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Sarkhat al-mokhtafeen [Cries of the Disappeared]: A Syrian Dirge.

by Jack Marsh, 2015


[An Interview with a Syrian student.1]
The house of a tyrant is a wreckage.
Arab Proverb
For Nader Abdu, Syria was a fraught enigma: an ancestral home distilled through
diasporic tales of interwoven idyll and terror. His uncles, Nader and Mohammed, endured
a decade in prison at the whims of Hafez al-Assad, a fate his father averted by wise
refuge in Kuwait. Nader was born and raised in Kuwaits nurturing Syrian community.
By 2009, he was a high school senior and budding artist. The University of Aleppo (UA)
was not his first choice for a higher education, but circumstances didnt quell the hope
that seized him. Indeed, life seemed to require return to a home he did not know: a parous
future beckoned through mists of obscure past and path. If this was the way forward, so
be it. Extended family and a passion for art would sustain him. For who is an artist, but a
unique witness to history and possibility?
Nader Abdu is an artist.
Arrival
In fall of 2010, Nader joined UA to study visual arts. I really liked life in Aleppo, and
with reason. Frequent dinners with jidu and naane, impromptu tea with aunts and
cousins, opened his journey with richness only a Syrian long-parted from family would
fully appreciate. Moreover, he quickly made friends within UAs artistic community,
spending most of his time with them in the pursuit of aesthetic excellence. Newly vivid
bonds of kin, festal new friendships, and the bloom of becoming an artist among artists,
all graced him with a meaning profoundly lived. He had come-of-age, in and with this
social tapestry.
As if an ancient depth nurtured his waking, the venerable rhythms of pre-war Aleppo
itself seemed to embrace him. The people and lifestyle in general were 'simpler' than
those in Kuwait, which was good to me as well. A world apart from the modern Arab
metropolis, Aleppos storied history was incarnate in the life of its millennial souks,
sheltering ruins, and humming cobblestone:
The driver of a donkey lugging a wagon overstuffed with pistachios parted the
throngs of shoppers in Aleppos medieval souk. Bright-green domed mosques
rub shoulders with Armenian cathedrals, Maronite churches and even a
1 The al-Assad regimes secret police and pain technicians were unavailable for
comment on this article.

synagogue. Its setting amid rolling plains dotted with olive groves and the ruins of
dead cities calls to mind a scene out of One Thousand and One Nights. A
buffet of scents -- the sweet perfume of smoke, the laurel-like smell of olive soap
-- follows visitors. At this hour, the citys ruddy cobblestone streets go silent, save
for the Arabic pop music blaring from a nearby barbershop, and the floral patterns
of the enclosed balconies come into focus. After the obligatory visit to the
Grand Mosque, peek into any of the black-and-white stone archways to check out
the courtyards of Aleppos khans (inns), full of jasmine and citrus trees. Or climb
the stone bridge to the citadel, an imposing hilltop fortress completed in the 13th
century. [Finally,] make your way over to Saahat al-Hatab, the main square of
Al-Jdeida and maybe the most pleasant section of town. Children kick a ball
around the square as old mustachioed men play backgammon late into the night.
Beehners invitation-cum-invocation, now a lament. Such was the world of Naders
waking. Yet trouble remained. For in the midst of this transcendence, incipient unease
periodically disturbed him.
Official, deific pictures of Presidents Bashar (current) and Hafez (former) al-Assad
pervaded the city streets. Many Aleppans simply ignored the high images, looked through
them as if they werent there. They lived as if the authentic weapon against the rule of the
image was not to put fire to paper and ink, or charge to brick and mortar, but rather to
regard the image for what it ultimately is: a mere means to a creative and moral
excellence no image can by itself capture. Nader was largely successful at seeing through
Bashars visage, but unease nonetheless persisted. The image sometimes triggered
inherited memory of his uncles former plight. While his early months seemed to all but
vanquish the worry, on March 25th, 2011, things changed.
Protest, Revolution
Forget your children, they say he told them. Just make more children. And if
you don't know how to make more, I'll send someone to show you.
Ibrahim Abazid, Syrian youth
Ibrahims ordeal sparked the non-violent dissent of Daraas aggrieved citizenry. In weeks,
protest engulfed Syria. Bashars official rapists and executioners eagerly did their duties
in the open. Chants became gunfire. In cosmopolitan Aleppo, fault-lines emerged
gradually. Bashars clownish image slowly took on an increasingly ominous expression.
Suspicions seeped into everything, even UAs artistic community. Naders waking
motivated a bid to ride out the tensions. I held my tongue, he now fiercely regrets. He
held his tongue, but gently. As if to do justice to the justice Bashar butchered, he allowed
his tongue the odd expression of dissent. A well-intended desire to preserve his world
could not fully mute a no! to fratricide and tyranny. In the folds of trusted family and
friends, a voice remained.

