Chapter 2175 - 876: Peace—Why Is It So Hard to Come By!

Hamah, at the foot of the mountain to the north, olive groves.

The fifth day.

Brigadier General Hassan knelt beside the seventeenth pit, his hands already dug to shreds. His nails had peeled back, blood mixed with dirt smeared in the crevices of his fingers, like a coat of cheap red paint. He didn't care. What he cared about was the face in the pit.

The face was very young, in his early twenties, eyes closed as if sleeping.

But the hole in his chest told Hassan he was not sleeping. The bullet had entered from the back and exited through the chest, leaving a wound the size of a baby's fist. The blood had dried, blackish-brown, smeared on the gray sportswear, like a puddle of melted asphalt.

He knew this person. Not because he had seen him before, but because he had seen his name.

On that list, twelve names after Malik Hassan. Named Abdul Karim Hassan. His cousin's third son. Malik's brother.

Imprisoned for eleven years, released this year. Rifat's men waited for him at his doorstep, and as he entered, his mother was cooking in the kitchen. The gunshot rang out, and he fell on the doorstep, his mother rushing out to hold him, smeared with blood.

Hassan reached into the pit to touch that face. Cold, hard, like stone. He withdrew his hand, looked at the lifted nails, looked at the blood, looked at the mud. Then he reached in again, lifting Abdul out of the pit.

So light, eleven years, one person, reduced to so little.

He held him, knelt by the pit, and wept.

He cried for a long time, as the sun moved from the east to overhead, then from overhead to the west.

The adjutant stood behind him, not daring to speak.

At dusk, Hassan laid Abdul on a white cloth, wrapped him up, tied it, and placed it on the vehicle. The vehicle already carried twenty-three white cloth bundles. Twenty-three people, twenty-three from number 317. Twenty-three killed by Rifat. Twenty-three buried under the olive trees.

He stood beside the vehicle, looking at those bundles. The wind blew from the north, carrying the scent of snow and also of spring. The snow was nearly melted. The trees were about to bud. The people, were dead.

"General." The adjutant came over, voice very soft, "A message from Damascus. The President asks when you will return."

Hassan didn't turn around. "Tell him, I'm not going back."

The adjutant was stunned. "General—"

"Tell him, the 5th Division is under his command, I'm not managing it anymore. I'm here, watching these trees. Watching these people. Watching these memorials."

He turned around, gazing at the olive grove. Many trees, hundreds of them, lined up in rows, like ranks of soldiers standing guard in the twilight. Beneath each tree, someone is buried. Some he knew by name, some he didn't. Those he knew were chiseled into the memorials. Those he didn't, were chiseled into his heart.

The adjutant left.

Hassan stood by the vehicle, stood all night.

Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias pontoon bridge. Early morning.

Lieutenant Alvarez brewed a pot of fresh coffee. Beans grown in the Chiapas Highlands, the kind Hassan liked. He poured two cups, placing one in front of himself, one on the opposite side of the table. Then he sat behind the folding table, waiting.

At the east end of the bridge, a vehicle arrived. It wasn't a jeep or a truck; it was a tractor.

Worn-out, blue, the body splattered with mud. The driver wore a Syrian military uniform but no hat, no rank insignia. He parked the tractor behind the tent, jumped down, walked to the middle of the bridge, and stood before Alvarez.

"Lieutenant Alvarez?"

"That's me."

The man took a piece of white cloth out of his pocket, spreading it on the table. The cloth wrapped something, bulging like a stone. He opened the cloth, revealing a stone. Gray, irregular, with a few lines engraved on it. Arabic, the inscription rough, as if carved with a nail.

"General Hassan asked me to bring this. He said, it's a memorial. Abdul Karim Hassan's memorial. His brother's. Buried under the olive tree in the seventeenth pit."

Alvarez looked at the stone. It was inscribed with a name, a date, and a small line: "He waited eleven years. Never entered his home."

He placed the stone on the table, beside the cup of cold coffee.

"And the General?"

The man bowed his head. "Still on the mountain. Engraving memorials. He said he will carve a memorial for each person. Once finished, they will stand beneath the trees. Then he will live on the mountain, watching those trees, watching those memorials."

Alvarez was silent for a long time. He picked up the cup of cold coffee, handing it to the man. "Take this back to the General. Tell him, coffee can be reheated. The dead can't come back to life. But so long as the memorial stands, the name remains. And when the name remains, the person remains."

The man took the coffee cup, turned around and left. The tractor rumbled away, fading into the morning mist.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, looking at the stone. He picked up the stone, placing it in his jacket pocket. Alongside the white flag. Alongside the bloodstained paper. Alongside the photo of Hassan standing among the trees. It was heavy, the pocket sagged, and he supported it with his hand.

He picked up the radio.

"Get me Mexico City."

The phone rang once, then was answered. On the other end was Victor's voice.

"Lieutenant."

"Leader, Hassan sent a memorial. Abdul Karim Hassan's. His brother. Locked up for eleven years, killed at his doorstep upon release. The memorial is inscribed: He waited eleven years, never entered his home."

There was a long silence on the other end.