Friday, January 30, 2015

Somebody Interviewed Assad. Chill out.

Many people I know were quick to jump on Jonathan Tepperman's throat because he interviewed Assad. The interview itself was remarked upon widely for the insane comments that Assad made, completely divorced from reality and quite clearly an attempt to portray himself as a reasonable, sensible man that the West can do business with against ISIS. The result of this interview, however, was very different; Assad simply came across as deluded or a pathological liar, something that was confirmed by Tepperman himself when asked about his impressions of that man. So the crisis is averted and we can all stop beating ourselves into a social media frenzy.

There's a strong tendency amongst Syrians supporting the revolution for group think, and we need to stop that. It doesn't help our case, it doesn't help Syrians, and it just alienates people who might be trying to help us in their own way. Not everybody needs to have exactly the same view. We don't all need to have the same friends, talk the same way, and use the same language. I myself find plenty of pro-revolution Syrians who use ridiculous terminology and say the stupidest things when referring to the Syrian conflict and I bite my tongue and shut up because it's negative and counter-productive. That's the price I've agreed to pay for supporting freedom of speech in Syria, I'm learning to deal with the fact that stupid people will say things and other people will agree with them sometimes. We all just have to have believe in each other a bit more. I want Assad's regime to be dismantled, and while I do worry that the world is forgetting us and that it might even forget about the horrible things that his dictatorship has done to Syria, I also know it is enough that I won't forget.

.

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

"In effect, the Syrian revolution is a monster"

Four years on and the commentary and perceptions surrounding Syria continue to be mired in childish perceptions and hopes. We think, as Syrians living abroad, and supporting the revolution, that we have an historic opportunity to right the wrongs of the past and all that we saw wrong with Syrian societies. Perhaps, but that is unlikely. The Syria that will emerge from this will be deeply conservative, deeply Islamic, and mired in conspiracy theories and ignorance. Any future government will be paranoid, paralysed, or both, owing to the nature of the divisions that we have been subjected to as a country. In fact, the Syrian state as a project is likely to be dead, and herein lies the strength of the Islamic State's vision, if nothing else, because it so far offers the only other terrifying alternative to Assad. This does not mean the Islamic State must not be resisted, simply that it must be understood, because it is tapping into something that is at the core of what makes Syria.

We think if we sing some songs, write some banners, play some games with children, and blog or intellectualise ourselves into a frenzy, that we have played our part in the revolution, but in truth the honeymoon stage of the Syrian revolution ended less than a year after it started. Yes, many activists kept trying to keep the myth of the Syrian revolution's idealistic phase alive, but they paid the price for this naiveté, most often with their lives. Recently a rumour, as yet unconfirmed, spread that a popular figure of the Syrian revolution, Abdel Baset Sarout (a former football player), had joined the ranks of ISIS (either out of desperation or conviction) and the news sent shockwaves through Syrian activists who had held him up as the best of Syria's revolution. It felt like a trust had been betrayed, but this was because we do not know where Sarout comes from. The Syria he lives and breathes in, that he sees, is alien to us, and even after four years we have only seen glimpses of it.

I once blogged that I believed there were two Syrias: one that was relatively modern, secular and aspired to lifestyles like the West; and another that was Eastern, Other, and Islamic. This other half, more than half in fact, is the Syria where people speak Arabic, think Arabic, and where tradition, religion, and tribal links are far more important than wearing jeans and owning an iPhone. We, and I count myself as one of them, pretended that this other Syria wasn't important, or that we ourselves came from it, but we didn't, not by a long shot. We talked about Palestine, anti-imperialism and national sovereignty as if we knew something, as if we ourselves were Syrian, but what we failed to acknowledge is that we were a thin peel, irrelevant, when push came to shove. In hindsight we were almost comical, but we had money and middle to upper class status so we thought we were all there was to the country.

