Middle Eastern tyrants

Chapter 184 Everyone Will Face Their Own Ending (Part 3)

The shelling continued throughout the night before gradually subsiding.

As the first rays of sunlight crossed the Golan Heights, Al-Khali began leading the 1st Mechanized Guards Infantry Battalion into Duma to wipe out the remaining enemy forces in this important military town.

Meanwhile, two mechanized infantry brigades under Bandar launched surprise attacks on Daraya and Yarmouk last night, bringing the war to a near close.

This was a battle with no suspense whatsoever. The Allied forces had the advantage of timing and terrain, as well as an absolute superiority in manpower and firepower, and complete initiative on the battlefield. Taking Duma was simply a step in the plan.

Lu Lin merely presented this victory in an almost overwhelming manner. The next day, Arab and UN news reports would only state that the Arab allies had captured three major towns on the eastern outskirts of Damascus in just one night with a negligible exchange ratio, setting the tone for the victory in the war.

Al-Khali was driving his command vehicle along a country dirt road when he saw a ragged old man tiptoeing, secretly picking figs from a roadside fig tree. Upon hearing the sound of the car engine, the old man instinctively pulled his hand back, turned around, and stood frozen in place, his face filled with fear.

“Old man, don’t be afraid, we are not Zionists,” Al-Hali called out. “Pick them if you want to eat them.”

The old man's fear turned into gratitude, and he quickly used the hem of his worn-out clothes to gather up the few fruits he had just picked.

Seeing the old man's pitiful state, the private first class sitting on the roof muttered, "Those damned Zion bastards."

Looking at the ripe fruit, he reached out and picked a few from the branch, just about to put them in his mouth, when the old man saw him and shouted, "Don't eat them!"

The private froze, and the old man quickly explained, "It's not that I'm reluctant to part with this orchard; I planted it myself! But after the Zion soldiers occupied this place, they sprayed all the fruit with poison! That way, if any guerrillas try to eat it, their bodies will quickly break down!"

The private was so frightened that he quickly threw the fruit far away.

Al-Khali couldn't help but ask, "Then why did you still pick them?"

"Take it home and wash it a few more times, it'll be edible. It's better than starving to death."

The old man shook his head: "The Zionians stole our laying hens and took away our milk-producing goats. They are a bunch of robbers. They take whatever they see and shoot anyone who dares to resist!"
My son was starving and wanted to steal a chicken, but he was caught. Those beasts first forced him to eat raw pork, and then beat him to death.

The old man rambled on, as if he had found a long-lost confidant: "My daughter-in-law took my grandson and all the able-bodied young people in the village and fled north. We haven't heard from them since."

I'm an old man with no way to go anywhere. All I can do is dig up some wild vegetables to fill my stomach. A while ago, the old lady next door went up the mountain to dig for wild vegetables, stepped on a landmine and was blown up. Now who would dare to go up the mountain?
I only ate this because I was so hungry I had no other choice. My legs were weak and I had no strength after eating it, but it's better than starving to death right now... But you guys absolutely mustn't eat this. You need to save your strength to fight the Zion devils..."

Al-Khali couldn't bear to hear this, so he turned around, took out his own food rations, and personally handed them to the old man.

It contains compressed dry food, beef jerky, and a box of sour cream.

The old man was stunned, staring at the abundant food he hadn't seen in a long time, his lips trembling, unable to speak.

Al-Hali solemnly said to the old man, "Old man, we have taken this town back from Zion. Soon someone will give you real food to eat, and you will no longer need to pick these fruits."

The old man's eyes welled up with tears, and his lips moved slightly: "...Is what you said true? The Zionians...will never come back?"

“Of course!” the private interjected. “We fought our way in, stepping over the corpses of those Zion devils! You didn’t see how terrified they were. Not only Duma, but we’re going to liberate Damascus, and the entire Kudafah Plain!”

Another young private shouted, "And Jerusalem!"

"Yes, we must liberate all the places occupied by Zion!"

From hillsides to meadows, from plains to the sea!

"Finally, let's plant our flag on the building in Tel Aviv!"

