct that we don\u2019t have provinces in Nigeria but states. Apparently, he doesn\u2019t 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. \u2018Boko Haram aren\u2019t our friends,\u2019 he echoes, and hands back my passport.<\/p>\n I\u2019m intrigued by his declaration. \u2018Thank you,\u2019 I smile my thanks, relieved momentarily.<\/p>\n It is the turn of Mojaheed to be interrogated. The boss paces up and down the shop before standing in front of him. \u2018I like you sometimes, Mo,\u2019 but you make me mad sometimes. He pauses and continues, \u2018Why do you work against us at times?\u2019<\/p>\n Mojaheed knows what he is driving at, but he feigns ignorant. \u2018I\u2019m not sure I worked against you,\u2019 he says in a tepid voice.<\/p>\n Mojaheed explains that his reports were not targeted against his people but a way of projecting the atrocities of the regime to the world and win their sympathies. \u2018I couldn\u2019t have turned against the land of my birth and its brave defenders. I was doing my duty as a journalist, telling the story as they occurred. Reports such as mine have been the reason why the West is sending help to you.\u2019<\/p>\n The boss isn\u2019t completely satisfied with his explanation as he says, \u2018The Western world hasn\u2019t done enough! It doesn\u2019t want to come all out to help us. What we\u2019re getting is limited assistance. Tell them to give us what we want.\u2019 At that moment, I begin to think Mojaheed will be left off the hook. They ask him where we are headed for, and he tells him we are going to Turkey to give talks on the atrocities of the regime forces in Aleppo to an international audience. \u2018My sister has a heart problem,\u2019 he adds. \u2018She is going to Turkey to receive treatment. She has run out of medical supply.\u2019<\/p>\n We thought they would let us go after that, but they didn\u2019t. We are locked up in a store as the regime mortars explode with ferocity at intervals. We can\u2019t sleep a wink, and our ears are shut with our index fingers. We can\u2019t eat the bread they offer us or drink the bottles of water. We are terrified. No wonder we are delighted when morning creeps up. Nobody is yet to tell us our crime. By midday, the masked men announce we are free to leave, but advises us to wait till 1 p.m. when the mortars would fall silent \u2013the regime forces usually stop firing momentarily as the afternoon heat picks.<\/p>\n By 1:15 p.m., the masked men hit Castello Road in three trucks; they are going to fortify a particular location. We wish them good luck and follow closely behind as we negotiate an escape route to Turkey, avoiding the main road and taking a parallel street to avoid being targeted. The road itself is littered with decomposing bodies and burnt-out cars. It is the highway of death in which the Red Crescent dare not ventured because of the rampant bombs.<\/p>\n The trip lasts for twenty-five minutes \u2013it is the longest twenty-five minutes of my life, of which my heart beats accelerate. I am surprised I didn\u2019t suffer a heart attack. Mojaheed\u2019s sister has to blind herself with a hanger to avoid seeing those awful corpses. She throws up twice as the smell of rotten flesh chock her up. At Kafr Hamrah, the first village after the Castello Road, the masked men go another direction, and we continue our journey to Idlib, a major town in north-western Syria near the Turkish border. At Idlib, we get in touch with a smuggler to get us across the Turkish border, along with a group of other Syrians fleeing the country. Mojahed auctions his car to the smugglers to raise more money for an uncertain future in Turkey.<\/p>\n We meet a Syrian family who went through hell to get to the border. They tell us the smugglers turned out to be no better than the regime forces. They had held them and a few other helpless families captive, huddled in an abandoned building on a bitterly cold night as heavy rains poured down and animals howled near the carcasses of burnt-out vehicles. At a point, they thought they were not going to make it to the border alive, for there were stories of smugglers killing desperate Syrians and selling their organs. Some others trafficked the ladies as sex slaves. Worse still, they walked in the dark and cold through the jungle. Some aged women and children dropped off the road, tired and hungry, and nobody waited for them. It was the survival of the fittest. The cold was biting to the marrows, and they felt we were going to die of the cold. As they approached the border, the smugglers turned on them and demanded each person to offer hundreds of dollars on top of the fees they had already paid. Those who couldn\u2019t meet up with the extortion were abandoned to their own fate.<\/p>\n We are delighted at last when we cross over to Antakya in Turkey. Mojaheed has a Turkish friend in Gazintep, more than forty kilometres from the border he intends to put up with. He says it is better than living in a refugee camp. In a restaurant at Antakya, I am thrilled to reunite with the Mizipahs, a Jewish family that had known no other place than Aleppo as home until now. They owned a bakery in Aleppo, which we patronised. I once did a story on the Jewish family who sold loaves of bread to people at no extra cost aside production cost. They were born in Syria and their forefathers had lived in Syria for thousands of years.