At one point, an almighty roar filled the air as two fighter planes screamed past overhead so low, the vibration from their engines rocked the car. It was unclear whose air force they belonged to, and when Mansur questioned Ferhad, he shrugged, explaining it was hard to keep track of who was flying overhead, Turkey, Syria, Russia, or even America.
Ferhad explained that for people like him, the people in power were all the same, all interested in control and lining their pockets. No-one had the best interests of the populace in mind.
They made slow but steady progress, the road mostly straight and uninteresting. John struggled to keep awake as kilometer after kilometer of sand and dust passed by on each side. Occasionally, they had to detour where the road had been bombed, and large craters blocked their passage. They stopped several times to stretch their legs, pee, and remove layers of clothing, the temperature rising as the sun climbed across the sky. John shared a packet of biscuits while Ferhad smoked and chatted with Mansur. The time passed slowly in an unending blur of sandy brown and grey.
Approaching Ain Issa in the middle of the afternoon, Ferhad warned of another checkpoint, and they made themselves ready. Despite checkpoints so far being mainly a formality, John’s heartbeat increased again. He took a series of slow, deep breaths to bring it back under control—five seconds in, five seconds out, six breaths a minute. He emptied his mind of what might happen and focused on his breathing. It worked, and as they joined the queue for the checkpoint, he felt calmer than he had all morning. He glanced across at Steve, who didn’t seem to be doing so well, his face creased in a nervous frown. Mansur, however, seemed outwardly relaxed.
As before, they edged slowly forward, and John took the time to observe the checkpoint. A large armored truck faced them on the right-hand side of the road, a yellow flag, with what looked to be a map of Eastern Syria in white in the middle, flew from an aerial on the vehicle. John reached forward and tapped Mansur on the shoulder.
“Ask him who these people are. The flag is different from the other checkpoints.”
Mansur translated, then replied, “They are the Syrian Democratic Force. Their headquarters are in this town. He said, don’t worry. They are also Kurdish.”
“Okay, should be alright then.” John leaned back in his seat and looked at Steve. “Bloody confusing here.”
Three men in camouflage clothing lounged on the top of the armored vehicle, automatic weapons cradled on their laps. Ostensibly, they looked relaxed, but their eyes scanned every vehicle as it approached.
John switched his attention to the left side of the road, where a dusty Humvee was parked at right angles to the road. Mounted on top and pointed in their direction was a large machine gun behind an armored shield. A man with a red and white checked shemagh wrapped around his face sat behind it, his finger inside the trigger guard.
John gulped and brought his attention back to his breathing—five seconds in, five seconds out.
Ferhad drove slowly forward and stopped, calling out a greeting to the men approaching him on the driver’s side. There were two men on his side and three men on the passenger side, all armed with versions of the Kalashnikov, faces hidden behind shemaghs or balaclavas.
One of the soldiers barked a series of terse questions at Ferhad while the other men looked inside the car, weapons at the ready. They were tense, jumpy, not relaxed like the checkpoints they had been through so far.
The man questioning Ferhad raised his voice, and Ferhad shook his head, gesticulating with his hands.
“Mansur, what’s happening?” John asked from the corner of his mouth, his eyes still on the men on his side, a smile fixed on his face.
Before Mansur could answer, the man on John’s side stepped forward and pointed his weapon at John’s face, shouting something in Arabic. John’s heart skipped a beat. Another man stepped forward and pulled open the door, gripped John’s vest by the shoulder and pulled him out of the vehicle. John stumbled, trying to regain his footing, his hands held high in the air. Bile rose in his throat as his system went into panic mode. What the fuck was happening? He was pushed to his knees, while the other soldier kept his weapon trained on John’s head. From the corner of his eye, he could see the same thing happening to Mansur, and a moment later, Ferhad and Steve were pushed to the ground beside him. Their backpacks were thrown to the ground, and the men stood back, weapons trained on them. John could hear Steve breathing fast and heavy. Ferhad remonstrated in rapid Arabic, only to receive a shouted response from the leader of the guards. He sank back into silence.
John’s mind went into overdrive. Had they been betrayed? Was it Mehmet or even Hemin? Was his life going to end here, in the dirt on the side of the road in Syria?
He turned his head slowly to look at Steve and caught his eye. He tried to look confident and gave him a nod of encouragement, but he daren’t ask Mansur anything after they shouted at Ferhad.
John noticed a movement in his peripheral vision and slowly turned his head to look at the armored truck. The men on top were alert now, their weapons raised, but from behind the vehicle, a man approached. He was tall and like the rest of the men, dressed in camouflage clothing, his only weapon, a handgun in a holster on his waist. His face was unmasked, and his close-cropped beard was flecked with grey. He carried himself with confidence, and John assumed he was their officer. Two of the men stepped to one side, giving him room as he stood in front of them and studied them.
John guessed