The soldiers were making a ruckus, shouting and cheering, their spirits high.

The old man looked up at the flag fluttering in the wind above the armored vehicle's antenna. Though stained with gunpowder, it was still striking. In the sunlight, the golden eagle on the flag seemed to be soaring.

Al-Khali nodded to the old man and directed the convoy to continue forward, passing the burning roadblock ahead.

As if suddenly remembering something, the old man shouted loudly to the rear of the convoy: "Officers! Be careful! The Zionians might be hiding in the cellars of St. George's Church! Also, the abandoned oil press south of town has very deep basements! The old irrigation canal pumping station could also hide people!"

He saw the young officer wave at him.

May God bless you.

The old man clasped his hands together in front of his chest, watching the tanks disappear into the distance, and prayed softly for them.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Compared to the thunderous offensive of the two spies, the advance of the Surya army was much more brutal. Large numbers of burning tank wrecks were abandoned on the scorched earth outside Betkin and Taylor. After two weeks of relentless attacks, despite the staggering losses, Commander Hafez finally managed to recapture these two strategically important but lost locations.

The adjutant reported the latest battle situation to Hafez: "Commander, the Arab allied forces have successfully recaptured key towns in the eastern suburbs such as Douma, and the remaining Zion forces have been completely compressed and retreated to the city of Damascus to put up a stubborn resistance."

Upon hearing this, Hafez couldn't help but exclaim, "That Amir is truly a military genius. Whether it's his macro-level strategic thinking or his deployment of small-scale operations, he is a rare figure in the entire history of the Arab world."

But then he changed the subject: "However, even if our command skills cannot reach his level, Surria has his own tactics, which is to rely on our production lines to send a steady stream of shells and tanks to the front lines. We will use our overwhelming numerical superiority to crush the Zion's defenses inch by inch!"

"We will build all our victories on the foundation of sacrifice. We will show the world that Surria is never afraid of sacrifice, and our determination will become the deepest fear of the Zionites!" the adjutant echoed.

“That’s right, exactly.” Hafiz smiled.

In his view, this all-out, overwhelming offensive was the most direct manifestation of Surria's fighting spirit.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Damascus.

This historic, populous, and religiously diverse Arab metropolis has been transformed under Zion's occupation.

Countless walls rose up in the city, forming a giant spider web that divided the entire city into several isolated areas.

It was as if even birds had lost their freedom, bound within high walls.

The core area, with its beautiful environment and complete facilities, is reserved for Zion immigrants and high-ranking officials and is heavily guarded.

The vast majority of local Arabs were driven out and confined to other crowded and dilapidated areas, which were separated from each other by concrete walls, barbed wire and strict checkpoints, and required almost impossible permits to pass through.

Zion is attempting to achieve maximum suppression and control over Damascus with minimal troop deployment costs.

The truth is, they turned this ancient city, which has existed for thousands of years, into a huge, suffocating open prison.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

A heavy knocking sound pounded on a dilapidated wooden door.

"Open the door! General Staff Reconnaissance Team!"

Colonel Benjamin stood outside the door with the General Staff reconnaissance team, dressed in distinctive combat uniforms and wearing conspicuous reddish-brown berets.

The Arab residents who were secretly watching them all showed disgust and deep fear in their eyes when they saw them.

Faced with these clandestine spyings, Colonel Benjamin's lips curled into a slight smile, completely unconcerned.

The door opened, and a pale-faced man appeared in the doorway.

"You are Kamal Abdul?" Benjamin asked coldly, without even checking the list.

"Yes, it's me, sir..." The man's voice was calm and restrained.

“Come with us.” Benjamin waved his hand, and two soldiers wearing red berets immediately stepped forward and roughly grabbed the man’s arms.

"No! Please! He didn't do anything!" the man's wife cried as she rushed forward, clutching her husband's clothes tightly, while the child also burst into tears.

The neighbors couldn't bear to look; very few of those taken away by the General Staff reconnaissance team returned alive.

"Shut up!" A soldier raised his gun, pointing it at the woman's forehead. "If you obstruct us again, we'll take your whole family away!"

