Khaled Khalifa - In Praise of Hatred

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All night, I tried to rid myself of the image of Hossam at their hands, like a duckling caught in the fangs of a hungry leopard. I thought that his confession might lead to disasters for the organization that no one had yet imagined. Marwa stayed alone in the courtyard despite the biting cold, sitting on the cane chair as if waiting for her lover or considering her fate. Maryam sternly asked Radwan to watch the door, which she locked. She placed the key in her breast pocket, so she could sleep and be assured that the high walls and locked door would prevent Marwa from fleeing to him, despite Zahra’s requests to leave Marwa to her, her night-time companion and confidante. Zahra nodded off and Marwa didn’t come to bed. In the morning, we found her asleep on the abandoned cotton ottoman beside her butterflies, with her arms wrapped around herself. Her fingers were blue from cold. Radwan refused to leave his room, avoiding our anger and sudden agitation. To his blind companions, he described us as crazy women who had lost all desire to laugh. He recalled the insulting severity of my grandmother and mocked Maryam, imitating her until she seemed like a broken-jointed puppet at the hands of spoiled children. Maryam muttered angrily; she had no sympathy for Marwa, frozen with cold.

Quietly, over the morning coffee, I told them that Hossam had been arrested. I allowed myself no opportunity to see the terror in their eyes; I left for college, where studies had been suspended for the funeral of Dr Abdel Karim Daly, considered a martyr. I walked in the funeral procession thirsting for revenge, even though his life did not really warrant it. I urgently needed to regain my hatred in the midst of these hordes who clamoured for our blood as they followed behind the coffin carried on the shoulders of students with flushed faces. They cursed the murder of the professor who had left a pleasant impression on everyone he met. I tried to find a justification for his death and convince myself of our group’s statements, although I felt no compassion for him. The students insisted on his funeral cortege marching to the gates of Aleppo, and they climbed up on to both lanes of the motorway; I could see his colleagues weeping bitterly for him. Dr Daly was known for his biting speeches attacking the authorities and the death squad in particular, which he categorized as a Nazi sectarian faction. He described our group in the same terms, and didn’t conceal his resentment at the cruelty with which the city was treated by all sides.

He had studied in Aleppo’s university at the end of the sixties, when he had arrived from his nearby mountain village and rented a cheap room in the Siryaan district. With three fellow students, he gained a distinguished reputation that tempted some Parisian scientists to take up their never-ending projects and lure them to France. Nevertheless, he preferred to return to his city with his Aleppan friend, Adham. They left their companions at work in secret Parisian laboratories, where they could become French, lisp their ‘r’s and write to their friends who had returned to Aleppo, deriding their love for the city and their stupid patriotism.

In silence, Dr Daly stoically bore the obstructions to his scientific projects, and the pressure exerted on him to affiliate himself to the Party. His initial refusals turned to ridicule. When Aleppo began to drown in a fever of murder he announced his position publicly in front of his students, whom he spurred on to reject the tyranny of both sides, attacking the recklessness of students of the Youth Wing of the ruling Party. The university administration was forced to compromise and made exceptions for his lectures; when he refused to allow paratrooper students to enter the lecture hall dressed in military uniform and carrying weapons, they didn’t dare oppose him. He failed to hand over a student of his who was wanted for being leftist and threw the Mukhabarat out of the hall, which allowed the student to escape through a window. This tale reached near-legendary status in the university, and spread throughout the city after he turned down the protection offered to him by a Mukhabarat officer. He refused to leave the house he rented in Bab Al Hadid, a district famous for its bigotry.

I said I needed to restrain my sympathy; hatred was our great weapon to make the majority defend their sect against the ruling minority, even though there were many officials belonging to this majority among those who had built the regime, and their hands were equally stained with blood and corruption. I didn’t approach the car on which the bier was placed. The students wept for the dead man as a father, brother and friend, recalling the wonder of his lectures which never lacked joy or freedom. He supported the lifting of the veil and rejected the sectarianism that he said was the decay that would lead to the suffocation of our souls. He praised physics which he loved and which, in his opinion, would guide us to the scientific thinking of which we were in need. It was widely known that he could be found with his students in theatres and cinemas, and after their graduation he maintained friendships with many of them. He received letters from all over the world, quoting him in matters of love or scientific research, together with wedding invitations.

I looked at the photograph his students raised over the bier and contemplated his honey-coloured eyes. I rationed my glances so as not to fall into ardent love with yet another dead man whom I considered my enemy. I moved away from the crowd and walked on my own, weeping for Hossam and afraid of my fate. I went back to the house where my prayer circle met and found it still shut up; I was confused and quickly went on my way, afraid of revealing its purpose. I didn’t dare use my key as someone had closed the blinds — a pre-arranged signal of danger and a warning not to approach. I later said to Hajja Souad that I wanted to know the fate of that house, but she didn’t answer me. She ordered me to stay away from any activity or meeting for the time being, and relayed Bakr’s desire that I keep away from the organization, and that I travel to Beirut to be near my mother who had collapsed after seeing Hossam in a dream, strung up from a gallows and left dangling. I then found out that Hajja Souad had misled me; when she told me that my brother had been arrested, she hadn’t made it clear that this was only two days after my last meeting with him; so Hossam had been in custody much longer than I had realized. With horror, the inhabitants of the quarter of Bab Al Ahr related that four young men had prepared an ambush for the car of a senior officer in the death squad, who sometimes visited a friend in Aleppo. Their carelessness in an area they considered to be entirely loyal to them made rounding them up in the forest an easy affair. Hossam at first escaped across some roofs to the cemetery at Bab Al Hadid, but his meagre ammunition ran out after two hours and he was captured after being wounded in the chest and losing consciousness.

I immediately ran to the cemetery which was situated nearby, looking for spots of his blood which, to me, formed mountains out of the dust. I sat at the graves of strangers as the guard described Hossam’s terror and his attempts to kill himself so he wouldn’t fall into the soldiers’ clutches, and he pointed out to me where a headstone had been chipped by a bullet close to where Hossam was captured. His blood was scattered all over one fragment; I carried it away with me as a closely guarded icon and put it on my table. I surrounded it with the reverence it deserved and everyone was wary of touching it, even without being informed that Hossam’s blood was in our house.

Hossam lay handcuffed to a bed in the military hospital. He was guarded by four members of the Mukhabarat who kept their fingers on their triggers. He tried to kill himself again but was prevented by the doctors, who then kept him heavily sedated for seven days. His companions couldn’t reach his isolated room and they grew desperate after he was transferred to a building of the military Mukhabarat where he would be exposed to the whips and the dread of brutal torture — they would try to make him confess and reveal secrets about Bakr, arms caches, and the rebel leadership, who appeared in fuzzy pictures to be like birds, or moles digging into the earth to hide away despite their blindness.