Elias contemplated the springs and wires of the bottom of the bed above him. The other men snored or turned restlessly in their bunks in the drab barracks at the Syrian Army’s rapid training facility outside of Damascus, but he couldn’t sleep. This place was more like a holding pen than a barracks. Like the others in this cell, he was waiting to be thrown into war, a conflict he had no desire to be part of.
For months after being detained at the airport, he’d berated himself for not having listened to his relatives. “If you come home, you must go to Lebanon. We will meet you there. Never fly directly into Syria.” He had been young and naïve and did not understand the danger.
In those early months, wave upon wave of nausea lapped upwards in his gut, beads of sweat bathed his body as his predicament became clearer, his captivity more indefinite. He lost weight, could barely eat. Eventually, he’d trained himself not to vomit after the repeated kicks from his superiors brought on their laughter, even though the pain became much worse. He was forced to eat, to get in shape, to fight.
He had no idea what war was like. He’d never even joined battle games as a youngster when cajoled by his brothers, friends, and cousins. He had no taste for violence, and didn’t have a competitive bone in his body. Backgammon, notwithstanding
To no avail, he pleaded with everyone who would let him speak—the army personnel at the airport, the various ranking officers who shepherded him from one military outpost to another. “Let me make a phone call, send a telegram, send a letter by post.” All requests were ignored.
One day melded into the next, and in order for him to get through each, he set his sights on this war being over quickly. Whatever special circumstances were in place because of the war would be lifted. Maybe then it would be easier to get word to his family. If they were victorious, he might be released. In the meantime, Elias prayed his father would not die before he could see him. And he prayed that surely Father Moody had learned from relatives in Aleppo that he had not arrived, and he would let Paula and Cheryl Halia know.
Each attempt at communicating with the other soldiers compounded his confusion. Soldiers did little but small talk amongst themselves. They understood the fragile web of comrades, neighbors, and friends comprising Syrian society and the Syrian Secret Police, the on again, off again nature of the loyalties amongst the various political and religious groups. Elias had never been exposed to any of this, he kept asking questions others found perilous to answer.
He pieced together a plausible story, with many gaps for sure, but one that seemed logical. Government law, he’d learned, allows any male born in Syria to be drafted into the military between the ages of sixteen and fifty-six, regardless of where he lives, what citizenship he holds. The government has the right to enforce this law upon one’s entry into the country. Hence his father’s final edict: “Elias, whatever you do, do not come back to Syria. We will meet you in Lebanon if necessary, but do not come home.”
One fellow soldier said the law was now being vigorously enforced. The new regime was desperate to build an army capable of taking on the Israelis. Elias also received quick, brief lessons in recent Syrian history and global politics. The strange language he occasionally heard from some of the leaders was Russian. The man who was in charge of the country in 1963, the year his father made him leave—Amin Al Hafez—declared Hafez Al-Assad the commander of the Syrian Air Force. Ten years later, this Assad guy was now in control of the country. Together with the Egyptians and Jordanians and other Arab countries, they were gearing up to attack the Israelis. No one knew when.
All the details and names made Elias’s head spin. He had ignored politics his whole life. History bored him. Until, he mused, it had helped him get better tips driving his taxi in Joliet.
What dizzied Elias even more were all the other suspicions among the men. Those from Hama didn’t trust the ones in the elite units. Some believed the Israeli spying group, Mossad, had infiltrated the Syrian Armed Forces. Others talked incessantly about the Muslim Brotherhood, dissident Christian factions, and even the United States CIA and the FBI. No one trusted anyone. If there was a unifying idea, he decided, it was that everyone trusted each other long enough to remember they all were supposed to hate the Israelis.