37. Marley
THIRTY-SEVEN
MARLEY
In my hotel room, Simon and I go over some facts that are going to help remind us why we’re here and what our objectives are. In the early days of the conflict, people were all ready to help, especially after some news outlets decided that censoring certain images was not going to do anyone any favors. After those images were made public and splashed around the world, tones changed. But people seem to think things have cooled off. The country and its millions of displaced people are no longer in the news daily. Occasionally there will be a story about one country’s drone being shot down by another country’s, and then how a third country made both of them but isn’t actively involved in the conflict. But it’s all military-focused, and the people have become an afterthought.
Simon also met with both the security officials who will be traveling with us. They are ex-military medics, probably the most ideal types to be traveling with a group of doctors. It puts my mind at ease a bit but not entirely. I’m still not looking forward to heading over with the bigger group. Yet I’m excited to capture the good the group will do if they’re actually allowed to. There is a huge chance that we’ll get to the checkpoint and get turned back. Just one of the many fun uncertainties about this world.
“All but one has been in the field before,” Simon says, pouring whisky into two paper cups.
I take mine, and we toast. This is a tradition of ours the night before we head out. Neither of us is very superstitious, but we’ve also always come home safe this way, so the tradition continues. “That’s good. So between three experienced doctors and the two medics, we won’t need to be quite so much on our toes.”
Simon peers at me above his cup. “Oh yes, definitely can let our guard down with this lot.” He laughs. “Probably don’t even need our kit.”
I look over at the desk chair where my flak jacket and helmet sit. “That’s a relief. That shit is hot.”
“‘Hey Simon, how’d that photographer get shot?’ ‘Oh well, she was hot.’”
“To be fair, you know that has definitely happened before. Comfort above common sense,” I say, trying to hold back from wincing as the whisky burns my throat.
“Why the fuck do you drink this stuff if you hate it so much?” Simon asks, his head tilted as he studies me.
I shrug. “I don’t know. We started drinking it before heading out, we haven’t been killed yet, so I keep drinking it.”
He nods sagely. “It’s flawless logic, really.”
“Exactly. It’s like a cosmic shield. We must do all we can to return home to… well, you to your son, and me to my unused spices.”
Simon scoffs. “I can think of twenty-two someones who would like you to return home.”
I ignore him and drink the rest of the whisky in one go. “So what kind of doctors are we traveling with?” I ask, changing the subject with the skill of a seasoned professional.
He glares at me but gives in. “Two are OB-GYNs, one is a general surgeon, and the first-timer is an ophthalmologist. Apparently, he’s got a lot of shit to lug around.”
“I mean, that’s awesome, but also yikes,” I say, dramatically sitting back. “A lot to lug around always means everything takes longer. I hope he’s got everything well organized so the guards can get through their checks quickly.”
“Impatient, Marley?”
“Simon, I’ve been out of commission for over a month. I’ve been going stir-crazy waiting to get back out there.”
“I know, babe, tomorrow. Speaking of, I’m going to call the offspring before I crash.” He stands and tosses his cup in the trash. “See ya in the morning, kid.” He ruffles my hair as he passes.
“Night, old man,” I say, my eyes locked on a nondescript spot on the wall.
I chuck my own cup in the trash and prepare for bed. I take a long shower, something I plan to repeat in the morning, because who the hell knows when I’m going to get to have one again. And then I climb under the covers with my phone.
I fire off an email to Izzy and Nellie to let them know that I love them and I’ll be out of contact soon but not to worry. My editor has their information if there’s news. I know they hate that little bit of info I tack onto the end of every pre-trip email I send. They don’t know that last week I updated my will and that all funds are to be left to the Morgan Estate Rescue. I know Bennett’s grandfather was worth a fortune and he doesn’t need the money, but at the end of the day, it’s a gesture I’m just too chickenshit to make in person.
There’s another email from Sophie.
Marley
Thanks for letting me know you’ll be away for a while. Good luck out there. We’ll be thinking of you.
We miss you.
