Реймонд Хаури - Empire of Lies

Rasheed’s dismissive tirade in the tent outside Vienna reverberated inside him. “He was elected?” Kamal caught himself halfway through the question and adjusted his tone so that it didn’t sound as much a question as it did a statement.

Orhan snorted. “Of course. It was just a means to an end. Have you forgotten that famous speech of his, many years ago? ‘Democracy is like a train. You get off once you’ve reached your destination.’ But no one paid attention. People never do until it’s too late.” He sighed. “Elections aren’t perfect. Far from it. And as we see more and more—even in America, right?—elections can be manipulated. Even before social media. That monster in Russia, he’s been elected—‘elected’”—he clarified, using air quotes—“president how many times now? In Syria, the president officially wins elections with ninety-seven percent of the vote. They actually announce that on their local news. Not an ounce of shame…” He shook his head. “But real elections—fair, open elections, with many parties and real opposition and a real exchange of ideas, a real debate about how to live… what could possibly be better?”

“But the cost of this freedom… all those wars,” Kamal said, gauging his words carefully, Rasheed’s mocking words still echoing in his ears. “What if they could have been avoided somehow?”

“How?”

“What if one empire had conquered—I don’t know, all of Europe—centuries ago. The Ottomans even. Imagine if they had been able to.”

“They came close,” Orhan mused. “They almost took this city.”

“Well, imagine they had,” Kamal countered. “Imagine they’d gone on and conquered all of Europe. Maybe if they had, there wouldn’t have been all those revolutions and world wars. Maybe it would have been better.”

Orhan laughed. “What have you been putting in your shisha, brother?” He waved it off dismissively. “Better? Not a chance.”

“Why not?”

“Who knows how history would have evolved. But listen to me, brother. Living under a dictator—because the sultan was a dictator; make no mistake about that—it can never be better than living in a free society. Never. And I can assure you of two things. A dictator—a sultan, a ‘fake’ president; it doesn’t matter—a za’eem will never give up power on his own. Never. Which means that sooner or later, no matter how strongly a dictator controls his people… sooner or later, they will rise up. They will be fed up with corruption, they will want freedom, they will want to be heard, and they will inevitably have to die for it. It’s human nature. It’s happened all around the world. It would happen in your glorious Ottoman Empire too—you can be sure of it.”

Kamal nodded somberly. It all seemed like a hopeless, endless cycle of pain and suffering. Orhan’s words had resuscitated all the turmoil of his life in Paris and brought it rushing back into his mind with frightening clarity. All the upheavals, all the arguments and debates he’d had over his last few years there with Ramazan and Nisreen. All the hurt.

Orhan was right. The fuse had undoubtedly been lit. A big war had been brewing. And when it happened, when the people rose up for freedom, there was no telling how bloody it would have been, or how it would have ended.

Or how it would have affected Nisreen, Ramazan, and the children, or him.

Kamal thought back to Nisreen, to the passion that had been driving her, and to the freedom she had always championed. It was an ongoing struggle, he realized. And, he was starting to understand, he was now in a time and a place where a lot of that struggle had already played itself out.

In that moment, he wondered how Nisreen would feel if she had been there with him, sitting next to him outside Orhan’s stall, and couldn’t help but feel that she would be profoundly pleased with what she saw.

The thought brought a bittersweet warmth to his face.

“Someone—I think it was Winston Churchill,” Orhan continued, “once said, ‘Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others.’ Which I totally agree with. But the people in our part of the world, and in many others… they’re not there yet. They love living under their tyrants. A lot of them believe it brings stability. Like in Iraq and Syria and Libya, before the mess. Maybe it did. But that’s backward thinking. It was never going to last. People can now see how other nations live, and want it for themselves,” he said as he indicated the city around him, “while others still don’t want to live this way. And until they all get there, there will be bloodshed. Which is why I’m here. I know what life I want.” He spread his hands out at the city around him. “Isn’t that also why you left?”

“I suppose so,” Kamal said.

“You’ll see,” Orhan told him, a comforting smile suffusing his face. “I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. You’ll have to work hard. And some of it will be a struggle. There are dark forces at play. Racism is rising. Xenophobes are gaining power. But, for now at least, life here is still better. Because despite everything that’s happening, your dignity and your rights as a human being will be more respected than back home. And believe me, once you taste that, you won’t be able to believe you ever lived without it.”

Kamal smiled back at his host.

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps Nisreen had been right all long.

This was a better world.

And right then, right at that moment, a stunning realization breezed through him, a spectacular, unexpected thought that lit up every cell in his body.

It was a better world, yes.

But perhaps he could make it even better.

Kamal had an open book when it came to deciding when to make his visit to the ancient city.

As with everything he did, he chose to go back to a time as reasonably close to the relevant event as possible, to minimize any unintended disruptions that his jump might create.

In this case, he knew the uprising’s first stirs were the protests that began in early 2011. The day that was considered the beginning of the Syrian civil war was March 15, the “Day of Rage.” It had followed the torture and murder of a thirteen-year-old boy who had scribbled some antigovernment graffiti on a wall. Furious protesters in Damascus had thronged the streets, demanding political reforms and the release of thousands of political prisoners. The fuse had been lit.

Before then, however, Syria was a relatively safe place—provided one didn’t anger its tyrant president or his gang of crony-thugs. And when Kamal landed at the Damascus airport, the government was in the thick of a major PR campaign promoting Syria across the world as a charming tourist destination. One of their core messages was about how it was the cradle of Christianity, how welcoming it was, how visitors could actually follow in the footsteps of Paul and walk the fabled road to Damascus.

Kamal had already had his epiphany.

He was more interested in the road to Palmyra.

He’d only be spending one night in the capital. He had already booked a car to drive him to Palmyra early the next morning. It would be a long drive—three hours, he’d been told, as the road was narrow, a single lane in each direction.

Which it turned out to be.

The desert soon bowed to man’s ingenuity, pushed back by olive and palm tree orchards and cotton and grain plantations. Then the glorious ruins of the ancient city appeared in the distance. And by the time his chauffeured Mercedes pulled up outside the city’s museum of antiquities, Kamal could see that the government’s message was working.

Palmyra was throbbing with visitors. All around him, tour buses were disgorging groups of excited visitors who’d made the journey from around the world, with good reason. The “Bride of the Desert” was breathtakingly epic. Famous for its majestic architecture, colonnaded streets, and distinctive tower tombs, it had been inhabited for over four millennia. Romans, Greeks, Parthians, and Sassanids all had their day in shaping it, building temples and palaces, the ruins of which still stood at the time Kamal was visiting. Palmyra was now a World Heritage site, its history as a melting pot of Western and Eastern cultures as important a symbol of historical harmony as it was of Syrian diversity.