THE SILENT KINGDOM

#**[[THE SILENT KINGDOM->Prologue]]**

I hear the call to evening prayer through speakers set high along the street. But I do not follow the crowds to the mosque. Instead, I take a winding path through narrow lanes, until I reach the place that was once known as the Jewish [[Quarter]].

A coffee cup appears on the desk in front of me and I quickly close the webpage. The café owner seems to hover behind me for a moment, as if he wants to say something. He must have seen what I was watching. For a moment we stare silently at each other. ‘Anything else?’ he asks. I look down at the coffee and then at the computer screen. In the search bar, I see words that I don’t remember typing. DOWN WITH ASSAD I feel my heart start to race as I look back up at the café owner who is staring at my screen. ‘No…No [[thank you]]’.

I hold the phone up and press the record button. <iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9VTixQMx5A8" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe> For a moment I forget my fear. And I forget the horror of what’s going on. For a moment I’m just absorbed in filming what’s [[happening->sight1]].

**4. FAMILY** By the time I get home, my father’s taxi is parked outside, and his coat is on the stand. Even he who works all night is home before me. There will be questions in the morning. I tread gently and slowly to avoid waking him. I creep past my little brother’s bed where he lays with his baseball cap still on his head. He’s tangled up in his sheet and he’s thrown his pillow to the floor; the boy is restless whether awake or asleep. I unzip my bag as quietly as I can; take out the phone Jamal gave to me and look at it while I lie on the bed. Then, just as I go to hide it away again, it starts to buzz and I hold it up. It shows a Facebook message on an account I never knew I had saying, ‘‘WELCOME TO THE REVOLUTION’. My hand starts to shake as I turn the phone off, then I look to the other side of the room. I'm sure that for just a moment, my brother’s eyes were [[open->NEXT MORNING]]

**4. FAMILY** By the time I get home, my father’s taxi is parked outside, and his coat is on the stand. Even he who works all night is home before me. There will be questions in the morning. I tread gently and slowly to avoid waking him. I creep past my little brother’s bed where he lays with his baseball cap still on his head. He’s tangled up in his sheet and he’s thrown his pillow to the floor; the boy is equally restless whether awake or asleep. I place my bag on the floor, undress and finally make it into my bed. I'm glad I told Jamal I needed time to think and refused to take the phone. I couldn't put my family at risk and the truth is, I was very scared. I turn on to my side and try to surrender to sleep. But then I hear a noise. A loud buzzing coming from my bag. I leap out of bed and unzip it as quietly as I can and see the screen of the phone. Jamal must have slipped it into my bag without me knowing. I slowly reach for it and hold it up. It shows a Facebook message on an account I never knew I had saying, ‘‘WELCOME TO THE REVOLUTION’. My hand starts to shake as I turn the phone off, then I look to the other side of the room. I'm sure that for a moment, my brother’s eyes were [[open->NEXT MORNING]]

The alarm clock sends an electric shock through me. I can’t have been asleep for more than an hour. But I have to pull myself together. There’s an emergency meeting of the student union today. A government minister is coming to talk to us about our role as citizens at this time of instability. If I don’t show up, it will be noticed. And right now, the last thing I want is to be noticed. I look over to the other side of the room where my little brother is lying on his bed with his back to me. Perhaps, he won’t remember what he saw last night. ‘Hey Nabil, time to wake up.’ For a moment Nabil ignores me, as is his custom, and then he roles lazily over, holding in his hands the phone [[Jamal gave to me]].

I quickly get my clothes on and throw my bag over my shoulder hoping to make it out of the house without seeing Father. But before I reach the door, I hear him calling my name from the living room. ‘Bassel. Come here please.’ I slowly turn around and walk back through the house. Father is sitting at the head of the small breakfast table and Mother is bringing in food from the kitchen. There isn’t much. Just some eggs, cheese and olives. I still have no appetite, but I decide I should eat to appear normal. But before I can raise the food to my mouth, the interrogation starts. ‘Where were you last night, Bassel?’ Father asks. He’s bends forward towards me with his arms folded on the table looking for signs of [[dishonesty]]. An irregular blink; a twitch in my lip; a hesitation in my answer. Maybe I should just tell him the [[truth]].

Father is staring at the TV with exhausted eyes. His hair has greyed more in the last few months. And like me, he’s losing weight. He reaches into his pocket, takes out a packet of cigarettes and lights one. He takes a long draw and I notice, as I always do, the two missing nails on the fingers he smokes with. 'What do you think is going to happen, Bassel? You think things are going to change?' 'They could' I say with my head down, sensing his temper rising. Then he walks over to the breakfast table, drags me up and holds me against the wall. 'You think you're tough enough to play the rebel Bassel? You think you'd last five minutes in a Syrian prison?' 'Revolution is spreading Father. It will come here too'. 'Maybe you're right. But you will have nothing to do with it. This family has been through enough. Now, if I find out that you've been doing anything to put this house in danger, I'll have you out of that University and driving cabs for the rest of your life. [[Is that clear?' ->UNIVERSITY LECTURE]] I nod and Father lets go of me before storming out of the house. I wait for the sound of his taxi to drive off, then I grab my bag to leave too. Mother follows me out to the door. 'Bassel, you have to forget what I told you. It's in the past now. Please. For all of us.'

**5. The Minister** The state university campus looks grim against the winter sky. It’s made up of ugly sun-beaten blocks that were built decades ago. Grass and weeds clamber up through the cracked paving and the fountain in the central square now runs dry. I take out my student card as I approach the Faculty of Humanities where several armed police defend the entrance with machine guns. They’ve been growing in numbers since the Arab Spring began. Now they’re everywhere, watching and waiting to pick up any scent of protest. They make this place of learning look ever more like a prison. As I approach the entrance, my mind starts to race. What if the police were tracking Jamal online last night? What if they’ve seen my face and are watching me now? ‘I.D. card.’ I hand my card to the policeman who scrutinizes the front and back and holds it up to the light for signs of forgery. Then his eyes flitter between the photograph and my face, like he’s trying to place where he’s seen me before. Finally, he hands back my card and I go inside the faculty building. I feel his eyes burn into me as [[I walk further away]].

When I look up, his face is always there. It’s on posters tacked to every wall; on towering billboards on every street; in shop windows, classrooms and in every single home. Assad’s eyes follow you everywhere. Assad is always watching. That’s why I have to be careful. What I’m doing isn’t [[safe]].

For so long, I never questioned what the regime was doing. But then Mother told me the truth. Now I know who I am, and I know the suffering it will bring. If I could only close my eyes to it, like Father told me to. But how can I do that now I know I have Kurdish blood; now I know what this regime did to my [[mother->me]]?

And yet I know I must stay silent. Because Assad is always watching; through cameras, through the secret police; through shop keepers; through children. I cannot let him see this [[rage->fall]]. Not if I want to live another day.

