.Syrian revolution comes to Damascus as rebels openly patrol the streets
A portrait of President Bashar al-Assad is draped down the front of a building in a central square of Damascus. Framed by stripes in the colours of the Syrian flag, he watches over the demonstrators before him as they exult his reign.
“We love Bashar al-Assad, we love our President,” effused a Christian woman, a mother of three, at one of pro-regime rallies that frequently spring up in the city centre. “He is a righteous man, a great man. Life under him is good, everyone lives well. I can send my children to university for free”.
To the soundtrack of the national anthem, state television shows rolling images of a calm capital, shaken only by throngs of patriots speaking of their love for the president.
Damascus is a city in denial with residents mumbling about the events of the last 11 months as a distant problem that is restricted to the city suburbs or other parts of the country that will soon fade away.
But in reality the Syrian revolution has already arrived.
Only a matter of two miles across this vast city in its restive warrens armed gunmen are beginning to control the streets.
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As night falls over the central district of Barzeh, crowds of men, women and children gather among the crumbling old city walls to shout for the downfall of the regime. Walking, silently, and swiftly down narrow alleyways, they pass men sporting balaclavas and clutching Kalashnikovs stationed at the entrances to the public square. Members of the group that likes to call itself the Free Syrian Army, they provide ‘security’ for the demonstrators.
For months these protests would last minutes, or be violently dispersed up by security forces. Over thirty people have been shot dead here by regime security, locals told the Daily Telegraph. But now, surrounded by their own military, the crowds are becoming ever more confident and openly defiant.
“Now we have our fighters to protect us, the regime knows this and they don’t dare to come here. We are not safe but now if the regime wants to come he has to bring tanks and troops,” said Asra, a Sunni Muslim pharmacist who has been calling for the demise of the regime since early April.
Drumbeats accompanied the crowd in dances and songs that have been well rehearsed over the 11 month uprising. Crowds waved the revolutionary flag, jumping up and down as they yelled passionate cries of ‘death to Bashar, death to the donkey!”. Men in fluorescent yellow jackets, their faces wrapped in cloth to prevent being identified in photographs worked as stewards managing the crowds. A boy no older than 12 stood on a makeshift podium leading the crowds.
The slogans, a medley of prayers of solidarity for the ‘brothers’ coming under relentless bombardment in other cities, cries of outrage against the regime, and calls to remember the ‘martyrs’ killed in the last month, showed the boiling anger that has sprung from the months of violent unrest.
“This lady's son died here, in these protests,” shouted Asra above the noise of the crowds. “He shouted to the police ‘why are you killing us? Please stop’. So they shot him dead.”
“They killed this boys’ father,” she added, grabbing the shoulders of a 12-year-old with curly brown hair and deep brown eyes. “He comes here everyday to call for freedom and revenge on his father.”
Most uproarious came united cries of "first we trust in God, and then in our Free Syrian Army!". The armed gunmen watched silently from the rooftops.
But the innocence of the peaceful protests are giving way to a more sinister form of action. Outside of the protests, Burzeh’s streets are filled with the secret informants for the opposition. Lounging on street corners, young men listen to conversations, and watch the movements of residents, intent on weeding out the "spies"; people who reveal activities of the opposition to the regime, or in some cases are passionately aligned with the President.
Activists from Barzeh admitted to the Daily Telegraph that eight people have been assassinated in area in the past few months, but the figure is likely to be higher.
Those that are not killed, are bullied into toeing the line. Shopfront covers dotted across the district have an ‘X’ sprayed on them. “We do that to those that don’t close their shops when we call for a strike. It is a warning that they must join us,” said Asra.
Barzeh is not the only pocket of defiance in central Damascus. Activists say that across the capital men are secretly being armed.
“[Bashar al-Assad] kills us, we are not his people. He is a criminal,” said Hana, another activist. “Before we did not want to kill anyone, we did not want to use weapons, but now we don’t see any other way. Now this is war.”
“They don’t want us to live in freedom,” said the wife of a wealthy Sunni businessman. “They think this is about money, but it is not, it is about dignity.” ‘They’ she said, refers to the Alawites, the minority ruling sect.
Asked where their place should be in society after the regime falls, many activists shrugged their shoulders, having given it little thought. “We will be the majority,” said one Sunni opposition member simply.