The soldier's hand gripped Kamal's arm like an iron clamp. Kamal's first reaction was not to struggle, but to turn to his youngest son, Ali, and smile: "Ali, don't be afraid. Dad is going to mend the officers' clothes. You know, with Dad's skills, it's normal for the officers to know about them!"

"Will you be back soon?"

"The officers have plenty of uniforms! You'll probably have to wait a few more days!"

Kamal was dragged out while laughing, making exaggerated, comical gestures in an attempt to amuse his son and wife.

Just before being pushed onto the military truck, he turned back and forced a big smile at Ali.

On the truck, Colonel Benjamin leaned against the side of the truck, opposite a soldier holding a rifle. His gaze swept over the green armband that Kamal was forced to wear—a mark to identify Muslims.

Now, all residents of Damascus must wear different colored identification armbands to distinguish Muslims, Christians, those with special work permits, and so on.

Once resistance breaks out in a certain area, the entire neighborhood's residents are collectively punished. "Muslims?" Benjamin asked casually.

"Yes...yes, sir."

"Have you changed your faith in the past two days, or converted to a more... correct faith?"

“I’m trying, sir.”

"Hmm." Benjamin stopped looking at him, as if he had lost interest.

Kamal peered out through the gaps in the bumpy carriage.

Due to zoning restrictions, he hasn't been able to visit other areas of the city for a long time.

Several corpses hung from lampposts along the way, swaying gently in the wind.

These were all the work of the General Staff's reconnaissance team, who used a "whistleblower system" to execute those secretly active rebels—but in reality, it was to keep everyone living in a climate of mutual suspicion and terror.

Then Kamal saw the temple firmly sealed off by thick wooden planks and barbed wire. The sculptures outside the gate had been knocked down, and even the reliefs on the walls had been roughly erased, making them almost unrecognizable.

And these were all Arabs—they were being held at gunpoint by Zion's soldiers, and none of them dared to resist.

The trucks stopped intermittently, and Benjamin, leading the General Staff reconnaissance team, knocked on doors, taking away so-called suspicious persons under various absurd pretexts:

Some were because of a diary;
Some of them were privately possessing old national flags;

Some even discovered anything that the General Staff reconnaissance team believed to be showing signs of resistance.

Cries and pleas continued to be heard, interspersed with sporadic gunshots and shouts, as if a brief resistance had occurred, but it was quickly and completely suppressed by more intense and ruthless gunfire.

Soon, the carriage was filled with "prisoners" who, like Kamal, had pale faces and desperate eyes.

Colonel Benjamin looked at the list with satisfaction and ticked the box next to the district where Kamal was located.

"Today's task is complete."

The truck then drove to Martyrs' Square, a once bustling gathering place for citizens.

Someone in the car recognized the direction and exclaimed in surprise, "Weren't you saying you were taking us back for interrogation? Why are you heading towards the square?!"

Panic erupted instantly in the enclosed carriage. The former market had become a notorious public execution site for the Zionians, where so-called "rebels" were brought here and shot every day as a warning to others.

But before the commotion could escalate, the Zion soldiers escorting the vehicle viciously slammed their rifle butts into them and roared at their heads with their rifles pointed at them: "Shut up! Anyone who makes another sound will be shot on sight!"

The car fell silent instantly, save for heavy breathing and suppressed sobs.

After an unknown amount of time, the car stopped.

They were roughly pushed off the car.

The soldiers of the General Staff reconnaissance team tied their hands behind their backs with rough hemp ropes, linking everyone together.

At that moment, some people broke down in tears, while others screamed and cursed hysterically.

Kamal felt his mind go blank and his legs go weak; he had never been so afraid before.

His gaze swept across the crowds on both sides, and just then, Kamal spotted his youngest son, Ali, through a gap in the crowd.

His wife, holding their child, looked at him in horror.

Kamal froze for a moment, then forced a smile, strode forward, and waved to his son.

The surrounding crowd whispered among themselves:
"Oh my god... what did they do wrong?"

"They did nothing wrong, they were just unlucky..."

“That’s Kamal, Nabil’s son. He helped me mend my coat yesterday…”

People have become accustomed to this scene; every day, familiar and innocent people are sent to the execution platform.