The district is swarming with police and armoured vehicles deployed to protect government buildings from terrorist attacks. All around me are the ministries for health, education and the treasury. But the largest building is reserved for the ministry of interior. From here, the apparatus of state terror is managed and maintained by respectable looking bureaucrats. Below ground are its dungeons where dissidents are taken to be interrogated. Those found guilty are hanged in the square. More and more I’ve been seeing visions of my own neck in the [[noose->JEWISH QUARTER]].

As the rain starts to fall harder, I hurry along towards the old town, where walls built by ancient Greek and Roman invaders still stand. Relics of once mighty empires surround the crowded marketplace where people come for meat, spices, soaps, perfumes, ice cream and coffee. This place too will surely one day be in ruins. I’ve seen it in my nightmares. I’ve seen it in my [[dreams->JEWISH QUARTER]].

I should take this bus. It's a two hour walk home from the University and Father has already warned me about coming home late. But right now, I need relief from this feeling or tonight, I will not sleep. I walk away from the bus shelter with my head down and my scarf wrapped around my face. I try to focus on the sound of my shoes pacing along the wet concrete. I try watching the rain fall. Then I try praying. But I cannot silence these thoughts. They just won’t disappear. Because [[he]] won’t disappear.

The regime has always been at war with Israel. The media reminds us of this everyday. And since the last of the Jews were forced out, no one will pay to live here. The once pristine apartment buildings are now abandoned and dilapidated. Streets are lined with broken windows and sewage leaks out onto the cobbles. No one has even bothered to fix the smashed security cameras or erect new portraits of Assad. But here now, in place of the Jews, new outcasts have made their homes. The streets are scattered with skeletal beings with dyed hair, piercings and tattoos. They stand on blankets on which they lay out illegal things to sell. Banned movies and books from the west. Pornography. Some offer me things to smoke, pills to take. Beyond them I hear music coming from an old building that looks like it may have once been a bakery or coffee shop for the families who lived here. But now it’s something quite [[different]].

**2. THE INTERNET CAFE** Through the window, I see lights flicker from candles and computer screens. People sit typing feverishly. Some are speaking into headsets while their thumbs tap on mobile phones. And sitting just inside the door on a stool behind the counter is a large, bear-like, bearded man in glasses, probably in his 30s, with long hair tied back in a ponytail under a grey narrow-brimmed hat. He’s fully absorbed in the book he’s reading and gently nodding to the rhythm of the music. I take out my passport, my ID card and some money, and place it all on the counter in front of him. ‘May I use a computer?’ He doesn't reply. As I go to ask again, he lays his hand on my money and identification documents. He then slides them from the counter without looking up. ‘Use the one over there. I’ll bring you some [[tea->coffee]]’.

I glance down the row of booths and see one that's empty near the back of the café. Each booth is separated by wooden panels, offering me the rare luxury of privacy. It’s nothing like the computer room at the University where desks are crammed together; and every web search and every email is tracked. I reach below the desk and turn on the machine. While I wait for the system to come online, I see my distorted reflection in the curved black screen of the monitor. The shape of the glass surface enlarges the bags beneath my eyes and the pointedness of my cheek bones. I can see that my lack of appetite is making me lose weight and I’m starting to look sick. The screen flashes on and I navigate quickly to Google. For a moment, I just watch the cursor blink on the empty search bar thinking about what to type. [[Arab Spring]] or [[Egypt]] or [[Tunisia]]? Or maybe I should just leave. What if I'm being monitored? Maybe this is just [[too dangerous]].

I catch my reflection again in the glass of the screen. I need to know the truth about what's happening across the Arab World. I need to believe that change can happen here too. I open Google again and think about what to type in the search bar. The [[Arab Spring]] or [[Egypt]] or [[Tunisia]]?

Just then, the door of the café is thrown open. Two men dressed in khaki green uniforms and holding heavy metal truncheons walk inside. One stands by the door making sure no one leaves, then the other starts to march forward heading straight in my direction. They must have been following me. Must have been monitoring this computer. I quickly delete the words on screen and I brace myself for what’s to come. Then the café owner grabs my hand and turns to look at me. ‘Take this and film everything. Just point it and [[press the red button]].’

I look down at the device in my hand. It’s a smart phone with a video camera. The kind that I could never afford. Then I look up to see the café owner walk towards the policeman who swings the truncheon with full force into his stomach. The café owner’s glasses fall and clatter on the floor as he drops to his knees. As the policeman gets closer to me, I see his truncheon raised in the air once more. I hold my head in anticipation, ready to absorb the full force of the blow. But the blow never comes. Instead, the policeman grabs a man from the booth behind me. He beats him to the floor and drags him outside by the beard. Everyone else in the café keeps their heads down. The cafe owner reaches around for his glasses and then lifts himself onto his knees. Raising his head, he turns and at looks me. ‘FUCKING FILM IT!’ I don't have to do this. I can [[pretend this isn't happening->walk away]]. But I know I can't pretend forever. Maybe now is the time [[to actually do something]]. Maybe now is the time to stand up to Assad.

From where I'm sitting I can see that the two policemen have the bearded man pinned against their van. One is holding him while the other repeatedly punches his ribs. I can hear the bearded man screaming in defiance. ‘THE PEOPLE WANT THE REGIME TO FALL…FREEDOM FOR SYRIA!’ The police try and fail to silence him as they force him into the back of their vehicle and speed off out of sight. I'm frozen with fear and struggle to move as the cafe owner walks slowly towards me. 'You say you want a rid of Assad? //That// is the kind of courage it takes. I don't think you have it my friend. //[[As tensions in Syria mounted, brave activists had to risk their lives to record the brutality of the Assad regime. Their videos and blogs countered the official narrative and galvanised support for resistance against the government. Without them, Assad would go unchallenged. Could you find the courage to stand up against brutal oppression?->press the red button]]//

The two policemen have the bearded man pinned against their van. One is holding him while the other repeatedly punches his ribs. I go to the window to [[record what's happening ->FILM WHAT'S HAPPENING]]. But maybe that's not enough. Maybe I need to break my silence and tell the police that they just [[can't do this to someone]].

I stop recording, and hand the phone back to the café owner who is now on his feet. Immediately he watches the footage on the phone and I look at his face trying to gleam a reaction. ‘Did I get it? Is that what you wanted?’ I ask. He doesn’t look up. He just watches the footage again. And again. Dropping his spectacles down and holding the screen close to his eyes. His large shoulders flinch as if each blow lands on him. For a moment I think I see tears. But then his expression hardens. He straightens up and tells everyone in the café to leave. Then he pulls back a beaded curtain revealing a passage way that leads to a staircase. ‘You need to [[come with me]].’

