Out Of The Darkness

Life in darkness is filled with terror. An unseen itch could be a piece of sand, or a rat chewing on skin. In the dark, when I jolt upright, I hear vermin skitter away. As sleep is impossible, I live in an interminable nightmare.

A factor that might explain the downward course of my life is my father’s uncanny ability (if that’s what it’s called) to get into arguments with everyone he came into contact with in our hometown. They assumed the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and took it out on me. Guilt by association. They say children should be free of the sins of their parents, but not in my country.

After so much time in the darkness, I can no longer picture his face, or those of my own wife and children. All I can remember is the sound of my name.

“Rami Aldamany?”

Outside, a man is shouting my name in foreign-accented Arabic.

“Yes!” I call out.

Soon, I hear the familiar rattle of my cell door opening. I can not see this man, so I don’t know if something good or bad is going to happen next. My knees start to shake in anticipation of pain.

Hands tug at my shoulders, pull me to my feet and drag me out of my cell.

“Sorry,” the man says. “This might take a while to get used to.”

Someone pulls off my hood.

Light pierces my eyes. It feels a dagger into my skull. Dizzy, I want to topple to the ground, but powerful arms hold me up. Men drag me down a hallway and into a room that has windows.

“Congratulations, you are being freed from Al-Hurriya Prison,” the man who called out my name says.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“You can call me Greg,” he says. “I am from the UK. Tell me, why are you in this prison, Rami?”

“Why is anyone? The people of Homs are not the sharpest tools in the shed. They support Bashar and they raked me over the coals.”

“So, they put you here because you oppose Bashar?”

“I was framed for the robbery of a neighbor’s goat. It’s a long story. The important part is, in the end, I had a trial, and was exonerated. After I was found not guilty by a court, I told them to go fuck themselves.”  

“And they decided to keep you longer. Surprise, surprise,” he says. “Lucky for you, we showed up.” Greg opens a can of Coca-Cola and hands it to me. Unbelievably, it’s still cold. “Rami, we need your help to indict Bashar Assad for his crimes. We are building a special task force. We are going to shine a light on his wrongdoings.”

 “You will punish Assad? Let there be light! Allah Akbar.”

“I’m glad this makes you happy.”

“But how can I help? You might find I have had a boring life as the son of a grain merchant in Homs.” My eyes have adjusted to the light and I can see his face. He looks middle eastern, from what region is hard to tell. His face shows the gentle demeanor of someone who has had a peaceful life overseas.

He smiles at me. “It would be folly to refuse to help the task force that will create a better future for Syria. Now, tell me more about Homs.”

Memories of Homs flood back like scenes from a film. The city has its charms starting with a bustling city center with markets overflowing with spices, textiles, and produce. The aroma of local bakeries mingle with the scent of shawarma stands. The citadel, with its ancient stone walls, has been witness to centuries of history.

One thing about Homs is that its people are the butt of jokes in Syria. I don’t know why, but that’s just the way it is. 

Greg listens with keen interest, as I tell him about the city and my life in Homs for hours.

Eventually, we and a group of Western mercenaries shuffle into a large helicopter outside.

“Do you agree to leave Syria?” a man who looks like a clerk asks me. He’s holding a clipboard and a video camera.

“Yes. Of course!” I shout.

At an airport, we are moved into a military cargo plane, take seats in the back, and soon take off.

Realizing for the first time in my life, I am outside Syria, aaway from the country of the Assads, my tormentors, my heart lightens.

I have always needed someone to take my side. Someone to help. Not the abuse I received from my father. Greg wears glasses. His demeanor is soft like a doctor.

I hate Homsi jokes, but he might be entertained.

“Have you heard any jokes about my hometown?” I ask him.

“No, I haven’t. Do you know any?”

“Of course!” I say. “Why did 18 Homsis go to an R-rated movie?Because below 18 is not allowed.”

“Ha! Tell me another.”

“A Homsi ordered a pizza and the clerk asks if he should cut it into six or twelve pieces. The Homsi says, ‘Six, please. I could never eat twelve slices.’”

“It’s the same pizza!” Greg exclaims, his face wrinkling with laughter.

I have another. “What about the Homsi wife who gave birth to twins? Her husband went out looking for the other man.”

Greg bursts out in a gleeful chortle. I really got him with that one.

“I am happy you didn’t lose your sense of humor, Rami.” His expression becomes more earnest. “Bashar Assad was a truly terrible man. Your country will be better off without him. So now, let’s catch up on our sleep?” Greg shuts his eyes before I can reply. I have a few more Homsi jokes that I will save for later.

Within the calming white noise of the darkened military cargo plane’s hold, Greg dozes off quickly. The excitement of my newfound freedom still has my heart racing, and I can’t sleep. There are no other Syrians on the plane. I seem to be a VIP guest. I can feel their high expectations for the help I can provide them.

Perhaps Greg thought I am somebody important. Which I’m not. Just another Homsi.

The world will go on whether or not I am a member of their task force. What about my wife and my daughter? Maybe Greg can help me find them.

In the darkness of the plane interior, I can see perfectly. Besides my seatbelt, I am not tied down. The soldiers are all asleep. I can see their loaded weapons in their holsters.

This is my chance.

The more I think about jumping up and lunging for someone’s weapon, I discover the heavier my body becomes. After being imprisoned for years, my muscles no longer obey my desires for action. My soul has resigned itself to react to my captors. If curiosity killed the cat, in prison, initiative killed the prisoner. I’ve learned to obey.The rhythmic hum of the plane engines lull me to sleep filled with these abstract thoughts.

I awake in bright sunlight, being led out onto a runway and a green, tropical-looking landscape.

As my eyes adjust to the light, I see American flags on the buildings adjoining the airstrip. A sign on one building reads, in English letters, “Naval Station Guantanamo.”

Greg is awake, and standing in front of me. “Rami Aldamany, I must inform you that you are being detained by the government of the United States.”

“But why?” I can’t fathom a single reason they would detain me, a simple Homsi stuck in a dark cell for years.

“A cellmate turned you in as the Bomber of Homs. We have been searching for you.”

With this revelation, my thoughts turn and turn. It must have been Yousef. He hated me. Greg will surely understand. “I was framed,” I explain.

“That’s what they all say.” Greg nods to the soldiers standing next to us. “I am sorry.” 

His eyes look apologetic. He is a nice man, not like the others.

Suddenly, I feel a hood being pulled over my head, and everything goes black again.