Despite the fear people lived with, they still talked. Even jokes. If we were walking in the
street wed either whisper or change names.
In the first months of the revolution, this was enough. But as the slaughter became more
sustained and bloody, muted dissent seemed to no longer do. Neither ancestral memory
nor his coming-of-age could further countenance the slaughter. Indeed, the meaning
Aleppo birthed in him now seemed to demand his voice. Even fear for his own person
could no longer tame his tongue. During Ramadan in 2011, things came to a head.
Arrest
So one day we went to campus with friends. We just sat with all the people and talked
about random things There was a girl. She was a friend. We say hi, and so on. She
began to sing a song: We love you Bashar, like this.
The girl performed a long Syrian tradition of patriotic folk-song, now alternately used to
sanctify or satirize al-Assad according to chosen loyalties. Though Nader had endured
such maudlin displays for months, his moral and aesthetic sensibilities strained the grip
on his tongue.
I just looked at her, as if to say: shut up. But I didnt speak. She looked back to me,
like: why are staring at me like this?
As if to protect the hallowed ground of the university, Nader finally spoke:
But please, dont sing such songs here.
Why are you against the regime? she shouted. To myself, I was like [pause]
damn.
Her loud question drew immediate attention from the group. Others within earshot
approached. The crowd grew.
You know the [uncomfortable] silence that happens? Everybody is looking at me. So I
tried to fix the situation. No, Im not against the regime, but Im neutral. Not against but
not supporting. Then she started loudly saying things like Why are you against the
regime? You are destroying the country. And she left.
At her departure, the crowd began to press him. His few trusted friends tightly gripped
their tongues, and slipped away unnoticed.
I had held my tongue for many months, since the beginning of the revolution until August
or so. So I tolerated this period more than enough. ...I finally asked one question: why
would those who support the regime treat us we are the ones that are against him like
criminals? Actually, worse than criminals. I have my opinion, you have your opinion. I
respect this difference. You should respect it too.

So I asked this question. There were no logical or convincing answers.


As the exchange progressed, the crowd accreted. Phones began to sound off with
increasing frequency. Nader rose to leave.
When I was leaving, some guy stopped me we call them Shabiha,2 the gangs, you
know? The tall monsters. he called to me: how dare you say such things. It was
Ramadan, and I was supposed to eat the iftar the meal at my grandparents house
later on. So I was thinking, what will my family think? Because I would disappear. If I
challenged this guy or talk back to him, I would disappear. So I told him, I didnt mean
that I started lying, frankly. He took my ID. And then he called some older guys who
are in the secret police officially.
The tall monsters arrested Nader, and took him to an unmarked building near campus
used by the secret police.
So far, everything here was ok. No humiliating, no hitting, nothing. I got into the car. We
went to that building. It was around 1:30pm.
Waiting, Initial Interrogations
Nader was delivered to a drab waiting room well equipped with security cameras. For
hours, he waited. For what? He did not know. His time was punctuated by the banal
questions of bureaucrats, oblique interactions with fellow suspects, and literally
agonizing screams that emanated from some occluded crevice of the building. The
screams atop the bureaucratic routine and mind-numbing boredom bathed the air with
nearly comic horror.
Turns out this building was not merely reserved for dissidents, but served as a kind of
neighborhood office for processing local surveillance. People of all sorts came in for
appointments throughout the day. Nader could distinguish active informants, residents
summoned for third party questioning, from suspected dissidents by the anxiety legible
on their faces. The occasional screams elicited an eerie satisfaction on the face of
informants. Those summoned for third-party questioning alternately bespoke relief, pity,
and regret. The faces of active suspects all shown either a wide-eyed terror, or a stoic
resignation to what comes. Nader himself vacillated. As the seconds crawled, he often
thought of his family.
Nobody knows where I am. They took my phone. I tried to call or send a message, but
they got me and took my phone.
2 The Shabiha is an organization or network of voluntary groups that work with the
secret police. A voluntary citizens secret police, if you will.