Sophie
And at the end, she attached a couple of pictures. Yogurt chasing one of the cows is definitely going to be printed when I get home. I miss that little guy. I’m so busy focusing on the image of that little white dog that it takes me a minute to realize what the second picture is: Bennett and I at the fence the day we had gone to the Hores’ for breakfast. Seeing it takes my breath away, and I can’t think of anything to do beyond lock my screen, plug my phone in, and roll over to go to sleep.
I can’t sleep, though. The image is pasted to the inside of my eyelids. It’s a mix of the shock of seeing that picture, taken without me knowing, and the reminder that everything that took place a month ago was real. Bennett’s standing behind me, one arm braced on the fence, the other wrapped across my chest. I’m laughing, my head tipped to the side, him smiling down at me. It’s pure joy captured in a single frame. Eventually, I give up and roll over to grab my phone again. I end up falling asleep staring at the image, tears soaking the pillow and telling myself that this is totally normal.
“Christ. You look rough,” Simon says when I open the door the next morning.
“Didn’t sleep well,” I grumble, turning back to grab my gear.
“You ok?” he asks, sounding concerned.
“I’ve been better” is the only answer I can muster. “I’ll be better after I get some coffee in me.”
Simon doesn’t try to make any more conversation as we make our way to the hotel dining room. I can’t say the same for everyone else in our party. Two of the doctors immediately introduce themselves, both looking like they had the best sleep of their lives. I hate them instantly. The general surgeon comes over after Simon, Naomi, and I have found seats. He looks young and like he could have played on a football team with Bennett. I mentally slap myself for thinking that.
The eye guy has yet to make an appearance, and I hope that this isn’t a sign of things to come from him. I’m on my second cup of coffee when he comes rushing in with apologies to everyone. He’s middle-aged, has a heavy French accent, and is dressed way too well for where we’re going. But he’s friendly and makes Simon’s morning with some harmless flirting.
“No one has flirted with me in an age.” Simon fans his face and sits back while the eye doctor heads to the table with his colleagues.
“Maybe it’s because you say things like ‘in an age,’” I mutter into my mug.
Connor eventually joins us with a plate of fresh fruit and a glass of water. “It really baffles me how you don’t drink coffee,” Naomi says, taking a sip from her third.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Connor says defensively. “My digestive system doesn’t want me to.” He rubs his stomach. “And this bastard is very persuasive. Also, I do it for all of you. Imagine if I needed the driver to pull over every mile so I could shit my brains out.”
Simon, who was about to take a bite of egg, slowly reverses course. “Must you talk about such things at the breakfast table?”
“Simon, I’ve literally seen you eat chili next to a cart horse with projectile diarrhea without batting an eye,” I say, shoving the last bite of eggy toast into my mouth.
“I’ve literally eaten while… well, you know.” Naomi gives us all a knowing look .
I peek over at the table of doctors and wonder what we must sound like to them. Although if anyone is used to shit talk, it’s going to be a table of doctors, except perhaps the eye guy.
“Oh, I nearly forgot. Look at these munchkins.” Naomi holds out her phone to show us a series of pictures Petro sent of the twins.
“Better than what I got from my kid,” Simon says, pulling his phone out and showing us sock-covered feet crossed on a coffee table, a hockey game on in the background. “This is my son’s idea of rebelling. Putting his feet on the coffee table.”
“I’d show you the pictures I got last night, but, well… that would be a serious breach of privacy.” Connor winks.
“Adorable. Funny. Gross,” I say, pointing at each of them.
“No cute pictures of dogs or anything?” Simon asks, resting his chin innocently on his hands and batting his eyes at me.
I look at him like he’s lost his mind and laugh nervously. “Not sure why there would be.” I check my watch and declare it’s time to get going a bit too enthusiastically.
Naomi catches up to me before I get to the minibus. “What was that about?”
“Just Simon being Simon.”
“Surrrre,” she drags the word out as she tosses her bag in the back of the bus.
The border crossing goes way smoother than any of us expected. And while the guards gave us a bit more of a look than the doctors, they didn’t delay our trip.
“Let’s hope that’s a sign of things to come.” Connor says as he slips his passport back into his vest.
“That was so easy,” the one doctor says, turning back and smiling. We’re all staring back at her in horror. “What?” she asks, clearly confused.
“If I walked into a hospital and said something like, ‘Sure is quiet in here tonight,’ what would you do?” Simon asks from the seat beside me.
