"Mr. President, are you afraid?"
Assad looked at him. "Afraid of what?"
"Afraid of death."
Assad was silent for three seconds. "I'm not afraid. Those who have killed aren't afraid of dying. The fear is that after death, no one remembers."
The young soldier nodded. "Then I'm not afraid either. No one will remember me anyway."
Assad placed his hand on his shoulder. "I will remember you. What's your name?"
"Khalid. Khalid Hussein. A Deraa person."
Assad nodded. "Khalid Hussein, a Deraa person. I will remember."
The young soldier smiled.
In the distance, Turkish tanks began to start up. The engine roar traveled far in the night, muffled, like thunder.
Assad stood up, dusting off the dirt from his clothes.
"Brothers, it's almost dawn. The Turks are coming. When they come, we fight. If we can't beat them, we die. But we must die in Syria."
He turned around, looking at the eyes still glimmering in the darkness.