Beyond reading faces, he cautiously tried to communicate with other suspects. This was
not easy, since they were forbidden to speak. Most suspects maintained a scrupulous
silence. After all, they might be set free, so it was best not to provoke unnecessary
attention. Nader nevertheless managed quiet exchanges with a few others.
There was one man. Maybe hes 50, or so. He looked so poor. Not poor in the sense of
money. He was a kind man, you know? One who is stepped on. He was from Hama.
Hama had disasters in the early 1980s. So I asked him what happened with you? He
said he was traveling from Hama to Aleppo where I live. He was just escaping Hama
because there was a lot of problems starting there, and he wanted his family to be safe.
On the way to Aleppo there was a checkpoint. They asked him a question: Did you see
the terrorists? He was thinking, What should I answer? He finally said, I know they
were there, but I didnt see them by my eyes. They said, arrest him.
He was eventually taken from the waiting room, and I didnt see him again. He
disappeared.
The situation took its toll. Nader was not only terrified, but pissed off. Beyond filial
worry, immediate empathy, and excruciating boredom, uncertainty at his own fate filled
him with measured rage. A canny sense of self-preservation kept him poised, a poise
routinely tested by the sheer absurdity of the bureaucrats questions.
They called me to an office, and some guy asked me questions. Stupid questions, like
Where were you born? He had a record in front of him. Its written in the record, I
told him.
What record?
Its there [pointing to the file]
No, no, its not a record. The guy threw [the file] to the side of the table, and then took
it back again.
Nader just barely resisted an urge to roll his eyes.
You came from Kuwait, in the [Arab] Gulf, ok. So you are a Salafi.3
He started saying You are a Salafi. Youre against the regime. Youre destroying
the country. Youre from Kuwait and bring money to terrorists.
I was like what the hell? I didnt have any beard, and I had recently shaved my head.
My iPhone is full of songs only, [with] nothing to say on the Salafi.
3 Salafists are a conservative Sunni religious sect popular in the Arab Gulf. They have
religious rules forbidding shaving and strictly regulating male hygiene.

Give me evidence!, I told him. My iPhone is there and look at me. Just give me one
evidence that Im Salafi.
He of course had no evidence. He just kept saying these things, like psychological war,
you know? Just to make me afraid and admit to things I did not do.
He endured a few such nonsensical sessions, and was in each case sent back to the wait.
Nader was fasting, and hunger and thirst intensified a sense of panic. He kept his reason
through it all by prayer, and by continuing to read faces.
Luckily there was some guy just came to ask some question. So he wasnt going to be
arrested, he wasnt going to stay long in this building. I gave him my familys phone
number.
Inshallah.
The room thinned out throughout the day. Visitors exited through a door on the right,
suspects were escorted through a door on the left. Nader finally stretched out on his long
occupied bench.
So I sat waiting until almost 2 oclock in the night. I was just lying there, waiting. I
wondered, should I sleep here? Or will I get arrested officially? Or Ill go home? I dont
know what will happen. This was maybe the worst thing in this period. That I dont know
whats happening.
All this period I was waiting, the screams of those people being tortured down stairs, they
are in my ears. They open a door so we can hear their voices. You know we are scared.
Around 1:30am, some 10 hours since his arrival, the deciding moment came. Freedom or
arrest? The moronic bureaucrat had been unable to produce any evidence against him or
to elicit his voluntary confession. What grounds could they have for further detainment?
So they finally called my name. Some guy holding papers came. Follow me. I was so
optimistic: Im gonna go now.
As they exited the room, Naders fate seemed to hang on the choice of doors.
As we left the waiting room, I am mentally trying to push him to the door on the right,
praying he doesnt take the left door. But he went to the left.
I was like, [pause] damn. I followed him down stairs. I dont know what will
happen.
Down Stairs