Silly young Syrians, like myself, studying in foreign universities, talked revolution, Fanon and Malcolm X while fetishising the Palestinian struggle for years but we did not create this revolution, expect it, or want it. The people who created it came from the beating heart of Syria - from it's backbone and 'dark' interior. These were the people who were uncorrupted by city life and proximity to the regime, and whose sense of moral outrage was not diluted by comfortable living. They are Syria's greatest strength but also it's weakness, because the revolutions they unleash, when they come, result in a terrible reckoning that will not be recovered from easily. In effect, the Syrian revolution is a monster, or something akin to a force of nature, that was triggered by the corrupt and inept rule of a brutal dictatorship. One could even say that the Assad regime created the Syrian revolution, and it could not have been anything other than what it was - something many of us can have trouble accepting.

The pro-regime Syrians are rightly terrified of what will come, because they understand this dark heart of the country and tried for over forty years to repress it, and whoever runs ISIS recognises it, and they have tapped into it with startling effect. But pro-revolution Syrians mostly do not. Certainly not the generation of Syrians that have lived in the West most of their lives. They are sometimes allowed to help with aid and foreign advocacy because this dark heart of Syria, this "Avicennan"-style essence, without which there would be no Syria, will tolerate them, and needs all the help it can get, but "foreign" Syrians (again for lack of a better word) with their rubber independence day flag bracelets are spectators. We, as "foreign" Syrians, scratch our heads in puzzlement as to why the West is not coming to help our revolution, why they won't listen to us, and I suspect this is mainly because we ourselves do not know our country, though we claim to come from it.

We're also puzzled as to why our fellow Syrians mock our calls for respecting human rights and international law, and this is fundamentally down to our own failure to articulate, without condescension, an authentically Syrian translation of human rights, one that merges seamlessly with the traditions and religions that we instead deride and view as an inconvenience. If we try to know this Syria and step out of our ivory towers, if we get to know its pulse and it's language then, maybe, we will have a chance at building something and helping when the storm blows over. And we can then listen and understand and try to explain to the world what Syrians have been dying to say.

.

Friday, December 05, 2014

This is killing me...



You're looking at the picture of a dead man. He's surrounded by men who will watch as he is killed and they will feel nothing. He's the enemy, and for them that's enough that he die. But look at his face.  He's a boy. He's terrified, and he is feeling something I wouldn't wish on anybody, utter hopelessness. I can't look at this and not feel something stab in my chest. I don't want to talk about how he is a regime soldier, or about how maybe he did terrible things, or that maybe he didn't. Some will say that after four years he had a choice to make, but that's not our call to make. I don't think any man deserves an end like this, without trial, without dignity. When we give a human being his dignity, we are preserving our own, and when we pronounce a just sentence on a man for the actions he's done, only then do we do that with the righteousness of good and free people who have had an enormous responsibility thrust in their arms. The fact that evil men have thrust us all into this mess and made us suffer horribly is no excuse. And the fact that I haven't suffered like this is no excuse for me not to speak up when something is horribly wrong.

This, this is not human, not right. Somewhere out there this boy had a mother who once caressed his hair and loved him and raised him, and is probably waiting for his next phone call to tell her he is safe and not to worry. But that's what all mothers do, they worry. Today, tomorrow, somewhere in Syria, she is going to get horrible news, and I hope to God she never sees this picture.
.

Monday, November 03, 2014

By Air Mail "Par Avion"

I can't remember the last time my family sat down at the dinner table all together. Even before the revolution it was as if some invisible force was conspiring to send us on divergent paths. The long days when nothing seemed to happen, when we kept seeing each other every day and took each other for granted, when we had the luxury of arguing with each other over things that don't even matter anymore. Those days appear to have vanished in a puff of smoke. Can you honestly even remember what the arguments were for? What it was that had annoyed us all so much that we would walk off muttering under our breath?

When I remember Damascus I remember the hot sun beating down on us, glinting from the chrome of a dozen parked cars we would walk by. The outside world was somewhere that swallowed people whole. I'd hear stories of relatives who travelled abroad and never came back, who had settled and forgotten. Others returned, and when they did they had lovely things with them, and they spoke of a wondrous world with clean streets and markets where you could buy anything you want. And my friends and I would sigh and think of that big wide world, with its marvels, and wonder when we would ever be able to go out there and make our mark. In Syria nothing ever happened. The days merged, one after the other. We would lie down on our pillows at the end of the day, stripped to undershorts because it is so hot, and listen to the curtains as they slid and rustled in a stray night breeze. The sound of a distant television from the neighbours or the music of a car as it drove past our building, crystal clear for a moment before the night swallowed it again. The days moved on, jokes were made, arguments had, groceries bought, television watched, and visits made. But nothing changed.