I have no idea what I’ll find at the top of these stairs, but I do know where they eventually lead. They lead to beatings on the streets like the one I just saw. They lead to an interrogation in the bowls of the Ministry of Interior. They lead to torture. They lead to death. Each step further is putting my life and my family's lives in more danger. [[I don't know if I should go any further]] I don't even know who this man is. [[How can I trust him?]]

**3. JAMAL'S APARTMENT** At the top of the stairs, he unlocks a door and pushes it open, unleashing the smell of cigarettes and sweat. Inside is a small, dimly lit room, filled with cardboard boxes, books and papers. Every shelf is stacked. Files spill out onto the floor and even cover the mattress in the corner. At the back of the room is a wooden desk upon which sits a computer keyboard and three screens flanked by other pieces of hardware with blinking lights, wires and digital displays. They cast a blueish light on the unwashed plates, empty coffee cups and the unemptied ashtrays that sit [[alongside them]].

There’s a stool beneath the desk which the café owner pulls out and sits on before making adjustments to the flashing hardware in front of him and logging on to his computer. ‘Grab a box to sit on,’ he says staring intently at his screen. I take a box from the corner and sit next to him. ‘Look at me,’ he says. I turn to look him, and a flash goes off in my eyes. Then he turns his phone around to show me the picture he’s just taken. <iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/iXWyQjWR8w0?controls=0" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe> ‘Nothing to worry about. We'll only use it if you decide to inform in us. We also have your [[search history...]].’

‘What is all this,' I ask?’ He grabs a cable, connects his phone to the computer and begins typing on the keyboard in front of him. ‘I need to get this video online. My name is Jamal by the way. Nice to meet you.’ In a moment the footage from the phone appears on screen, and he quickly uploads it to YouTube, whilst simultaneously responding to messages on Facebook and Twitter. ‘Aren’t you worried they’re monitoring you?’ I ask. ‘I know that they’re monitoring me.’ he replies. ‘You know that they’re monitoring you? Are you crazy? You know what they’ll do to you?’ ‘Do to me?’ ‘Yes, the regime! You don’t live in cyberspace Jamal; you live in Syria!’ Suddenly the rattle of Jamal’s typing ceases as he turns to look at me over the rims of his spectacles. ‘This isn’t my account Bassel. [[It’s yours]].’

‘I don’t even have a computer! I don’t even have a phone!’ Jamal turns to his desk, picks up the smart phone I filmed with; puts it in a box and throws it at me. ‘You do now. You also have talent. You didn’t just point and record out there. You captured something about power and suffering. About injustice. You captured emotion. We need someone who can work like that. Someone who can create something that makes people sit up and notice.' I sit shaking my head. ‘People are fed bullshit everyday by the media. All of our hardships are blamed on Israel and Western conspiracy. The state is infallible. But Bassel, look at me. You can help show the truth. You can film the beatings, record the voices of those who are suffering and show it all to the world. You hold the power, right there in your hands, to help bring the Arab Spring to Syria. If you want things to change, you have to fight for it.’ [['And what if we lose? Look at what happened to the Kurds when they tried to fight back,' I say before getting up and typing //Hama Massacre// into Google on Jamal's computer->'And what if we lose?']] <iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ir1WgKtvmuw" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe>

I leap off the boxes sending piles of paper spilling onto the floor and peer up into corner of Jamal’s screen. There I see my name in the corner, Bassal Shehade, along with the photo he just took of me. Now I need answers. [[‘How do you know my name?']] [['What if the regime can see my profile?']]

As I jump from my bed and lunge towards him, he clutches it tightly and refuses to let go. ‘Give me the phone you little bastard!’ ‘Fuck you, I’m playing with it!’ I punch him in the arm repeatedly until he drops it and slap him around the head knocking his hat off, before snatching the phone back. Then I quickly fumble my way around the device checking to see what he’s been looking at. What if he read Jamal’s message from last night? What if he replied to it? I tap frantically on the screen, imagining the worst but all I find are selfies of Nabil. <iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/lRvIGtdb4SE?controls=0" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe> ‘How come Dad got you one of them and not me? I want one!’ Nabil says, nursing his arm. ‘Dad didn’t get if for me. And if you mention it to him, I’ll kill you. You’re going to have to keep your mouth shut for once. Understand?’ I love Nabil. Nothing scares him. He says and does what he wants and doesn’t care if he takes a beating for it. But that’s because he’s 13. In this country, a spirit like his doesn’t [[survive->DON'T ARGUE]].

‘In the Library. Exams are coming up.’ He stares at me and I drop my gaze hoping the moment will pass. I quickly eat my olives and cheese and thank mother for the food but when I look back at him, he’s still staring. He doesn’t even tell Nabil to take his cap off when he sits at the breakfast table. ‘This is the wrong time to start acting strangely Bassel. You need to be very careful what you read in that library.’ Then Father gets up from the table, walks towards the TV and turns up the volume. I can hear the familiar voice of the presenter on the state-controlled news channel. He’s interviewing a minister about the Arab Spring and Father turns the volume up louder: ‘The criminals will never overcome the nation of Syria. It is a conspiracy against the Arab world being conducted by the west. And although our people are not responsible for the conspiracy, they are responsible for thwarting it. They must contain the minority that want to bring conflict and fragmentation to our [[national unity]].’

‘I won't lie to you Father. These last few nights, I've been going to an internet café to follow what's been happening in Egypt and Tunisia and Libya'. He stares at me and I drop my gaze. ‘This is the wrong time to start acting strangely Bassel.' Then Father gets up from the table, walks towards the TV and turns up the sound. I can hear the familiar voice of the presenter on the state-controlled news channel. He’s interviewing a minister about the Arab Spring and Father turns the volume up louder: ‘The criminals will never overcome the nation of Syria. It is a conspiracy against the Arab world being conducted by the west. And although our people are not responsible for the conspiracy, they are responsible for thwarting it. They must contain the minority that want to bring conflict and fragmentation to our [[national unity->OUT]]’.

Along the corridor to the main lecture hall, students jump over puddles of water that flow from leaking pipes. It can take weeks for maintenance work to be done here and often we have to shiver our way through lectures. It’s not like this in the private universities where the rich Syrians send their young. And anyone with real money sends their children to school in the west. But today, the lecture hall will be unusually warm and clean as it always is when there's a visit from the government. Today, a minister will be talking to us about the role of humanities students at this time of national instability. I'm just about to enter the lecture hall, when the phone in my bag goes off. I take it out and see a message from Jamal: 'FILM THE MINISTER'S SPEECH.' I feel a knot in my stomach. I want to help the resistance, but is this [[too much of a risk?->Text]] The room will be full of security. I look down at the phone and think about how [[I can do this]].