A Zion soldier maintaining order at the scene noticed Kamal's gaze. Corporal Yossi turned around and finally saw Ali.

Before joining the army, Yosi was a student at Tel Aviv University and could understand Arabic.

As Kamal walked toward the execution platform, Yossi hesitated for a moment, then finally reached out and gently covered the little boy's eyes.

Kamal witnessed this and gave the young soldier a grateful look.

Immediately afterwards, the first batch of "prisoners" were led to the execution platform. Colonel Benjamin picked up a megaphone and announced in a cold voice to the deathly silent crowd:

"According to Wartime Decree No. 174 of the Zion Army Command, these traitors, terrorists, and their sympathizers conspired to disrupt order, threaten national security, and attempt to violently oppose the legitimate rule of Zion! Their crimes are well-documented, and they have been sentenced to death, to be carried out immediately! This is the fate of all resistance fighters! Any act that challenges Zion's authority will be nipped in the bud!"

The crowd was filled with oppressed Arabs from the lower classes, including bricklayers, cement workers, peddlers, and relatives of those arrested.

At this moment, they were all silently praying to God in their hearts.

"O Most Gracious and Merciful God, protect these innocent souls, and bear witness to our suffering."

"O God, do not let darkness devour your believers, do not let tyranny crush our faith, please show us a way to break free from our chains."

"Begin execution!" Benjamin ordered.

Gunshots rang out, and the first group of people fell.

Kamal was in the second group; he was pushed forward.

Yossi covered the little boy's eyes, but Ali could still see through the gaps in his fingers as his father walked step by step onto the execution platform.

He heard his mother praying, her voice trembling uncontrollably, tears falling onto his head: "God, my Lord, please bless Kamal. Please don't let him suffer too much, please let him know that we are waiting for him."

A mocking smile appeared on Benjamin's refined face. He raised his chin high, preparing to shout for a second execution.

Just as the firing squad raised their guns again, aiming at Kamal and the others, a low and unfamiliar roar suddenly came from the sky!
"Air strike!"

Someone in the crowd suddenly screamed.

All the Arab people instantly stirred and looked up at the sky.

Benjamin instinctively lowered the brim of his hat and bent down to avoid it.

However, the expected explosion did not occur; instead, countless white leaflets fluttered down from the sky.

People and soldiers instinctively reached out to catch it.

The leaflet featured the emblem of the Arab League at the top, and the text was written in both Hebrew and Arabic:
[To the liberators of Damascus and the trapped soldiers of Zion]

A message to our compatriots in Damascus: The Arab coalition has recaptured Quneitra, Douma, Dalaya, Yarmouk, and other towns. We have established safe evacuation points in the east, north, and south. If you have the opportunity, please go there! Hold on, liberation is near!
To the occupying forces of Zion: You are surrounded and your escape route is blocked! Continuing to resist is futile. Lay down your weapons and surrender immediately; this is your only way to survive! We will provide prisoners of war with humane treatment in accordance with international law.

The leaflet concluded with a message from General Amir bin Mohammed, Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces: "The tyranny of Zion will end, and the dawn of Arabia is coming."

In an instant, an indescribable restlessness spread through the crowd.

Hope, like tenacious wild grass, suddenly broke through the frozen ground of despair and quietly ignited in every pair of eyes.

Colonel Benjamin grabbed a leaflet, quickly scanned its contents, and veins bulged on his pale face in fury. He immediately raised a megaphone: "Destroy! Collect all the leaflets and destroy them! Anyone who keeps them will be treated as a traitor!"

Then he turned to the firing squad: "What are you all standing there for! Execute them by firing squad!"

A flyer fluttered down at Kamal's feet, and he saw the words on it.

At that moment, the overwhelming fear suddenly vanished, and he found a strange comfort in his heart.

There was a sense of relief, but also a regret at not being able to witness the dawn.

He murmured, “I have indeed come to God, and I will surely return to Him.”

Gunfire rang out again.

Countless birds were startled and took flight, soaring over the cold, high walls of Damascus and flying into the distance.

(End of this chapter)