‘That’s a good sign,’ said Uncle Ghazi. He put the key in the lock and turned it, pushing open the door. Zafir got a glimpse inside before the door fell shut. Through a large archway he’d seen a room with only a desk covered with electronic equipment. On the other side of the desk a man was dribbling a basketball and shooting it at a hoop that hung from the wall. The ball had whooshed through the hoop and the man had raised his fist in victory.

After the door had closed, Zafir put his ear up to it to try to hear what was being said. He only heard murmurs although he was sure he heard Uncle Ghazi mention Mum’s name. The slapping, squeaking and thuds stopped.

A few minutes later, Uncle Ghazi pulled the door open. ‘It’s okay. Azzam Azzad said you can stay.’

‘Azzam Azzad?’ Zafir asked. It meant, ‘determined to be free’.

‘It’s not his real name,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘But it’s the only name he’s known by now.’

Zafir looked around at the room. The marble floor was dusty, like it had never been mopped. In a corner lay a thin mattress. Uncle Ghazi had dropped Zafir’s bags by it. Near that, through another archway, Zafir could see a small kitchen and on the wall with the basketball hoop was a door that probably led to a bedroom. Curtains were pulled across the windows and everything smelled sour.

‘Azzam Azzad, this is my nephew, Zafir.’ Uncle Ghazi introduced him to the man who was now sitting back at his desk.

Azzam Azzad looked Zafir up and down. ‘The last thing we need here is a teenager. If he starts whining about anything you’ll have to find somewhere else for him to stay. I shouldn’t have agreed to this.’

Zafir stared at the man. Instantly, he disliked him. He was probably a year or two older than Uncle Ghazi and he had a tight, closed face with a dark shadow of stubble over his cheeks and chin. What sort of important work would make Uncle Ghazi put up with someone like this?

‘Zaf will be good,’ said Uncle Ghazi quickly. ‘And it will only be for a little while until …’ He turned to Zafir. ‘You need to get cleaned up. I’ve only got a headache tablet for your pain now but I know somewhere I can get stronger medication tomorrow. You’ll be feeling it then.’

The bathroom was worse than the rest of the house. It was a small tiled room next to the kitchen with a hole in the floor and a bucket and hose to clean yourself after going about your business. It had a cracked basin and the shower hose only gave out a trickle of water. Zafir stood under the shower, shocked by the dark bruises that had appeared on his body. It was good to wash off the dust and grime and get changed into clean clothes. When he came out, Uncle Ghazi had made some toasted cheese sandwiches and Zafir realised that he was hungry.

‘What are you doing here?’ Zafir asked him as he sat in the small kitchen and munched on the sandwiches.

‘We write blog posts and put photos and comments and posts on Facebook and Twitter to let the world see what’s happening here in Syria,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘Azzam Azzad does the writing and I take the photos. People are calling us citizen journalists. We’re doing the job because foreign journalists have been banned from coming to Syria and any Syrian journalist who writes about what’s happening gets put into jail.’

‘But what if you get caught doing this?’ asked Zafir.

Uncle Ghazi shrugged. ‘It’s important work,’ he said. ‘Getting the truth out to the world is what I have to do. Especially now …’ He looked away.

‘Does Mum know you’re here?’

Uncle Ghazi nodded, but before he could say anything else Azzam Azzad let out a yell. ‘Hey! Guess what? An email has just come in from the New York Times. They’re interested in a series of exclusive articles about what it’s like here in Homs. That YouTube clip I made with your video of the shilkas, anti-aircraft tanks, rolling in has gone viral.’

‘Ya ilahi, wow,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘That is big time.’

‘I said we’d make a good team,’ said Azzam Azzad. ‘If they like my articles, then this could be my ticket out of this country when all this is over. This could be my lucky break.’

‘But the best thing is that we’re here on the ground telling the world what is actually happening in Syria right now,’ said Uncle Ghazi. As he spoke he stared at the wall opposite the kitchen. He looked grim.

‘Yeah, of course,’ said Azzam Azzad, also looking at the wall.

Zafir was starting to feel drowsy. The food and headache tablet had dulled the pain. He glanced up though and saw that on the wall was a list. At the top was the word ‘shaheed’, martyr. Underneath was a list of names written in thick marker. There were a lot of names on the list.

‘I started the list when my first friend was killed,’ said Azzam Azzad.

Zafir shivered and looked away. He didn’t want to see the names of all those dead people on the wall of the room where he was going to be sleeping. Sleep. He looked across at the mattress on the floor. It was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open. His eyelids blinked closed and he was barely aware of Uncle Ghazi guiding him to the mattress. Dimly he heard the call to prayer and Azzam Azzad saying that he was going out to find out what was going on. After that came blankness.