It’s 11pm and we’re talking to Uncle Abu Samer on Whatsapp. He and his wife are at Nimr’s parents flat, as they often are – so much of the family has left Syria, including both couple’s children, that they mostly have the choice of each other’s sofas now for conversation and sweet evening tea.
As always, we talk about the weather. The sun still shines and the rain still falls. There have been warm showers in Damascus. And it’s hot in Sweden, says Nimr, I saw the picture of Hoda’s husband having a barbecue. No, says Abu Samer, he was on a trip to Germany. It’s always hot in Germany. The Saudi Arabia of Europe! We talk about these places like they’re local to everyone in the conversation, just a bus ride from Damascus. No bribes or breathless races across borders or rubber dinghies in the night.
I remember Alaa, while she was still in Syria , describing the daily exchanges in the queue outside the bread oven: “Hey, I heard your son reached Denmark! Congrats!” “How’s your daughter in Germany? Any news on the family reunification visa?” New names now at home in the collective mouth: Malmö, Uppsala, Helsingborg. But you can know the weather in Stockholm and still be unable to get to your mum’s house a few miles away when the shells are falling.
Somehow the conversation gets round to a relative, Abdul Karim, who has received a court summons for building without planning permission onto a house that has since been destroyed, in an area that has been flattened by bombing. The man is now living in Jaramana with plastic sheeting for windows. Is anyone in Syria really still worrying about planning permission? Nimr’s uncle insists the story is true. The two of them are in fits of laughter.
“Every day I wake up in the morning, get out a map of the Arab nations and piss on it,” roars Abu Samer, advising his nephew to do the same.
My head is getting drowsy on Nimr’s shoulder. It is so warm and quiet here, so easy to drift off on the waves of their laughter, a world away from the dark side of the joke.