Outside the lecture hall, the phone buzzes with more messages from Jamal: ‘Baz I want u to meet someone Go 2 the Uni Café now. You can help each other.’ I know that I should ignore this. I know I should smash the phone against the wall and go to the library where it’s safe. Where it's silent. But then I'll be alone again. Alone with my thoughts. I walk back along the corridor, past the puddle and leaking pipes, past the policeman with the machine gun, across the main square and head towards the café not knowing who to look for or [[how to find them]].

**6. The Resistance** Inside the café, I scan the tables looking around for the kind of person I imagine looks like a revolutionary. Someone with the face of Che Guevara; or maybe a young Lenin or Trotsky. ‘Bassel?’ I jump slightly at the sound of my name as it’s whispered close to my ear. I turn around to see a young woman with long black hair and a pale complexion wearing a T-shirt bearing the face of Assad and a logo that reads ‘GREATEST SON OF SYRIA’. ‘Bassel? It is you, isn’t it?’ I look down at Assad’s image on the t-shirt and then into her eyes. Somehow, the two don’t go together. I trust my instincts and whisper back. ‘Yes, it’s me. Who are you?’ ‘Selma. I’ve got us some tea and a table over in the corner. Shall we sit and [[talk]]?’

**7. Abduction** As I get closer to my home I think about where I should put the flag. I want Father to see it when he returns from work. I want him to know that I’ve been out doing the right thing, showing support for the regime and staying out of [[trouble->shock]].

Father takes Mother out of the room to lie down on her bed. He makes her some tea and promises her that everything will be ok. That there’s been a mistake and that Nabil will be home soon. But when he closes the door and we return to the living-room, he sits me down and tells me the truth. Nabil and his friends were arrested early this afternoon by state security forces on charges of treason. They were caught spray painting the school walls with anti- government slogans. They are now being detained indefinitely and may face trial. ‘What did they write on the walls?’ I ask. ‘The people want the regime to fall…freedom for Syria.’ My mind flitters back to this morning. I see Nabil lying on his bed holding my phone. He must have found the video when he was playing with it. He must have seen the man being beaten by police and screaming those very words. Or maybe one of Nabil’s friends would have seen it online. Either way, I know that I have [[caused this]].

For 10 days, there has been nothing. I have stopped going to the University. Instead I stay at home to look after Mother while each day, my father goes to the local police station with the families of the other children, demanding to know what was happening to them. Today, they were due to meet with the head of political security and had high hopes for the release of the children. But when the families arrived, the head of security addressed them through a megaphone behind padlocked gates: ‘FORGET YOUR CHILDREN. GO SLEEP WITH YOUR WIVES AND MAKE NEW ONES OR SEND THEM TO ME AND I'LL [[DO IT.'->I’ll do it]]

I have lost all hope for my brother’s life. But in place of hope there is rage. It is the only thing that can keep me alive now. I have rage, or I have nothing. That is the choice the regime has left me with. Alone in the living room, I sit and smoke with Father, and my rage spills out at him. ‘Father, why have you let this go on? Why are there pictures of Assad on the wall and in the hallway? After everything that bastard and his father have done. After they killed your own wife's parents just because they were Kurds? Why did you never fight this?!’ For a moment, my Father is silent. Then he puts his hands gently around my face. ‘I fought. I fought and I lost. Look at my fingers. They took my nails. They would have taken the rest. They would have taken your mother, and you, if I’d kept fighting…I fought…and I lost.’ Just then there’s a bang on the door. I step past Father and hurry down the hallway to open it. When I do, I look out and see the doors of a black van slam shut before speeding off into the distance and out of sight. And there, lying at my feet is the broken body of a boy in a baseball cap. His face has been so badly beaten that I need to crouch down and look closely to be sure that it’s my [[brother Nabil]].

I still can’t be sure if they’ve returned him to us alive or dead. I check his breathing. It’s shallow, but regular. I call Father to help me carry him inside, but it’s Mother who rushes to my side and in a few moments we have Nabil back in the house. He’s barely conscious, but Mother and Father talk to him, telling him that he’s safe now. That no one will hurt him anymore. They take off his hat, undress him and inspect his body. His back is crisscrossed with sharp black lines. They’ve cut deep into his back and the wounds look infected. His eyes sockets are swollen and purple and I worry that they may have blinded him. His nose is broken, and his lips have been burst. And when I hold on to his hands, I see that the nails have been pulled out from his fingers and thumbs. They did all this to a 13-year-old boy. [[I reach for Jamal's phone and switch on the camera.->Jamal’s phone]]

**8. TO BE OR NOT TO BE** When I arrive at the café, Jamal unlocks the door and looks out to make sure no one’s around before letting me in. ‘We have to hurry,’ I say, heading straight up the stairs towards his apartment. I go to push the door open, but before I do, I hear voices coming from the inside. I look at Jamal and feel panic rising. ‘Who’s in there?’ I open the door to find Selma and Ibrahim sitting on boxes either side of Jamal’s computer. ‘Whatever you have better be good comrade; I had to get out of bed for this’. My hand is shaking as I take out the phone and explain what happened to my brother. Jamal comes and puts his huge arm around me as I fight back the tears. ‘Is it ok if we see the footage, Bassel? Don’t worry, you don’t have to look,’ Jamal says. I give him the phone which he connects to his computer and the footage of my brother starts to play on his monitor before he quickly stops it and looks at me. [[‘We can’t use it,’]] he says.

**9. REVOLT** None of us could have predicted this. None of us could have foreseen the reaction that people would have to that video. That the families of the other boys would also post pictures of their broken children online. That they would call for a day of rage to protest about the children that were still being detained. No one could have predicted that we, the subjects of the kingdom of silence, would be gathered here in our thousands protesting the brutality of the regime at the top of our voices. But here we stand. <iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/dz6b5uVxWw0?controls=0&start=13" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe> Today is a proud day. Today we are coming together to shake off our fear. And together, me, Selma, Ibrahim and Jamal will show that to the world. I am filming everything, Selma and Ibrahim are writing and bloging, and Jamal is making sure our work reaches the world’s media. Maybe this could be the start of things. Maybe change is now possible. ‘God, Syria, Freedom and [[that’s all->video]]!’

The whole city was punished for our defiance. Security forces replied to protests by firing into the crowds and killing unarmed civilians. Clashes with the army led to hundreds of deaths, and, every day, the funerals for the victims erupted into more mass demonstrations. In an endless spiral, protests were met by gunfire. Snipers positioned themselves on rooftops and plane clothed police infiltrated the crowds to create confusion and chaos. They even targeted nearby hospitals so that they could detain or shoot the wounded on arrival. Then military check points were set up and secured with tanks and heavy artillery. The city was sealed off and supply lines of water, power and communications were cut, while food and medical supplies were prevented from entering the city. The siege left even the morgue without power, so the accumulating corpses had to be stored in grocery refrigerators run on generators. I recorded everything I could. But more and more, the snipers targeted those with mobile phones and laptops. They shut down the internet along with all mobile networks, so Jamal arranged to be smuggled out of the city as the siege entered its final days. He planned to reach the relative safety of Beirut where he could carry on trafficking footage from inside Syria to the world’s media. He took our phones with him and all the footage we had. I just hope he was able to make it. I just hope that [[he’s still alive]].

