‘At least I didn’t know about my dad when he was in prison. I didn’t have to think about what it would be like for him.’ Rami was the only person Zafir had told about what had happened that day. Pops had said not to tell Tetah and Zafir didn’t want to tell Eleni. How do you tell a foreigner that in this country you will get beaten and put in jail for taking videos of people asking for freedom?

Rami and Zafir were jogging slowly around the running track at the back of the school, for once not just so they wouldn’t be heard but because Rami was trying to get as fit as possible. He’d been picked to be a member of the swimming squad to go the Interschool Games in Lebanon in mid April.

‘Is he in Al Adra Prison?’ asked Rami. ‘That’s where they put all the political prisoners.’

‘I think so,’ said Zafir. ‘Pops is trying to find out through friends of friends who work in the Interior Ministry.’ The only good thing was that Mum and Pops hadn’t argued since it happened. Pops hadn’t even been angry with Mum for being in Damascus on that day. He’d said that he thought Uncle Ghazi had been foolish but he was more worried than angry. It had happened nearly two weeks ago and there was still no news.

‘I just hope he doesn’t have falaka done on him,’ said Rami.

‘What’s that?’ asked Zafir.

‘They beat the soles of your feet until they turn to pulp and then make you walk on salt.’

Zafir wished he hadn’t asked. He ran faster, his knees and arms pumping. He ran a whole lap before he had to pull up, gasping, hands on his knees and his head hanging. Rami finally caught up to him.

‘I think they only do it to spies and your uncle isn’t a spy. He’s only an activist.’

Zafir didn’t know about that but he hoped Rami was right.

‘What your uncle said was true – when he said that day was the start of the revolution. It’s really spreading now.’

Zafir nodded, still catching his breath. Every Friday since Uncle Ghazi had been taken away, people were coming together to protest against the government. It wasn’t just happening in Damascus but in Daraa to the south, Aleppo to the north and Al Hasakah to the east, and right here in Homs hundreds of people gathered after prayers each Friday and marched to New Clock Square. They yelled for freedom and for the downfall of the president.

‘The Naqib says the higher-ups are seriously worried because the regime doesn’t know how to deal with what’s going on,’ Rami said. ‘I mean, they can’t put everyone in prison. Or kill them either for that matter.’

Zafir nodded again. Security forces had done worse than beat protesters now. They had fired into the crowds and people had been killed. Then there were more people killed at the funerals of the protesters. Yet more and more people were joining the protest marches.

‘It’s like my father said in his latest blog post,’ said Rami. ‘The wall of fear has been cracked and courage is contagious.’ He grinned. ‘The excellent thing is that if the protests continue and the regime is ousted my dad could come back and live in Syria and then I’d be able to live with him here.’

‘Has he told you this?’ asked Zafir.

‘Um … well not exactly,’ said Rami and he looked away. ‘I’ve sent him a few emails but he hasn’t replied yet. I think he probably doesn’t want to contact me in case … you know,’ he said, looking up again and sounding almost proud. ‘I could go to jail for even sending him an email, so if he sent one back I’d be in big trouble.’

At school assembly the following morning, Mr Marbruk, the principal, made an announcement. ‘Today, to show support for our beloved president we will be marching in the city. A flag and photo of the president will be given to you to carry. After the march, the president has said that all students are to have the rest of the day off.’ Everyone cheered at that news.

‘To get a day off school I’d wave a flag for my uncle’s pet magpie,’ whispered Rami as they set off on a bus to the middle of the city. Zafir grinned, but it wasn’t a real grin because inside he felt twisted up. How could he go and pretend he was supporting a regime that had put Uncle Ghazi in jail?

Police cars escorted the buses, with police on foot stopping the traffic and directing the crowds towards New Clock Square. These policemen were smiling and making sure all the students got to the front, near the tall, striped clock tower. A Syrian flag hung from the tower and there was a huge banner with a portrait of the president staring out into the distance over everyone’s heads. People came from surrounding office buildings carrying their flags and photos. Everyone seemed happy to be outside in the sunshine.

‘It’s like a big party,’ said Rami.

When no more people could be squeezed into the square, a man carrying a Syrian flag in each hand jumped up onto the pedestal of the clock tower and shouted, ‘We love Bashar al-Assad! We love Syria!’

A shiver went through the crowd. Zafir felt it and even though he wasn’t sure he loved Bashar al-Assad he found himself shouting that he did and waving his flag and photo. It was like being at a football match but everyone was cheering for the same team. As the chants went on, every thought except being on the winning team – the president’s team – went out of Zafir’s head.

When it was over, he felt sucked dry. He realised his feet hurt and his throat was sore and his arms ached from all the waving. Maybe everyone else felt the same way. They were all strangely quiet as they trudged out of the square. Zafir turned and looked up at the huge portrait that hung from the building.

‘They could have hung that banner lower so at least it would have seemed like he was looking at what we were doing for him,’ said Rami.

Zafir nodded. It was like Bashar al-Assad was so high up that he couldn’t see what was happening directly below him. He was stuck staring out at a view that only he could see.