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Authors: Joel C Rosenberg
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journalistic instincts kicked in and I snapped three pictures, then turned away in horror, wondering anew when the senseless killing in this godforsaken country would ever stop.
I pointed the light of the phone toward the end of the hallway and made my way to the front door. But as I reached for the doorknob, I hesitated. I needed to find my colleagues, to be sure. I certainly didn’t want to be in this city alone. Nor, I had to imagine, did they. But then again, I had no idea what lay ahead. How in the world were we going to find Jamal Ramzy? For all we knew, he was leading this battle.
Pulse pounding, I again wiped my hands on my pants, then slowly opened the door. What lay before me was a scene from the apocalypse. But Omar and Abdel were nowhere to be found.
10
The stench of death was thick, revolting, and inescapable.
Everywhere I looked —up and down the street in both directions —I saw mountains of rubble and twisted rebar from half-collapsed buildings, the scorched remains of tanks and trucks and cars and motorcycles, and the ghastly sight of decomposing bodies that even the vultures had rejected. All of it was shrouded in an eerie fog of smoke and ash, bathed in the bluish-silver tint of the moon.
I didn’t dare step out of the doorway. I wanted to call out to Omar and Abdel, but I kept my mouth shut. I pressed myself back into the shadows and all but closed the door to the apartment building, keeping it open barely a crack. Then I peered out into the night, scanning for any movement, any signs of friends or enemies. But nothing was moving save the smoke and ash in the winter winds that were now picking up and bringing a frightful chill. As slowly and quietly as I could, I zipped up my jacket and turned the collar up to protect my neck. Then the light began to dim as a curtain of clouds descended upon the moon.
What now? We were not yet at our rendezvous point, though as best I could tell we were getting close. To get to Ramzy, we were supposed to meet up with Tariq Baqouba, one of Ramzy’s top lieutenants.Born in the Decapolis region of northern Jordan, Baqouba was, by all accounts, a young but battle-hardened fighter who had distinguished himself killing American Marines and Army Rangers in Iraq before turning his “talents” to the killing fields of Syria. It was his younger brother, Faisal, a former technician for Al Jazeera television, who was my e-mail contact.
Faisal’s instructions had been simple: My team and I were to meet him in the remains of the Khaled bin Walid Mosque in a neighborhood several blocks away called al-Khalidiyah. Faisal would then take us to his brother Tariq, who would take us to Jamal Ramzy. I checked my pocket watch. The rendezvous time was just twenty-three minutes away. Yet how could I continue on without Omar and Abdel?
My fears were getting the best of me. Had the fighters manning the machine-gun nests cut my friends down before they had reached safety? Had the jihadists come after them? Had they reached a “safe” building, only to stumble upon armed men inside? Mortar rounds kept exploding. The building kept shaking. I knew it wasn’t safe to stay. But I had no idea where to go, unless I headed to the mosque alone. The longer I stayed put, the more questions raced through my thoughts. What if they were injured? What if they were bleeding, dying? Should I go back for them? Of course, I had no idea which buildings they had gone to. Had they split up as I’d told them, or had they stayed together after all?
Feeling dehydrated, I grabbed the water bottle out of the side of my backpack and took a swig. Then, oddly enough, the explosions outside stopped. I had no idea why. Perhaps it was just a lull, but for a few unexpected minutes, there was near silence, broken only by the sporadic crackle of machine-gun fire in the distance . . . and by the ringing in my ears. I began to breathe normally again, but just then I heard a noise behind me. I turned quickly
I pointed the light of the phone toward the end of the hallway and made my way to the front door. But as I reached for the doorknob, I hesitated. I needed to find my colleagues, to be sure. I certainly didn’t want to be in this city alone. Nor, I had to imagine, did they. But then again, I had no idea what lay ahead. How in the world were we going to find Jamal Ramzy? For all we knew, he was leading this battle.
Pulse pounding, I again wiped my hands on my pants, then slowly opened the door. What lay before me was a scene from the apocalypse. But Omar and Abdel were nowhere to be found.
10
The stench of death was thick, revolting, and inescapable.
Everywhere I looked —up and down the street in both directions —I saw mountains of rubble and twisted rebar from half-collapsed buildings, the scorched remains of tanks and trucks and cars and motorcycles, and the ghastly sight of decomposing bodies that even the vultures had rejected. All of it was shrouded in an eerie fog of smoke and ash, bathed in the bluish-silver tint of the moon.
I didn’t dare step out of the doorway. I wanted to call out to Omar and Abdel, but I kept my mouth shut. I pressed myself back into the shadows and all but closed the door to the apartment building, keeping it open barely a crack. Then I peered out into the night, scanning for any movement, any signs of friends or enemies. But nothing was moving save the smoke and ash in the winter winds that were now picking up and bringing a frightful chill. As slowly and quietly as I could, I zipped up my jacket and turned the collar up to protect my neck. Then the light began to dim as a curtain of clouds descended upon the moon.
What now? We were not yet at our rendezvous point, though as best I could tell we were getting close. To get to Ramzy, we were supposed to meet up with Tariq Baqouba, one of Ramzy’s top lieutenants.Born in the Decapolis region of northern Jordan, Baqouba was, by all accounts, a young but battle-hardened fighter who had distinguished himself killing American Marines and Army Rangers in Iraq before turning his “talents” to the killing fields of Syria. It was his younger brother, Faisal, a former technician for Al Jazeera television, who was my e-mail contact.
Faisal’s instructions had been simple: My team and I were to meet him in the remains of the Khaled bin Walid Mosque in a neighborhood several blocks away called al-Khalidiyah. Faisal would then take us to his brother Tariq, who would take us to Jamal Ramzy. I checked my pocket watch. The rendezvous time was just twenty-three minutes away. Yet how could I continue on without Omar and Abdel?
My fears were getting the best of me. Had the fighters manning the machine-gun nests cut my friends down before they had reached safety? Had the jihadists come after them? Had they reached a “safe” building, only to stumble upon armed men inside? Mortar rounds kept exploding. The building kept shaking. I knew it wasn’t safe to stay. But I had no idea where to go, unless I headed to the mosque alone. The longer I stayed put, the more questions raced through my thoughts. What if they were injured? What if they were bleeding, dying? Should I go back for them? Of course, I had no idea which buildings they had gone to. Had they split up as I’d told them, or had they stayed together after all?
Feeling dehydrated, I grabbed the water bottle out of the side of my backpack and took a swig. Then, oddly enough, the explosions outside stopped. I had no idea why. Perhaps it was just a lull, but for a few unexpected minutes, there was near silence, broken only by the sporadic crackle of machine-gun fire in the distance . . . and by the ringing in my ears. I began to breathe normally again, but just then I heard a noise behind me. I turned quickly
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