The doctor doesn’t answer, but her expression now reflects ours and she slaps a hand over her mouth.
“So are there other things we should not say while we’re here?” the eye doctor asks Simon.
“Basically anything that implies things are going well,” he replies while still looking at the doctor that may have just jinxed our trip.
“Okay,” he says, turning back to the front.
The guilty doctor is still shaking her head and mouthing “Sorry” so Naomi reaches up to squeeze her arm. “It’s ok. Just please don’t ever say that again.” She nods and turns back to the front. Naomi looks back at us and mouths “Fuck.”
Nizam is pointing out the windows at villages as we pass letting us know how many people live there now versus how many lived there before. He makes sure to remind us that Syria has the highest number of displaced people in the world, and so those who call one place home now likely came from somewhere else and somewhere else before that.
It’s quieter than the last time I was here. Fewer people pulling carts full of all their worldly possessions, fewer cars filled over capacity with people trying to get out. There was always uncertainty about life here during my previous visits, but now it feels even more uncertain. Like the peaceful exterior is a mirage hiding the suffering beyond. I feel an odd sensation zipping up and down my body. Like my skin is coming alive but not in a good way. I lay my head back and close my eyes, trying to clear my head of the buzzing that’s taken over. The image that begins to form is the one Sophie sent, and I give in to it. It was the kind of picture that, if it had been of two strangers, would make me hope they were as happy today as when the image was captured. The kind that shows two people meant for more than a few days of bliss. The bus stops suddenly, and I’m rocked out of my thoughts.
The bus driver yells sorry then says something in Arabic. Nizam quickly translates. “Don’t worry, friends, it’s just a few cows.”
I can’t see from where I’m sitting, but I look out the left window when we’re moving again and see a small boy chasing after two skinny black-and-white cows. They look nothing like the massive cattle on the Hores’ farm. I snap a few pictures out my open window as we pass.
About an hour and a half into the trip, the driver pulls over. There is a woman waving frantically next to a car. The driver and Nizam get out to speak to her. When Nizam comes back, he says there is something wrong with the driver. Two of the doctors, along with one of the security guys, get off the bus, and Simon and I follow. When my foot hits the dusty road, I feel the buzzing come back. I do a quick survey of where we are, and the buzzing only intensifies.
The town we’ve stopped beside is quiet. There are some buildings that have seen mortar damage, but things remain intact for the most part. It’s the quiet plus the state of the place that has the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. So I do the one thing I know how to do. I lift my camera and start shooting.
I capture the doctors attending to the man who they’ve pulled from the car and laid on the ground. The general surgeon has his fingers on the man’s neck and is checking his watch. Nizam is bent down, quietly translating. I step back to get the whole scene. The village and medical work being done in what appears to be the middle of nowhere works for me. I like the contrast of the composition. I also like how the sound of my shutter quiets the buzz. This is me, I think. This is what I do .
When a loud crack fills the air, we both freeze. I glance back to see that the woman is clearly panicking. I turn my camera on her now. She’s pulling at the man I assume is her husband and gesturing to the car. Finally, he slowly stands and, with the help of the doctors, walks to the passenger side. The woman jumps behind the wheel and speeds off down the road in the direction we were coming from. The last image I take is of the car almost invisible behind a cloud of dust. Nizam is waving to us frantically to come back, and so we run. Another crack fills the air as we step back on the bus. I don’t know where we are right now, but I have a feeling it’s not friendly territory.
“Were those gunshots?” the eye doctor asks.
“Probably,” Simon replies matter-of-factly.
The look on the doctor’s face tells me that while he may have been told about this place, he was not fully prepared for it. And I can’t blame him. You can be as prepared as possible, but being in the thick of it is a completely different experience.
“Don’t worry,” Connor says, leaning forward. “Most of the time it’s just posturing.”
I can tell by the way the doctor smiles that he’s not comforted by that little tidbit.
We drive for another three hours before we arrive at our destination. It’s a small hospital on the outskirts of a town that’s almost entirely rubble. People who are treated here must have to travel from great distances because I doubt there are many, if any, that could live in any of the buildings nearby. We help carry in bags of supplies, and it’s obvious the minute we walk through the doors that they are in desperate need of them.
