Mum called Uncle Ghazi to find out exactly where he was. Zafir heard her say, ‘No, Boulos doesn’t know we’re here. I thought we would surprise him.’ Then, ‘You sound strange. Is there a problem?’ She paused. ‘Okay, okay. You can tell us in a minute when we see you.’

They found Uncle Ghazi tapping out a text on his phone in a café overlooking the square. At a nearby table, three young women were having coffee and at another table a man was reading a newspaper.

‘Uncle Ghazi!’ Zafir called. Uncle Ghazi looked up and frowned. He stood but instead of greeting them he said, ‘Nadia, if Boulos finds out you are here, and you’ve brought Zafir, he’ll be angry.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Mum. ‘What’s wrong, Ghazi?’ She kissed him on the cheek, one side and then the other, and sat down.

‘Nadia, do you really not know? It’s all over Facebook and Twitter.’

‘I told you – I promised Boulos I wouldn’t check those sites and I haven’t.’

Uncle Ghazi picked up his cup but it was empty. He put it down and twirled it around on the saucer before he spoke. ‘Well, it’s starting. Today. Here.’

Mum gasped and put her hand up to her mouth. Zafir looked from her to Uncle Ghazi. What was starting?

‘What’s happened?’ Mum asked.

‘The spark that has ignited it all is the news from Daraa,’ said Uncle Ghazi, his voice tight and hard. ‘Just over a week ago a dozen or more schoolboys, not much older than Zafir, were caught writing anti-government slogans on their school wall. They were dragged from their classrooms and taken away. A few days ago, the body of one of the boys was returned to his family to be buried. There were burn marks all over him.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Mum.

Zafir felt sick.

‘Yes,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘This has gone way beyond demanding tax reforms, getting rid of corrupt officials and releasing political prisoners.’ He leaned forward. ‘A lot of people are angry and the call has gone out through Twitter and Facebook to have our real day of rage.’

At that moment Uncle Ghazi’s phone rang. He nodded as he listened and then said, ‘Okay. Yes. I’m here too.’

‘That was Gulnaz,’ he said as he stood up. ‘She says there are about two hundred of us here now, so we should begin.’

‘Begin what?’ Zafir asked, still trying to understand what was going on.

‘The Syrian revolution,’ said Unce Ghazi. ‘In years to come you’ll be able to say that you were here on this day.’ He grinned at Zafir like everything was fun again.

‘You two promise to stay up here though,’ he said. ‘I don’t want Boulos getting mad with me for turning you both into revolutionaries.’

‘Be careful, Ghazi,’ said Mum, putting her hand on his arm. ‘This isn’t a game.’

‘Don’t worry, Nadia, it won’t last too long. See all the security guys down there?’ He pointed to the men in black leather jackets who seemed to have suddenly multiplied. ‘They’ll probably just move us on like they did last time. Now I’d better go. I’m going to be taking photos that the whole world will see. They’ll finally understand what’s happening here.’

As Zafir watched Uncle Ghazi walk out onto the paved square, he noticed the three young women from the café went downstairs too and the other people who had appeared to be wandering around aimlessly in the square came together as a group.

Someone started chanting, ‘Allah, God, Sourya, Syria, and azadi, freedom.’ Others joined in. One of the women who had been sitting near them pulled out a placard that she had been hiding under her long coat. It read, ‘The Syrian people will not be humiliated.’

Uncle Ghazi stood to the side of the group, taking photos.

The protest got noisier and the chant changed: ‘Our souls and blood for Syria.’ People began clapping. There were a lot of women among the crowd and Zafir saw a boy with a Syrian scarf draped around his neck, riding a bike in-between his mother and father. He looked younger than Zafir.

‘This is incredible,’ said Mum. ‘I cannot believe I’m witnessing such a thing.’ Zafir pulled out his phone to take a photo of the protesters but the man who had been reading the newspaper nearby pushed back his chair so hard it fell over. He took two big strides across the room and grabbed the phone out of Zafir’s hands.

‘No photos,’ he yelled, spitting phlegm. Zafir shrank back in his seat.

‘He didn’t mean any harm,’ said Mum. She looked scared. ‘We are from the country.’

‘Yes,’ the man said in a calmer voice. ‘I can see you are no part of this. Go home, Madaam, and take your son with you. Forget all this. Ahsan lak, it is better for you.’

A squeal of tyres made them all look down. Pulling up into the square was the white bus Zafir had seen earlier, along with a squad of white four-wheel drive vehicles. Shurta in black clothes carrying rifles plus men in plainclothes holding batons ran out of the bus towards the demonstrators, shouting, ‘Long live President Bashar al-Assad. God bless Syria.’

‘The special security forces have arrived. The fun begins.’

The man sounded pleased. He dropped Zafir’s phone onto the table and ran down the steps, pulling out a baton from under his jacket as he went. He joined the other men who were hitting any protester in their path. People began screaming and running in all directions. Zafir kept his eyes on Uncle Ghazi, who was holding his phone out taking a video of a woman wearing jeans and a padded jacket. Zafir recognised her as Uncle Ghazi’s friend, Gulnaz. She was talking into the phone and waving her arms about.

Four policemen came up behind Uncle Ghazi. Zafir couldn’t move in his seat. It was like watching a horror film when you want to look away but you can’t because you’ve got to know what happens next. Two of the policemen in plain-clothes rushed at Uncle Ghazi, their batons whirling. Uncle Ghazi threw his phone to Gulnaz who ran into the crowd, one of the policemen following her. Uncle Ghazi put his hands up to protect his head as the three policemen swinging batons closed in on him. The men’s arms went up and down and their legs in and out as they beat and kicked Uncle Ghazi who was now on his knees. A high-pitched noise began somewhere close to him but Zafir couldn’t look away to find out what it was. The beating seemed to go on and on until finally they dragged Uncle Ghazi away. Zafir saw blood on his T-shirt. Just as he was being pushed into one of the white cars, Zafir saw him lift his head and look up towards where they were sitting.

It was only as the car reversed that Zafir realised the high-pitched noise was Mum screaming.