In Syria we have a saying, a joking expression weve come to tell misbehaving


children: finish your homework, or Ill you take down stairs.
Ibn Abdulrahman, Syrian cab-driver, Hawalli, Kuwait
Nader did not know what might become of him. Screams tend to discourage a curious
imagination. For the threshold between upstairs and down marked a shift in bureaucrat
convention.
When I step the last step, the way they treat me completely changed. When I step the last
step there was a slap on my neck. I swear by God, my ears rang. You know, wooaahm.
I heard it. The hitting, the cursing, such things began here.
Guards escorted him to a 4*8 meter cell populated by nine other prisoners. Only two of
his new roommates had actually done any protesting. Nader and the others reached this
hell for just talking, just not supporting the regime. Moreover, the ambient screams
took on a chilling new clarity, detail, and volume. Marking the time became urgent.
And remember, it was Ramadan. This happened on the 4rth of August. We were all
fasting. For sure, there was no light inside the cell. No clock. Nothing. So we kept the
time by the call for prayer from a mosque near the building.
Nader spent that night whispering with his new cellmates, interspersed with vain attempts
at sleep.
For the whole night there were a lot of people tortured. We couldnt sleep. If you sleep 5
minutes someone hits the door and say you are not here to sleep, wake up. And we
hear the screams.
Just after Friday prayer at midday, a voice called his name.
I was wearing my shoes. They said, bare foot.
I left the prison. I was blindfolded and[hesitates, clears throat]pulled by my cloths.
Maybe I went straight, but it was like a maze. I was blindfolded and screams from
everywhere. That one is cursing, that one is screaming.
They finally stopped me. Raise your hand. They put handcuffs on each wrist. We call it
shebah. Its just like nailing to a cross, but with handcuffs.
Each wrist received a dedicated set of cuffs, each adjoined to a single ring attached to a
chain and pulley.
Its the way of torture to hang someone [hesitate, cough] from his wrists. For sure
my feet didnt touch the ground. My whole weight is here [left wrist] and here [right
wrist].

Anyway, Im not the kind who screams and begs. Maybe it was a half hour and I didnt
say anything. And they just left me hang, and went away. I felt pain.
The jailers brusque treatment, and the force of ascent, caused Naders blindfold to
slightly loosen. He could see just over the lip of the linen.
So I looked around me For sure, there are other people being tortured. On my one side,
an old man was being electrified. Maybe he is 60, and tortured by a guy who is 20,
maybe. So that makes it worse.
On my other side I could only slightly see this one there was a boy. Maybe he was 20
at the most. He was blindfolded and handcuffed from behind, lying on his stomach on the
floor. I looked at him. I saw 4 guys around him. I just heard tac tac tac tac tac. They
hit him. They took him by his feet and shoulders, threw him up so his whole body falls flat
to the ground. Stand up, they mock. Slap him, and throw him up to fall again.
Around a half hour passed. Naders throbbing hands were beginning to numb, but more
intense pain lay elsewhere.
I could feel the pain, but the psychological pain was worse. For sure, what was my family
thinking about where I am? Did they know I was taken? If they knew, will they arrest
them too?
The pain, fear, and surrounding horrors almost broke him. Allah, or his unconscious,
spoke up.
I heard an inner voice say something: scream, shout, anything to just end this fast! I
started shouting, oh my God, I cant resist this, I cant These things.
The same guy who was responsible to torture me came. What did he say? You
participated in the protests. You are against the regime. You are supporting the terrorists
to destroy the country, [etc.].
The stupidity of his accuser again angered him. Love for family and friends girded.
I didnt do anything. Im sure that if I said that I did, I will open more doors at me. I will
go into mazes I wont get out. They want evidence. They want people, and I dont want to
say innocent names. Theyll ask about my friends. Maybe theyll arrest members of my
family. So I just stayed silent. What will happen, let happen.
By now, Naders hands were fully numb. His bodyweight drove steel into skin. He was
bleeding.
Every now and then someone come and say So what will you say? Tell us or you will go
to Damascus. Jails there are worse. You will spend three years at least in the jails.
Nobody will know what will happen to you. You will be electrified.