**10.PRISON** In the days and weeks that followed, hundreds of protesters were rounded up by security forces from their homes, including me. They beat me in front of my parents and shocked me with an electric prod as they dragged me down the stairs. Then I was blindfolded and handcuffed with a knife to my throat before being thrown into the back of a van and being beaten unconscious. I’ve been alone in this cell now for what seems like a few days, but I can’t be sure. The lights have been left on to deprive me of sleep and I’ve lost my sense of time. But that’s ok. I want to be awake when they come for me. [[I want to be ready]].

**11. SILENCE BROKEN** All seemed lost. And on the day they released me, I wished that I had been killed. Because it seemed like it had all been for nothing. I had destroyed my own life and that of my family. Surely our lives would no longer be worth living. I consider suicide, but then that would kill Mother. I could not bear to do more harm to her. I arrive home from prison expecting Father to refuse me entrance. But instead he throws his arms around me along with Mother and Nabil. Inside the house there are no flags hanging; no pictures of Assad. My father tells me he wants me to see something. There on the breakfast table is a battered old brown box wrapped up in tape. I tear the tape off and lift the lid to see the cracked screen of Jamal’s camera-phone. I pick it up, turn it on immediately and it buzzes with a message from him. It's a video and a text: <iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/gLljv9-8JBs?controls=0&start=38" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe> ‘We did it, Bassel. Revolt is spreading across the country. People are crying out for revolution. We have shown them the truth and their silence has been broken. But Bassel, the fight has only just begun. If you’re alive and you’re reading this, please don’t give up. Film everything and dismantle this regime with our greatest weapon; [[the truth.'->FREEDOM FOR SYRIA!!!’]]

My legs shake as I stand to walk outside. Neither policeman notices me. They are fully absorbed in the torture and humilation of this man who is being broken before my eyes. 'STOP!' I scream. Suddenly the beating stops and the police turn to me with their truncheons raised. Then I feel the blows land on my head and body before I collapse to the ground. Now the bearded man is shouting at the top of his voice, ‘THE PEOPLE WANT THE REGIME TO FALL…FREEDOM FOR SYRIA!!!’. It's the last thing I hear before I see a big black boot rushing towards my face. I feel blood burst from my mouth just before the world around me turns black. //[[In February 2011, there were around 4,500 'prisoners of opinion' in Syrian jails. To challenge the regime, activists needed to be organised and strategic. Could you control your emotions and channel your anger into more strategic, covert and coordinated action?->to actually do something]]//

I turn around, run back down the stairs and head straight for the door. But when I pull back the handle, the door doesn't budge. It rattles against the frame as I try again and again. 'Calm down.' I turn around and the café owner is right behind me. 'Unlock the door,' I say. The café owner reaches foward with a set of keys and does as I ask. 'Don't be scared. You can leave if you want. It is not a dictatorship in here. But out there, it is. If you really want to that to change, [[come with me->it’s up to him]]. If not, please, feel [[free to go]].'

So many questions are racing through my mind. But as I follow the café owner up the stairs, I notice how his broad back spans the width of the staircase. He has the physique of a heavy lifter: not muscular, but solid and certainly capable of restraining me if I were to give him reason to. It’s no longer up-to-me whether I stay or go. Right now, [[it’s up to him]].

‘You gave me your passport when you came in. You are of Kurdish descent are you not? But you have been granted Syrian citizenship. I wonder how your father managed to do that?’ 'How the hell do you know I'm a Kurd?' I ask. 'I just hacked your public records.' [['What if the regime can see my profile?']] [['Who are you and what is all this?']]

‘There has been an awakening, Bassel. People have had enough of the violence and corruption and the lies and the killings. They’re starting to realise that they can change things. You've seen what's been happening across the Arab world. People are bringing down dictators, not with guns, but with Facebook and Twitter. We have to make that happen here too. There will never be another time like this. We have to act now. Join us.’ 'Join who?!' Jamal draws his chair nearer to me, takes off his glasses and leans forward. ‘[[The Resistance, Bassel]].’

‘Take my profile down,’ I demand. ‘No.’ ‘Please, take it down.’ ‘Relax Bassel, you’re perfectly safe. I’ve hidden you behind all this hardware and a proxy server that no one in the regime has ever heard of.’ ‘Why should I trust you! I don’t even know you! You’ve just sentenced me to death!’ I start to wretch and look around the room for somewhere to be sick. ‘Sit down.’ My body trembles and I feel like I’m on fire. I slowly lower myself to the ground and lean against the wall. I wrap my hands around my knees and shut my eyes tight. ‘Look, we always use different passwords and accounts to upload films. Once they’re shared and downloaded, they’re uploaded again by people outside the country so there’s no trace left of us. I’ll take this account down before you leave, ok?’ [[‘How do you know my name?']] [['Who are you and what is all this?']]

As I try to settle myself at the table, she pours some hot tea into my glass which I wrap my hands around. Her phone vibrates over and over, lighting up with each new notification. She reaches for it and quickly checks the screen before laying it face down on the table and turning her attention to me. ‘Did you record the speech?’ ‘The speech?’ ‘Yes, the minister’s speech. Jamal said you’d record it. Can you send me the video? I’m writing a blog post about government indifference to extreme poverty in rural communities. Government officials are constantly telling us we should defend Syria against Israel and the west; but it’s elites like him that are the real enemy. You did record it, right?' [['Yes, have a look'.->'Yes']]

I have to look hard to find a seat in the packed lecture hall and I shuffle past a row of students to the first space I see. The head of faculty is already on stage by the time I reach my seat, telling everyone to turn their phones off, which I pretend to do. Then I press the record button on the camera and put it in my breast pocket with [[the lens facing outwards ->Crowd]].

I look around me and the room is transfixed by a man whom, a moment ago seemed odd and comical. His modest appearance belies a voice that penetrates into the hearts of his audience. Each thrust of his arms and contortion of his face draws them closer to the drama of his words. The performance is captivating, and I’m almost lost in it before a buzzing noise takes me out of my trance. It's the sound of a phone ringing. I look up and can see an armed guard marching up the aisle towards my row of seats and I fumble with the buttons until the phone falls silent. My fellow students stare at me as if to give a warning. I look down at the phone and it shows a missed call from an unknown number. Then a text message pops up and says: ‘Meet me at the coffee shop outside the [[lecture hall->UNI CAFE]].’