“All those that killed, must be killed,” said another Sunni activist. Working with an organisation that promotes democracy and freedom, he had long spoke the language of peace. But after months of seeing his friends killed or beaten, or family members arrested, logic was overrun by visceral emotion.
Many opposition activists remain committed to the belief that they do not want this to be sectarian war, but increasingly they grudgingly accept that it may become one. With this battle largely divided along sectarian lines, the only common understanding between all sides is that the road ahead is likely to be a bloody one.
A Sunni local journalist told the Daily Telegraph of his fears.
“We are a moderate Muslim family, with many Alawite friends. But now my brother comes home from protests speaking about the ‘filthy Alawites’. Imagine how people who have lost their loved ones in this war feel”.
“When you see the YouTube footage, the videos of torture, arrests and house raids, the perpetrators are always speaking in an Alawite accent. So now when anti government protestors hear this accent they connect it to the dirty act,” he added.
“My Alawite friends are frightened. First they were frightened of losing their position in society, now they are also frightened for their lives.”
Across the city, in Alawite and Christian neighbourhoods, hatred for the opposition is also virulent. “I hate dogs, we have too many dogs in the suburbs,” spat an Alawite woman as state television showed images of the ‘terrorists’ attacking her country. “Our President will never surrender to them”.
As Damascus is plunged into darkness by daily power cuts, businesses languish under biting sanctions, and Western nations up the rhetoric against President Assad, minority groups in the city are increasingly living in fear.
Christians who have long supported the Alawite regime in order to ensure protections and rights for themselves feel their status is threatened, and that the comfort of their livelihood is inextricably linked with the survival of the regime.
“We are all afraid,” said ‘Adam’, a wealthy businessman. “There have been al-Qaeda bombings here in the capital, and I can here gunfire in my neighbourhood. I am forty years old and I have never seen anything like this.”
“These Arabs are thinking with their hearts. They do not comprehend the reality of war. Syria is not like Libya, we have a huge army. Two or three million people will die. And for what? For a change in government? Is it worth it?”.
Telegraph
“We love Bashar al-Assad, we love our President,” effused a Christian woman, a mother of three, at one of pro-regime rallies that frequently spring up in the city centre. “He is a righteous man, a great man. Life under him is good, everyone lives well. I can send my children to university for free”.
To the soundtrack of the national anthem, state television shows rolling images of a calm capital, shaken only by throngs of patriots speaking of their love for the president.
Damascus is a city in denial with residents mumbling about the events of the last 11 months as a distant problem that is restricted to the city suburbs or other parts of the country that will soon fade away.
But in reality the Syrian revolution has already arrived.
Only a matter of two miles across this vast city in its restive warrens armed gunmen are beginning to control the streets.
Related Articles
Syria: crimes against humanity 'likely committed'
13 Feb 2012
A new terror threatens Syria
13 Feb 2012
Syrian army fires on Homs cemetery
13 Feb 2012
Syria: no let up in Homs bombardment
14 Feb 2012
As night falls over the central district of Barzeh, crowds of men, women and children gather among the crumbling old city walls to shout for the downfall of the regime. Walking, silently, and swiftly down narrow alleyways, they pass men sporting balaclavas and clutching Kalashnikovs stationed at the entrances to the public square. Members of the group that likes to call itself the Free Syrian Army, they provide ‘security’ for the demonstrators.
For months these protests would last minutes, or be violently dispersed up by security forces. Over thirty people have been shot dead here by regime security, locals told the Daily Telegraph. But now, surrounded by their own military, the crowds are becoming ever more confident and openly defiant.
“Now we have our fighters to protect us, the regime knows this and they don’t dare to come here. We are not safe but now if the regime wants to come he has to bring tanks and troops,” said Asra, a Sunni Muslim pharmacist who has been calling for the demise of the regime since early April.
Drumbeats accompanied the crowd in dances and songs that have been well rehearsed over the 11 month uprising. Crowds waved the revolutionary flag, jumping up and down as they yelled passionate cries of ‘death to Bashar, death to the donkey!”. Men in fluorescent yellow jackets, their faces wrapped in cloth to prevent being identified in photographs worked as stewards managing the crowds. A boy no older than 12 stood on a makeshift podium leading the crowds.