The hall is full of people in various states of distress. All sitting or lying on the floor. Doctors in white coats crouch next to people to check their papers.
“My god,” the general surgeon breathes out from beside me. I’d learned that he’d done stints in refugee camps, but he hadn’t been in a country at war, let alone an actual hospital building.
“You’re not in Kansas anymore, doctor,” I hear Connor say as he walks past him, shouldering two duffle bags.
“Oregon,” he says quietly.
“Sorry?” I ask, looking over at him.
“I’m from Oregon.”
I adjust the bag I’m carrying. “Well, you’re not there, either.” Then I follow Connor, careful not to step on anyone.
After I add the bag I was carrying to the pile in what I assume is a makeshift operating room, I pull out my camera and head back to the hallway. Sometimes I worry that what I do is intrusive. And in a way it is. I take pictures that will be shared with millions, but without the pictures, people don’t know or they don’t believe, and so things don’t even have a chance of getting better. Or maybe that’s just my Western ideology. I’d rather think that what I do has the power to change things for the better, even when I’m frustrated with the entire system. Nizam joins me and asks permission from various people for me to get a bit closer. I shoot their wounds and injuries and capture portraits that convey just how bad it is. Simon joins us and starts recording short interviews with Nizam’s help. We are thanked the same way the doctors are, and it makes me feel a bit gross.
At one point I find myself staring at the back of the doctor I thought had a similar build as Bennett. From behind, all that’s different is the hair color. Would Bennett have done work like this at some point? I bet he would have. I could see him in this environment more than I could see him in a hospital back home. When the doctor turns and I get a view of his profile, the illusion is broken.
“This is one of the worst I’ve ever seen,” Naomi says when I join her, Connor, and Simon outside as they walk away from the hospital. “I mean, it’s not what you expect when the fighting has decreased so much. It looks like they were all just caught up in the middle of a war.”
“Technically, they are still in the middle of a war,” Simon chimes in.
“I guess that’s true.”
“Did you find anything out about the town?” I ask, putting my camera to my eye and getting a shot of the rubble before us. Then I hang back and get a shot of the three of them walking toward it. When I lower my camera and watch them walking, the buzzing returns.
“You always ask questions, then immediately disappear,” Connor says as I catch back up to them. “The town is all but abandoned. One of the nurses said we may find packs of dogs, but that’s probably it.”
This is something that shouldn’t come as a surprise. Packs of dogs roaming places like this are common, no matter where you are. But I have a very different view of packs of dogs nowadays.
“Packs of dogs, you say?” Simon grins and looks over at me. I don’t respond, with words anyway, but I think my middle finger says all I need to say.
We don’t find dogs, though. We don’t find any life at all. There are signs that there was once life here. A shoe abandoned on cracked pavement, bits of paper, a child’s toy. Everywhere I look there are signs that people once called this place home. But it also looks like someone tried to wipe it off the map. The buildings are only echoes of what they once were, and I find myself wondering what the point of coming here was.
Connor sits on a chunk of cement, careful to avoid the rebar sticking out, and lights a cigarette.
“I was hoping you’d given that up,” Simon says, sitting upwind of him.
“Always easier to talk to people in some places if you can offer them a cigarette and smoke alongside them,” he says, inhaling.
One of my mentors had said something similar, but it wasn’t something I wanted to do. I never wanted to get closer to people in that kind of way. It’s hard enough sometimes to photograph strangers in dire situations. I’m not chomping at the bit to become friends with them too, even if it’s all for show.
“Why the hell are we here?” I say looking around, confused.
“Karen said the Syrian government has been trying to convince people it’s safe to visit again,” Simon says, looking around like she had told him the roads were paved in diamonds.
“The main cities, maybe,” I scoff.
“I recently worked beside a young Syrian journalist.” Naomi stretches her fingers down to her toes. “She said there is an illusion of normalcy returning to some cities, but she has a hard time buying into it.”
“Can you blame her?” I say, gesturing to our surroundings.
“No,” the three say in unison.
“I sure as shit am happy I don’t understand it either,” Connor says, crushing the end of his cigarette under his boot. “The privilege of getting to go home, even after a shitty work trip, is not lost on me.”