I hand the phone to Selma, feeling a connection with someone for the first time in as long as I can remember. A shared sense of purpose. A unity. 'You really fucked this up' she says. 'What do you mean?' 'Look at it; you were standing too far back; I can barely make out who that is. Your arms keep folding over the lens. The microphone is covered so all I can hear is your shirt scratching against it. Is this the first time you've done this or [[something->Shame]]?'

Selma looks at me for a moment and I feel my face flush. ‘Listen, I think you’ve got the wrong person I’m really sorry. Good luck with your blog.’ I put my tea down, grab my bag and stand to leave. ‘Wait. The wrong person? You mean this isn’t you?’ Selma swipes her finger across her phone and shows me the picture on her screen. It’s the one of me in Jamal’s flat from last night. I’m even wearing the same clothes. ‘Look, I’m just not sure I’m cut out for this,’ I insist. But before I can leave, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around to see a man smoking a cigarette. He’s about my age with long wavy hair, stubble and a small scar across his right cheek: the Che Guevara type I was expecting to see. ‘Let him go, Selma. He doesn’t need this shit. He’s probably got a family to worry about. He’s got his degree to finish. He’ll have to go out and get a job someday. He doesn’t want to wake up in the ministry of interior chained to the floor with a cattle-prod up his arse. Go on comrade, get out while you still can…[[typical fucking Syrian]].’

‘I’m not a fucking Syrian. I’m a fucking Syrian Kurd’ ‘You’re a Kurd? Well! I take it back comrade; you’re already fucked. Come! You may as well sit down!’ Selma looks down at her buzzing phone as she introduces him, seemingly exasperated by his presence. ‘Bassel, this is Ibrahim. 'If there's ever a revolution in Syria, he will be it's poster boy.’ ‘Tell me comrade, how did you get dragged into this mess?’ Ibrahim asks. [['None of your business.']] Or [['Jamal gave me this phone…and...well...'->‘Jamal]]

'Hey! What's your problem Comrade! You worried I'll tell someone? You know what, you're right to worry. I could be anyone. Selma could be anyone. Come to think of it, you could be anyone! Pretty good cover story to say you're a Kurd! I bet when you leave here, you'll goose step your way back to the ministry of interior and write a report on all of us!' Selma looks up from her phone at Ibrahim, sending a warning from her eyes to his. Then sensing my growing discomfort, she softens as she looks [[at me]].

‘Jamal! Ha! That old terrorist. How he’s not rotting in prison is a mystery. He must be working for the other side don’t you think, Selma? Keeping an eye on us for Assad. Money must be good...’ Selma looks up from her phone at Ibrahim, sending a warning from her eyes to his. Then sensing my growing discomfort, she softens as she looks [[at me]].

‘He’s joking, Bassel. Ibrahim has a very strange sense of humour. You’ll either get used to it or you’ll end up killing him. I’m still not sure which way I’ll go. Ibrahim, look at this. Bassel filmed it last night outside Jamal’s café.’ Selma reaches across the table to Ibrahim with her phone to show him my film. I hear the words of the man taking the beating coming out from the speaker: ‘DOWN WITH THE REGIME…FREEDOM FOR SYRIA!!’. Selma hurriedly reaches across to turn the volume down. ‘Nicely shot, comrade. You have a good eye. Perhaps Jamal’s sent us some talent this time, huh Selma?’ Ibrahim says. Despite myself, I feel a warm glow from the compliment. ‘Tell me comrade, what do you think it will take...to get rid of him?’ Ibrahim says, pointing to the picture of Assad on Selma’s T-shirt. ‘Selma over here is all for peaceful protest; sit ins, blogs posts that no one ever reads, videos that no one watches. Do you really think that’s gonna do it?’ [['Yes. Look at Egypt.'->at Egypt']] Or [['Do you have a better idea?' ->at Egypt']]

‘It will never happen here! Not this way! People here are too frightened of the army and the police. You know what the other Arab nations call us? The ‘Kingdom of Silence’! Because everyone here sees things like this video, and they ignore it. They just look the other way. What people need here is the belief that they can change things. And the only way to give them that belief is to arm them. Fight fire with fire, don’t you think comrade?’ I know I shouldn't listen to Ibrahim. I know what he's saying is dangerous. But the rage inside him speaks to my own. I can see it in his eyes. And he can see it in mine. 'Comrade, there is a pro-government rally happening after class in the Square. Will you meet me there? I will show you exactly what I mean.' [[I can't be late home again. My father meant what he said this morning.->can't]] Or [[Ibrahim understands me. I agree to meet him in the Square.->I agree]]

There's a look on Selma's face that says she's heard this all before. ‘Change is coming Ibrahim. We have to be patient. It’s like Jamal says, there will come a moment, a spark that will light the fire and we will know it when it happens; but it hasn’t happened yet.’ ‘Well, I say we make it happen. Because sitting around here is getting us nowhere’ Ibrahim says, pushing Selma’s phone back across the table and standing to leave. ‘Nice to meet you my Kurdish comrade. I hope you turn out to have more guts than the rest of Jamal’s band of slacktivists.’ I watch Ibrahim walk away and then turn back to Selma, who seems to want to continue the argument in his absence. ‘What Ibrahim doesn’t realise, is that violence is exactly what the regime wants. The moment we fire a shot is the moment that they are justified in shooting back. And believe me, they have a lot more guns. If we remain peaceful, we can work together to show the world what is happening here. We can put pressure on the regime; we can rock the very foundations of their legitimacy. But it takes time. And in that time, we need to blend in, be smart, wear the dammed T-shirt with his face on it and chant along while we quietly dismantle his power. We have to hold our nerve. It’s the [[only way->Trouble]].’

As I pass through the commercial district and head towards Martyrs Square, I start to hear chanting, cheering and the voices of people shouting party slogans through megaphones. As I get closer, I see a large crowd of people gathered around the monument at the centre of the square. Some are holding portraits of Assad raised above their heads; others wave Syrian flags and sing patriotic songs. I walk amongst them and see a woman kissing Assad’s picture and see smiling school children clapping along in rhythm with the chants. And just in front of me I see the person with the video camera here to capture it all for SANA, the state sponsored news channel. 'Comrade!' Ibrahim shouts from amongst the crowds, 'Just look at it.' 'Yes, people here love Assad.' 'They do not love him Comrade. They fear him. Look around you properly and you will see the truth. University students ordered to come here. School children and factory workers brought here on busses. Armed guards with machine guns to make sure people do what they're told. All it takes is someone brave enough to throw the first stone.' Ibrahim stops talking for a moment and stares at me. 'What?' I say. 'Will you film me throwing the first stone comrade and share it with the world?' 'But Ibrahim, they'll kill you. Don't be stupid.' 'You know how the uprisings began in Tunisa? A fruit seller set himself on fire in the streets. What better way to die than to be the first martyr of a revolution? I can't live like this anymore comrade. All you need to do is hold up your phone. Stand back in the crowd so no one sees you.' [[Ibrahim is right. This could be how it starts. ->right now]] Or [['No Ibrahim. There's another way->another way]].'