At last, I told him I was fasting. I did not eat anything for more than 24 hours. So my
body was so weak. From the fear, I was also sweating, and so I had no more water in my
body. So I told him I cant resist it, I am going to die. I literally felt like I was dying.
When I said this, there is a guy I wont forget his voice he said, Ok, die. Who
cares?
[pause]
[Slowly, calmly, and with careful emphasis:] The one who is supposed to protect me; the
one who supposed to make me feel safe in my country is torturing me and saying, die,
who cares? I remembered my family. If I die what will happen to them?
But they saw I was total weak, they know I didnt do anything. Its just a report, and that
scenario on campus happened. There is no real evidence against me.
A few minutes later, they lowered Nader to the cement floor and carried him back to his
cell. His cellmates later told him he had been gone for two hours. Two hours. Nader
inhabited that particular cell for just over two full days, his time punctuated by periodic
verbal interrogations, measured by the call to prayer, and sustained by terror at the
prospect of another shebah.
Every now and then someone from the room, they take him, they torture him. We hear his
screams. Maybe Im next. Maybe Ill be tortured again. No one knows what will happen.
There is a guy there, he told me he was tortured the same way 4 times in one day. His
wounds were bleeding for hours. Every time we hear steps coming toward us, we think:
who's next? I might be tortured again. The whole environment was stressful. I was
very scared. We were thinking about our families. Where are they? Maybe they took
them and arrested someone we know.
Rescue
After two horrific days, Nader was moved to a new building. Upstairs. He felt relief and
hope.
When we left this secret police thing, we felt sure [pausestutter] that nobody will
torture you again. There was some humiliating, but here, there was just investigation and
the routine of arresting. Just a few days, and we thought wed be released.
Shortly after his arrival, a guard called his name.
Nadir Abdu? Take this. So I was like what is this? Someone sent me food. I asked
the people around me, and they said, it must be from your family, nobody here gives
food like this. So I was sure that my family now knows where I am.

Physical torture was replaced with threats of torture. Nader remained relieved. There
were no screams in this new environment. As long as he remained upstairs, he felt
relatively secure. Over the next four days, ureaucrats, not physical torturers, performed
interrogations. A guarded amusement replaced anger at their ludicrous questions. The
worst seemed over. His family knew of his ordeal. He held firm to his innocence.
A week after his arrest, he was hauled before a judge, and finally released. He later
learned that the man who took the phone number that first day had actually telephoned
his family. Social connections and a hefty bribe finally secured his release.
The Disappeared
Thank God, I was tortured only once.
Only once. Naders wrists and nerves still bear the marks of that day. The scars remain
numb. The marks on his psyche run deeper. He later learned his most trusted new friends
conspired to trap him that day on campus. He has lost the deep feeling Aleppo once
roused in him.
I totally understand that it might not be normal or usual, but I honestly have no
emotional connection to Syria.
Nader has since rebuilt his life on what has always remained: love of family, love of art.
On departing Syria, he resumed his study of visual arts at the American University of
Kuwait. He now works as a graphic designer in Kuwait City.
As for Syria, he retains the measured indignance that helped him survive its dungeons.
Do I have regrets? I regret not protesting, actually. I sat with ones who were organizing
the protests. I didnt do anything, and I sat with those who did. I was silent for too long.
In Syria, if you swear at God or religions, they wont do anything; if you criticize the
regime by one word, they will arrest you. While I was having a good time in the months
before my arrest, there were people being tortured right beneath my feet. Because of the
regime's dictatorship, and the peoples silence.
Today, Aleppo lies in wreckage, and a different silence has come to rule. The Old City
has a become a ghost town, reduced to increasing rubble by Bashars shells and rebel
factions. The intermittent cries of the mourner and the odd explosion of gunfire raise
echos of the dungeons to its streets. At this writing, Russian bombs and restocked regime
soldiers prepare to retake the city. The living legend that Aleppo was, now disappeared.
Thousands of its citizens and visitors, now disappeared. The man from Hama seeking
refuge for his family, now disappeared. The aged man electrified by puerile sadists, the
young man thrown by a gang of four, now disappeared. Al-Jdeidas playing children

and old mustachioed men, now disappeared. The storied local culture that nurtured
Naders waking, now disappeared.
Such is the hellish legacy of Syrias tallest monster: Bashar the Butcher.
I never faced something as difficult as this. But it has made me grateful. After this
experience, now I appreciate every gift that I have. From the cup of coffee, to the sun,
even the wind. I swear by God, when I went out the wind felt different.
Beyond the grace of simple pleasures, Naders art has taken on new a significance. The
act of creation itself has become a form of witness: witness to the value of the creator
over the created, to creation itself over-against the nihilistic rule of the image. His work
testifies to the living, to the lived, and to the passage. The screams witnessed that longest
day on occasion wake him still. He creates to give voice to their silence. He makes
images to give body to their absence. Above all, he creates for a future where no one
screams or disappears for an Image.
Nader Abdu is an artist. Nader Abdu bears witness.
-Acknowledgements: My deepest gratitude to Nader Abdu, Kimberly Al-Suffi, Hala AlNajjar, and my students at AUK, without whom this witness might not have been widely
told. Big thanks to Robert Lowell Hoffman, James Richmond, and especially James
Curcio for their writerly aid.

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