The slogans, a medley of prayers of solidarity for the ‘brothers’ coming under relentless bombardment in other cities, cries of outrage against the regime, and calls to remember the ‘martyrs’ killed in the last month, showed the boiling anger that has sprung from the months of violent unrest.
“This lady's son died here, in these protests,” shouted Asra above the noise of the crowds. “He shouted to the police ‘why are you killing us? Please stop’. So they shot him dead.”
“They killed this boys’ father,” she added, grabbing the shoulders of a 12-year-old with curly brown hair and deep brown eyes. “He comes here everyday to call for freedom and revenge on his father.”
Most uproarious came united cries of "first we trust in God, and then in our Free Syrian Army!". The armed gunmen watched silently from the rooftops.
But the innocence of the peaceful protests are giving way to a more sinister form of action. Outside of the protests, Burzeh’s streets are filled with the secret informants for the opposition. Lounging on street corners, young men listen to conversations, and watch the movements of residents, intent on weeding out the "spies"; people who reveal activities of the opposition to the regime, or in some cases are passionately aligned with the President.
Activists from Barzeh admitted to the Daily Telegraph that eight people have been assassinated in area in the past few months, but the figure is likely to be higher.
Those that are not killed, are bullied into toeing the line. Shopfront covers dotted across the district have an ‘X’ sprayed on them. “We do that to those that don’t close their shops when we call for a strike. It is a warning that they must join us,” said Asra.
Barzeh is not the only pocket of defiance in central Damascus. Activists say that across the capital men are secretly being armed.
“[Bashar al-Assad] kills us, we are not his people. He is a criminal,” said Hana, another activist. “Before we did not want to kill anyone, we did not want to use weapons, but now we don’t see any other way. Now this is war.”
“They don’t want us to live in freedom,” said the wife of a wealthy Sunni businessman. “They think this is about money, but it is not, it is about dignity.” ‘They’ she said, refers to the Alawites, the minority ruling sect.
Asked where their place should be in society after the regime falls, many activists shrugged their shoulders, having given it little thought. “We will be the majority,” said one Sunni opposition member simply.
“All those that killed, must be killed,” said another Sunni activist. Working with an organisation that promotes democracy and freedom, he had long spoke the language of peace. But after months of seeing his friends killed or beaten, or family members arrested, logic was overrun by visceral emotion.
Many opposition activists remain committed to the belief that they do not want this to be sectarian war, but increasingly they grudgingly accept that it may become one. With this battle largely divided along sectarian lines, the only common understanding between all sides is that the road ahead is likely to be a bloody one.
A Sunni local journalist told the Daily Telegraph of his fears.
“We are a moderate Muslim family, with many Alawite friends. But now my brother comes home from protests speaking about the ‘filthy Alawites’. Imagine how people who have lost their loved ones in this war feel”.
“When you see the YouTube footage, the videos of torture, arrests and house raids, the perpetrators are always speaking in an Alawite accent. So now when anti government protestors hear this accent they connect it to the dirty act,” he added.
“My Alawite friends are frightened. First they were frightened of losing their position in society, now they are also frightened for their lives.”
Across the city, in Alawite and Christian neighbourhoods, hatred for the opposition is also virulent. “I hate dogs, we have too many dogs in the suburbs,” spat an Alawite woman as state television showed images of the ‘terrorists’ attacking her country. “Our President will never surrender to them”.
As Damascus is plunged into darkness by daily power cuts, businesses languish under biting sanctions, and Western nations up the rhetoric against President Assad, minority groups in the city are increasingly living in fear.
Christians who have long supported the Alawite regime in order to ensure protections and rights for themselves feel their status is threatened, and that the comfort of their livelihood is inextricably linked with the survival of the regime.
“We are all afraid,” said ‘Adam’, a wealthy businessman. “There have been al-Qaeda bombings here in the capital, and I can here gunfire in my neighbourhood. I am forty years old and I have never seen anything like this.”
“These Arabs are thinking with their hearts. They do not comprehend the reality of war. Syria is not like Libya, we have a huge army. Two or three million people will die. And for what? For a change in government? Is it worth it?”.
Telegraph
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