I take out the phone and record him as he crouches down to pick up a rock and throws it at the police. <iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8FrM_AEGj1Y?controls=0" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe> Shots are fired and security forces quickly surround him. And then me. I'm dragged away from the crowds, blindfolded, handcuffed and beaten unconscious. //Ibrahim was shot dead by the police. By resorting to violence, he gave them the justification to react violently and his death achieved nothing. Perhaps Bassel and Ibrahim should have exhausted all non-violent means of resistance first. [[Perhaps then they could have made a difference.->I agree]]//

'Ibrahim, listen to me! Violence is exactly what the regime wants. The moment we throw a rock is the moment that they are justified in shooting back at us. They have guns and tanks. We have sticks and stones. If we remain peaceful, we can work together to show the world what is happening here.' 'We'll see Comrade. We can try it your way. But sooner or later, we will have to try mine.' Ibrahim disappers into the crowd. On the ground in front of me I see a Syrian flag that’s been dropped and trampled on. I pick it up and wrap it around my head as rain starts to fall from the [[darkening sky->long walk home]].

I tell Mum and Dad to get out the way while I hover the device over Nabil’s scars. I stand back to get wide shots of his entire body and go in close to show his mutilated fingers. I’m there for about a minute examining every part of him through the camera lens, ignoring my father when he tells me to stop. Then I quickly save the footage before calling the only number saved on this phone. <iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/YhffKSeKeoY" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe> ‘Jamal? Hi it’s Bassel. I think I have [[something for you]].’

We all look at Jamal in disbelief. ‘What do you mean you can’t use it, it’s a child who’s had the living shit kicked out of him by the security forces! It’s pure gold,’ Ibrahim says. ‘We can’t use it,’ Jamal continues ‘…because they’ll know it was you that recorded it. It will be obvious. My proxy servers won't count for anything. They’ll know and they’ll come after you and your family.’ ‘Jamal’s right,’ says Selma. ‘It’s too dangerous, if they trace this back to you, they’ll do even worse to you then they did to your brother. The best thing you can do is go home and look after him now.’ ‘Comrade! Do not listen to them! What you have here is a true portrait of the regime. This film is the very essence of our struggle. People don’t show up to protest about economic reform or the plight of drought-stricken farmers. We know that, we’ve tried. But a child who’s been tortured and beaten half to death; that could break the heart of the nation and send it into a frenzy. Comrade, your brother is the symbol everything we are fighting for. Don’t let his suffering be for nothing. If we want change, we have to be brave! We have to get this video out there.’ ‘I don’t want to put your family in more danger after what they’ve been through Bassel,’ Jamal says with his hand on my shoulder. ‘Maybe take some time to think,’ Selma says. I pace up and down the room thinking for a moment and then turn to them all with my decision. [['Ibrahim is right. People need to see the truth about the regime. And this is the truth. Jamal. Please. Show this to the world->get this video out there]].' Or [['Jamal and Selma, you're right. My family have endured enough->My family have endured enough.']]

'Comrade, if you don't do this, the regime will go on torturing and maiming and killing. If you really want to protect your family and families like yours, you have to show the world what they did to your brother. If you don't, I will.' Jamal and Selma are shouting at Ibrahim now; calling him a dictator; but he's ignoring them and staring straight into my eyes. I know he's right. I don't have a choice. [[I can't stay silent any longer->get this video out there]].

The heavy steel cell door opens and closes for about a second every day. In that time, I see the flash of a figure in police uniform quickly slide a small bowl across the floor containing a boiled potato and some bitter olives, along with a bowl of dirty water. But today, when the door opens, no food appears. Instead, two prison guards armed with truncheons march in and drag me up from the floor by my hair. Then with my hands cuffed behind my back and my legs in shackles, I’m led along a dimly lit corridor to another cell. The door is unlocked, and I’m made to sit at a table where some police files have been laid out next to what I guess is a recording device. The guards unlock my shackles and chains before leaving the cell and slamming the door shut. I look down at the files. Photos are spilling out of them and I think they're of Jamal. [[I resist the temptation to open the files.->resist]] Or [[I reach foward and look through the files.->look]]

The man who enters the cell is not in police uniform. He’s tall, slim and looks like he dressed more for office work than for dealing with criminals. He wears a grey suit jacket over a white shirt and his hair and beard are cropped neatly around his angular face. He’s holding two glasses of steaming mint tea which he puts down on the table before taking a seat opposite me. For a moment we just sit in silence. His eyes on me. My eyes on the floor. And then for a moment on the files in front of me. ‘Have some tea,’ he says. [[I pick up the tea and drink it.->drink it]] Or [[I throw it on the floor and the glass breaks->glass breaks]].

There are pictures of Jamal in a police uniform, holding a machine gun. A secret service identification badge with his photo. I start to shake and close the file quickly as I hear the door unlock and footsteps approaching behind [[me->resist]].

'You know how bad this place can be. You’ve experienced it for yourself already. But if you do the right thing for your country, you can come out of this a better person. Has anyone told you what you have been charged with Bassel?' [['No they haven't.']] Or [['I don’t care']]

My interogator looks at me for a moment and smiles. Then he gets up and walks over to gather up the glass from the floor and stands behind me in silence. Then I feel the skin on the back of my neck slice open. I scream in agony as the interrogator returns to his seat holding a bloody shard from the [[broken glass->drink it]].

He grabs his glass of boiling hot tea and throws it in my face. I scream as the liquid burns my [[skin ->'No they haven't.']]

‘You’re here on charges of treason, which under emergency law means we can detain you without trial. We know about your plans to blow up the police headquarters where your brother was tortured. We know about your plans to assassinate the chief of police. And you will be hanged in the Square for these crimes. Your family will be blacklisted. We’ll see to it that they are evicted from their home and that no one employs them. God only knows what your mother will be forced to do to keep the family alive. What do you think she’ll have to do Bassel? [[I don't say anything.]] Or [[I didn't do any of those things!! I just take pictures!!->I don't say anything.]]

My interrogator walks over to the darkened corner of the room and comes back with what looks like a truncheon. 'You know what this is? It sends vaults of electricity through you and burns you alive from the inside out. I have seen it put people in so much pain, that they've begged to be killed. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine begging to be killed, Bassel? When did you lose your faith? A Kurd like you has so much to be grateful to Assad for. But there is still a chance for you Bassel. A chance to start again. A chance to protect your family. All you need to do, is tell us about Jamal. It’s that easy. Will you tell us about Jamal?' 'I don't know anything about Jamal.' 'Well let me tell you something about him. Jamal worked for us, picking up thought criminals like you. But he got too close to you all. Started to believe in your cause. And now we need to bring him in. So. Tell me. Where is Jamal?' [['You're lying.']] Or [['I swear I don’t know.']]