<\/p>\n \u2018We travelled thirty hours to the border,\u2019 the seventy-six-year old Mizipah tells me, \u2018and we were assisted by Muslim Syrians,\u2019 he said as a teardrop plummeted to the floor. Unknown to me, the story I did on them had drawn the attention of the Israeli Ministry of Absorption, which, I was told, facilitated their rescue from Aleppo, using their contacts with the rebels. <\/p>\n Mizipah had told me in that interview that Aleppo had one of the world\u2019s oldest Jewish communities in my previous interview. According to a Jewish lore, one of King David\u2019s generals was said to have laid the foundation for the city\u2019s great synagogue, and many Jewish had lived there from generation to generation.<\/p>\n \u2018I\u2019m a Jew, but I haven\u2019t been to Israel for once,\u2019 he says as I ask her where she is escaping to. \u2018Aleppo is the home I knew. I didn\u2019t want to leave the city, but I had to. Though we were losing water and electricity, we were willing to endure; but we were scared when we learnt Isil was closing. We could be kidnapped or killed.\u2019<\/p>\n I interrupt his narrative to ask him how his family escaped. At first, he doesn\u2019t want to give the details. There are two unknown faces in their midst, perhaps their driver and a guide, whom he first communicates with his eyes for approval before he starts speaking. \u2018In the middle of the night, we awoke to the sound of fists pounding on the door. When I opened the door, I saw two men standing. I was scared. I didn\u2019t know them from Adam. Have they come to kill me? I asked myself. But, much to my relief, they weren\u2019t bad people; they were two good men \u2013these gentlemen,\u2019 he said, pointing to the strange faces in their midst, who had come to conduct us to safety. \u2018They\u2019re Syrians.\u2019<\/p>\n Forgetting our own trauma momentarily, we thank the two men for saving their lives. With Mizipah are his wife and forty-year old daughter, Hannah, her three children and her Muslim husband, who appear excited to be ferried across Turkey. Meal over, we ride with them in their chartered bus, alighting at Gaziantep before the Mizipahs continue their journey to Instanbul.<\/p>\n \u2018You can visit us any of these days before we move to Israel,\u2019 says the old man and his wife, scribbling their temporary address in Instanbul, as they wave us goodbye. \u2018Thank you.\u2019 We return the gestures. I will surely include them in my memoir when I return to Cairo in a few days\u2019 time.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Goodbye Allepo<\/b>
\n\u2018I leave you to your own desert, Ali. Remember I told you!\u2019 he had hung up.<\/p>\n
\n\u2018Please, understand me, mum.\u2019
\n\u2018There is nothing for me to understand here.\u2019
\n\u2018Please, understand.\u2019
\n\u2018My son, you annoy me with those words.\u2019
\n\u2018I\u2019m working for your own good.\u2019
\n\u2018There\u2019s no good in travelling to Syria when everybody is running away from the country.\u2019
\n\u2018It isn\u2019t the same thing.\u2019
\n\u2018What\u2019s not the same thing?\u2019
\n\u2018I\u2019m a journalist, and I\u2019m not a participant in the war. My duty is to report what I see, and not to take sides.\u2019
\n\u2018Who says journalists don\u2019t get killed in wars?\u2019
\n\u2018Sometimes they\u2019re, but not always. The percentage of war fatalities is very slim.\u2019
\n\u2018Is there any announcements to say who\u2019s going to die at a particular war?\u2019
\n\u2018Mum, stop this; stop talking about deaths.\u2019
\n\u2018How can I stop talking about deaths when my only son is toying with death?\u2019
\n\u2018I promise, I\u2019ll 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\u2019s my chance to make a name.\u2019
\n\u2018You\u2019re on your own if you choose to go.\u2019
\n\u2018Mummy, all I need is your prayers; I\u2019ll be fine.\u2019<\/p>\n
\n
\nI 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\u2019t bother to take a second wife. We were seven children, but I was the only son in the midst.<\/p>\n
\n
\nThe rebel boss guffaws amid mortars flying overhead. I am unnerved by his baritone voice more than the wheezing mortars. Nobody can predict their temperament. \u2018Mojaheed said he didn\u2019t work against us,\u2019 he says aloud to his lieutenants, who giggle. Turning to the Syrian journalist, he says, \u2018You said you didn\u2019t work against us, but you were revealing our secrets and information about our positions to the western media,\u2019 as the timbre of his voice continues to rise. \u2018You\u2019re from Aleppo, aren\u2019t you? Yet you were reporting about our countless losses to the regime, forgetting that they were capable of demoralising our soldiers at war fronts? Why, Mo? Why?\u2019<\/p>\n
\nMy 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\u2019t 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.\u00a0<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":3137,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[14],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-930","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/930","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=930"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/930\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3108,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/930\/revisions\/3108"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3137"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=930"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=930"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=930"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}