Mullah Mchungu looks at me like I’m a man possessed. I’ve come to visit him before I leave for my trip because he called to say he was unwell and asked me to stop by. I guess I’m the only person who’ll pay him and his antics any attention. So I humor him, an old, declining man dying for attention.
You are going where? His dentures cleaned and dyed a stark, impossible white, grin at me.
Damascus and Nabatiyeh. I need to go. CAI donors are caring for about 200 orphans in these two cities, and I haven’t visited them in about two years.
And you want to play hero and go where people are getting shot for no reason? Don’t be foolish, Kisukaali. You’re more valuable to the orphans alive than dead. The IDF uses these two cities for their war games, you know that. I thought you were more smatter…
This is the same refrain I hear from everyone – that I’m crazy risking going into an active conflict zone, that the danger outweighs the benefits. But my mind is made up. It’s been about two years since anyone from CAI has visited the orphans who rely on donors’ goodwill for their well-being and, more importantly, their education. We must ensure reasonable compliance with these funds.
I arrive in Damascus from Dubai on a gloomy, cold afternoon. There was a time during my corporate career when I visited Syria for work at least every three months, and although not as busy as Dubai, its airport was functional and lively. Now, it’s dull and woeful, but it still manages to process travelers despite occasional IDF bombing raids.
The strong, repulsive smell of cigarettes hits me as we enter the rundown terminal building, and I brace myself. I am directed to a bank at the terminal after waiting in the immigration line because my visa hasn’t been paid for. It costs $200, in addition to the $400 I’ve already paid for a security clearance to get it. That’s $600 for a two-week visa. Is there any other country that has these carrying costs?
Abdulkareem Laljee, CAI representative and hustler, waits for me as I leave the airport terminal. Damascus, or Syria in general, seems to carry a sense of gloom in its very essence. The skies are gray, the land a burnt brown from winter’s arrival, and somberness shows on people’s faces. I doubt any of the buildings in the country have ever been painted since they were built. I feel an unwelcoming vibe as we drive to the hotel, driven by the uneasy feeling that danger might not be far away, whether from IDF drones overhead or twisted ISIS operatives lurking in the faces I see.
Our hotel, tucked deep in the maddening, dirty, narrow lanes of old Damascus, close to the shrine of S. Rukayya (a), is comfortable – it has heat powered by a sturdy generator that runs overtime, since there is only about four hours of power a day.
I meet our orphans the next day at the modern, fully equipped school CAI has built. They look healthy and eager to show off the English and computer skills they’ve learned.
After touring all the classes and meeting the children, I meet Limar, nine, and Zainab, four, two orphans who attend our school. Zainab is lively and jovial; she limps over to me and shakes my hand. Limar is aloof and does not smile; pain and sadness are etched across her face.
On August 12, 2024, as Syria was experiencing chaos and unrest, Zainab, Limar, and Gulnar, who was then five years old, along with their parents and grandparents, fled the dangers of Damascus, heading toward Beirut for safety. An explosive shell hit their vehicle, killing the parents and Gulnar instantly. The grandfather was severely injured, and so was Zainab, with injuries to her leg and face. Limar survived.
This recount, narrated by the principal, shakes me to my core, and I feel my heart constrict with pain. I look closely at the orphans. Zainab is smiling and comes to me happily when I reach out to her impulsively. Limar stands aloof, looking straight ahead. There is so much sadness and pain etched on her face; my eyes fill with tears. There is a faraway, haunting look in her eyes that anguishes my heart. I want to speak but feel I will choke if I try. The urge to hug Limar is overwhelming. I want to connect with her, let her know I’m there for her, that I can be her father. But she is no longer a child; the trauma has already shaped her into a young woman. So I hold back and hug Zainab instead, who readily returns the hug.
In the twenty-eight-odd years I have been in the orphan care business, I have never been so shaken by such emotion. CAI will, obviously, stand by these girls, ensure they are fed and clothed, and, insha’Allah, stand by them through a university education. I want Limar to get professional counseling, but with Damascus fighting its own many battles at the moment, this is not possible without ruffling official feathers.
I visit both the shrines of niece and aunt (a) afterwards; they are deserted. Once bustling with pilgrims, they now stand desolate, with the shops surrounding the bazaars almost all shuttered. This aura, coupled with Limar and Zainab’s nagging tragedy fresh on my mind, sullies my temperament even further. I suddenly want to leave this city urgently.
The next day, with the two orphans’ plight and future haunting my thoughts, we drive towards Lebanon. Fifty Lebanese orphans in Nabatiya, supported by CAI donors, await us.
Sharing a few pictures here from our trip.