'Look. Look at these pictures. Look at him in his uniform before he started dressing like a degenerate.' 'I don't believe you.' 'Bassel, the truth is what we tell you the truth is. And right now the truth is that you must tell me what I want to know. Do it or I will set fire to your [[veins ->'I swear I don’t know.']].'

'In a clear voice, speak into the recorder and tell us the last time you saw Jamal. If you refuse, the strength of the shocks will increase and I won't stop until you are dead. Tell us where he is hiding. Tell us who smuggled him out of the country.' [['No.']] Or [['Promise to leave my family alone.']]

I held out as long as I could. Maybe a few days. But in the end the pain broke me. I told them everything I knew about Jamal and the resistance. I don’t know if what they said about Jamal was true. But I have to have faith that it wasn’t. I had to give him as much time as I could to escape to Beruit to continue the struggle. But that was not the end of it. Weeks of torture followed. If I had slept, I would be woken with a bucket of cold water followed by an electric shock. Then the beatings would begin with an officer screaming the order, ‘I want to see blood on the walls’. Often, I’d be beaten with a nail-studded club whilst being hung from the ceiling by the wrists. But the pain of torture was easier to manage than that of solitary confinement. Because there, I'd have to face my thoughts in the [[darkness->the silence]].

//Bassel choose to endure the regime and protect his family as best as he could. But now everyday he sees more police with machine guns patrolling the streets; everyday he thinks about what they did to his mother. Everyday, he wishes he'd made a different choice. [[Could you stay silent and live life as a prisoner in a police state? Or would you choose to resist?->I don't know if I should go any further]]//

I move to a position where I can best capture it. I pinch the screen to zoom in on the expressions on faces; the rage of the police, the defiance of the rebel, the blood and the anger. The man is screaming now: ‘THE PEOPLE WANT THE REGIME TO FALL…FREEDOM FOR SYRIA’ The police force him into the back of the black police van and speed off out of [[sight]].

My throughts are leading me to places I should not go. Like the internet café in the old Jewish Quarter where no one asks questions about the websites I visit. I want to go there tonight, but it’s already late. The quickest way route is through the [[commercial district]] but it’s full of police and security cameras. If I don’t want to risk being seen or followed, it’s safer to vanish into the crowds of the [[old town]]. But then I’ll be late home again and Father will ask questions.

**1. THE LONG WINTER** When will the spring come? The winter has lasted far too long. Grey clouds besiege the city and block out the sun. Every day, I hope for light to break through. Because here in the darkness, [[my thoughts turn against me->against]].

**PROLOGUE** //In 2010, the Arab world erupted. In what came to be known as the ‘Arab Spring’, a generation of young people rose up against authoritarian rule in Libya, Egypt, Yemen and Bahrain. However, revolt was not expected in Syria. The Syrian regime, led by Bashar al-Assad, maintained tight control over the population through a system of brutal repression. Those who dared to oppose the regime put themselves and their families at risk of imprisonment, torture and death. It’s why the world’s media called Syria the ‘kingdom of silence’. But in early 2011, courageous activists armed only with social media and mobile phones, strived to help Syria find its voice. Citizen journalists wrote blogs, took photographs and recorded videos to show the truth about the regime in an attempt to inspire change. [[If it were your country; your family and your life at stake; what would you do? Knowing that you could lose everything, would you still have the courage to act?->Bus]]//

The crowd cheer as the government minister strides onto the stage. He stands behind a lectern flanked by Syrian flags; and a portrait of Assad is projected onto the screen behind him. The minister is a short little man whose tailored suit gives shape to his swollen frame. And before he starts to speak, he shakes his raised fist in time with the chants that ring around the lecture hall: ‘Our souls, our blood – we sacrifice for you Bashir! Our souls, our blood – we sacrifice for Bashir!’ All around me, people are shouting at the tops of their voices over the deafening sound of clapping hands and stamping feet. At first, I clap and stamp and shout along just so as to blend in. But then I find that the rhythm quietens my mind and the feeling of unity with the crowd gives way to a kind of euphoria. For the briefest moment, I remember when I loved Assad too. As the energy of the crowd starts to die down, the minister signals with his hands that we should be seated. Then he steps close to the lectern, shuffles his notes and [[begins to speak ->when I loved Assad too]].

I read Jamal's message again, think for a moment and start tapping a reply: 'I want to help you, but this is suicide. If I'm caught they will ask questions. I don't want to put the resistance at risk.' Jamal's reply appears instantly: 'U won't get caught if you're smart. Figure out a way to keep the camera hidden. It's something you're going to [[need to get good at.->I can do this]]'

'We can make things easier for your family if you comply. Now. Where is he?' 'He's still in Syria. He said he was heading north to work on a farm until things in the city calm down. Probably has an uncle up there. That's all I know.' As I speak, he watches me like Father. Scanning my face for signs of dishonesty. He nods and smiles while I talk. Then he stares at me silently before sending volts of fire through my arms and chest; [[blinding me with pain.->'No.']]

Jamal lights a cigarette, draws the smoke in deep and lets it out. 'Losing is staying silent.' I look down at the phone in my hands. I don't know what to do. Do I [[take it->TAKE THE PHONE]] or [[not->DON'T TAKE THE PHONE]]?

**Epilogue** <iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/CYgERzfdIRY" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe> //By the end of March 2011, mass protests had spread nationwide, and hopes were raised that the Assad regime would be forced to make significant democratic reforms. But instead, in a speech to the nation, President Bashar al-Assad vowed to ‘apprehend and prosecute all those who spilled blood,’ effectively declaring war on his own people. What followed would be one of the bloodiest conflicts of the 21st Century as Syria descended into civil war. Foreign journalists were expelled from the country, but activists like Bassel continued to document atrocities committed by the government in the hope of gaining support from the international community in bringing an end to Assad’s dictatorship. To follow Bassel’s story further, download part 2 of The Silent Kingdom now.//

I open the front door and walk towards the kitchen, but I’m stopped by the sound of my mother sobbing in the living room. I walk in to see her rocking back and forth on a chair by the table; with her head buried in her hands. Father stands next to her trying to offer words of comfort, but his voice is quivering; his skin looks pale and sunken. He sees me walk in and reaches for the cigarettes on the table. His fingers fumble through the packet and his hands shake as he tries to light one. In the light from the flame, I see the pain in his eyes. He takes a long drag on the cigarette then looks down to breath out the smoke. ‘They’ve taken [[your brother]].’

**7. Abduction** As I get closer to my home I feel relieved that tonight I won't be late. I want Father to see it I'm staying out of [[trouble->shock]].