A Woman in the Crossfire by Samar Yazbek Page A

and somebody said shots had been fired. We didn’t hear any gunshots on our entire trip, but the next day when I met up with a friend, I tried to find out from her what had actually happened in al- Zablatani, not far from Abbasiyeen Square. She told me she had been there and saw a group of young Christian men standing and demonstrating right in front of the security forces, only a handful of them, no more than a few dozen. One of them had taken off his shirt and bared his chest to the security forces’ machine guns. He stood there for nearly a minute until the sound of gunfire rang out and brought down the young man. I asked her what happened to him. Although they were only monitoring the security forces from afar, and from behind a balcony even, she said that they opened fire and ordered everyone to go back inside, as those who remained on the street fled. Then the square was empty except for security forces, the sounds of gunfire and the bodies of five young men who had fallen on the ground. State television would later report that the security forces had captured five saboteurs who were killed during armed clashes.
    What happens in this moment between when the shot is fired and when the bullet hits the bare chest? How are the two related?
    What was that young man who exposed his chest to death thinking about at that very moment?
    How long will it take us to understand the language of life? How much sadness do we need in order to endure this fresh blood in a country succumbing to the forces of death? Did the bare chest of that young man, standing there alone in front of them, without uttering a word, frighten them? What did the machine gun that killed him and his friends do after this assignment?
    Questions upon more questions, and that afternoon, driving towards Barzeh, a checkpoint appeared in front of us. It was a different kind of checkpoint: there were not a lot of men, five of disparate ages, and it was obvious they weren’t security, but they and their machine guns moved closer to us despite the fact that the car wasn’t the least bit suspicious. One of them was a young man who could not have been more than 25, his machine gun barrel was pointed straight at us; his eyes were lethal. My heart quaked as we turned around. Beyond that checkpoint there was killing and gunfire. We weren’t allowed to enter Barzeh.
    That was last Friday, and just as I was about to start recording these diaries, pain prevented me from doing so. I was too nervous to focus on writing. I wandered from friend’s house to friend’s house. I avoided going home in order to evade detention, because the security apparatus had fabricated more reports about me and posted them on their websites. It was getting difficult for me to go to Jableh or to move around freely in Latakia. I was a traitor to my sect for being on the side of the demonstrators. I wrote two pieces about the protest movement, in which I talked about the practices of violence and killing and arrest carried out by the security forces. They responded by posting articles on a mukhabarati 11 website discussing my relationship with American agents, a ready-made excuse the security apparatus would always resort to in order to clamp down on people who have their own opinions. I was bounded by my own anxiety and fear, by my daughter and my family, who came under direct pressure from the scandal that ensued in my village when the regime told them that their daughter had betrayed her sect and her homeland. I could not write. The daily news of killing was more present inside of me than any emotion. Then there was the news of my friends getting arrested. Finally, there was the atrocity that ended with the siege of Dar‘a, which continues until today, the Friday of Rage.
    I awoke to the sound of hailstones rattling against the window. It was early. I had come home; I simply had to, despite the threats from the security forces, despite all the rumours that were being