Chapter 12 Battlefield Translation

Temporary safety zone on the outskirts of Damascus.

Morning light streamed through the broken windows, cutting out patches of light and shadow on the dusty concrete floor. The air was thick with the mingled smells of gunpowder, dust, and disinfectant—a peculiar, unsettling odor characteristic of war zones.

Song Zhiyi sat at a rickety wooden table, a draft of negotiation points, hastily prepared overnight, spread out before her. A cup of tea, long since cold, sat on the corner of the table; the tea was murky, with fine dust floating on the surface. She was still wearing her signature white shirt, but now it was stained, the cuffs rolled up to her elbows, revealing several fresh scratches on her forearms—scratches from the metal edges of the vehicle during yesterday's escort of the medical convoy.

Sporadic gunshots could be heard outside, though they were far away, but enough to remind everyone here that danger was never truly gone.

“Song, you need to rest.” Ian, the French doctor in the same room, came over and handed her a small piece of compressed biscuit. “You only slept for three hours last night.”

Song Zhiyi looked up, took the biscuit, and thanked her. Her face was a little pale, with faint dark circles under her eyes, but her eyes were still clear and bright.

“The ceasefire window is only forty-eight hours,” she said, her voice hoarse from talking and dehydration. “The negotiation framework agreed upon by both sides must be finalized by 5 p.m. today, otherwise the opening of the humanitarian corridor will be delayed again.”

Ian shook his head and sat down opposite her: "You diplomats... are always like this. It's as if the peace of the world rests on your shoulders."

“It’s not about peace,” Song Zhiyi said, taking a sip of her herbal tea, “it’s about fewer deaths and fewer children losing their parents.”

As she spoke, her fingers unconsciously stroked the pocket watch hanging around her neck. The watch cover was cold, but it reminded her of her mother—of that same figure on the battlefield, also rushing about to save lives.

Hurried footsteps sounded outside the door. Amir, the local liaison in charge of security, rushed in, his face grave.

“Miss Song, something’s happened.” He spoke quickly, with a heavy Arabic accent. “The checkpoint to the north was taken over by the ‘Free Army’ branch half an hour ago. They detained a UN observer team that was about to pass through—four people, two Germans, one Swede, and one of our local translators.”

The air in the room froze instantly.

"Reason?" Song Zhiyi had already stood up and was quickly tidying up the documents on the table.

“They said there were spies in the observer group, carrying equipment they shouldn’t have,” Amir wiped the sweat from his brow. “But what they really wanted was money—medicine, a generator, and… a ransom.”

Ian swore in French.

Song Zhiyi had already stuffed the documents into her backpack and grabbed the bulletproof vest hanging on the back of the chair: "Who is the opposing commander? Have you had any contact with him before?"

“It’s Abu Khalid, nicknamed ‘Scorpion.’ He’s fickle, but… he loves money,” Amir added. “And he hates Westerners, believing all white people are here to plunder.”

"Where is our local translator? What's going on?"

“She’s a young woman named Leila. A medical student who volunteered to be a translator.” Amir’s voice lowered. “Her mother just died in an airstrike last month…”

Song Zhiyi quickly and efficiently fastened the straps of her bulletproof vest. She looked at Ian: "How many spare medicines does the medical team have? Antibiotics, painkillers, surgical dressings?"

“Not much, but we can squeeze out some.” Ian frowned. “You’re going? It’s too dangerous. We should wait for the UN security services to handle it.”

“By the time they’ve coordinated things, the person might already be gone.” Song Zhiyi had already slung her backpack over her shoulder. “Amir, contact them and say that the Chinese mediators are requesting dialogue. Emphasize ‘Chinese’—they’ve recently had contact with a Chinese company and their attitude towards China is relatively moderate. Also, prepare a vehicle; it must have local license plates and no UN markings.”

"Song!" Ian stopped her. "You don't have armed guards! That's against security regulations!"

“The rules are for people in safe areas.” Song Zhiyi looked at him calmly. “There is no absolute safety here. But I know how to talk to them.”

Ian opened his mouth, but ultimately lowered his hand.