I wonder sometimes if any of it was ever real. What would I tell younger Syrians who have never lived there, who had never experienced that timeless state of existence? Perhaps I can tell them it was a waste of time, that we were living a lie because we lived under a tyranny. But that would be a lie. The dictatorship had nothing to do with that magical world we inhabited, where we carried on our small lives and the news was something we watched on television, not lived. That magic came from somewhere else, from family and friends and neighbours, from sharing both the good and bad times, of standing with each other when somebody passed, and asking about one another and about how we were doing. I would tell younger Syrians that our home had a morning and evening rota of guests who would pop in for a quick coffee.

N would come visit us on her afternoon break from work in a nearby office, she was a lovely soft-spoken woman with short cropped hair and the gentlest gaze that I can remember to this day. She would sit and talk to my grandmother and aunt about life and diets and things they had seen on the television. After that we would have M, who would hobble up the steps and then set her massive body down in the middle of our large sofa, taking it over. You could hear her voice from the other end of the street. The other N would also visit us, usually in the evening. She had a laugh like a cackle and whenever she was over we would all laugh a lot. Then there was L, she lived with her brother on the same street, in the building next to us. Her thing was reading the coffee cup. After drinking the bitter black coffee the cups would be overturned on the saucers and left to dry for a few minutes. Then each person would bring her their coffee cup and she would start reading it for them. I was always fascinated by what she claimed to see in them, and whenever I looked I saw a strange patchwork of shapes and patterns left by the dried coffee deposit at the bottom of the cups. At the end she would ask the owner of the cup to stick their thumb in the bottom and suck the coffee off it. That was like "sealing the deal" for this bizarre ritual.

And that was how news of the world reached us, from people who always visited. The door was always open, the coffee was always on the stove, and conversation welcomed. Even the arrival of satellite television didn't change this social aspect. We were always in contact with each other, always talking to each other and exchanging stories and news. That was real, it happened. Those people existed even if we are now scattered to the four corners of the earth. But as I said earlier there was always this invisible force that was sending us on different paths. It started with relations and distant relatives, then uncles, aunts, cousins, and soon ourselves. That last sleepless night before the ride to the airport that we all get. All of a sudden the bravado and excitement of seeing the world isn't as appealing as it was in the daylight. You realise that you are leaving - all this...and it was valuable, it had meaning to us. These dilapidated houses and crowded streets, you realised that you are going to miss them. Then the final goodbye at the airport. Everybody is standing there, you kiss them all, hug them, say you will call. They ask that Allah protect you and guide you. Then it's time to go. You turn around and head for that big door, that invisible line beyond which you can't return from. But you turn back and look, and wave. You keep doing this, walking a bit, looking back. You want to see if they are still there, waiting for you to disappear. They are smiling, and you'd do anything to be standing with them there.

And that's how you remember them, that last glance. Even if nowadays it's a lot easier to speak on Skype and email and Viber. In the old days you had to buy a phone card and call using special phone  numbers, earlier still you had to go to phone centres and buy minutes to call abroad. Or you wrote letters and sent them in those light blue "Par Avion" envelopes with the dark blue and red outlines. And slowly you get used to that life abroad. You make new friends, settle. You visit, but it's not the same. The people waiting at the airport aren't exactly the same as the ones who said goodbye to you. People have moved on without you, and with each visit one less person is there, sometimes replaced by a new person, sometimes not. You get bad news on the phone, one other person you never imagined life without has now vanished. And eventually you realise that nobody you know is left. If you go back now it is a city of strangers. Different people now walk the streets of your memories, and it is you who is the stranger.

.

Saturday, November 01, 2014

Changing a World

For the past three years I've been doing a lot of soul searching and trying to come to terms with the tragedy that is unfolding in front of the world. I don't pretend to have all the answers, and the truth be told I'm more frustrated at my own impotence than with the world's inaction. When I was younger I always thought I could change the world and that nothing was impossible if I put my mind to it. I know now that this is not really the way life works. First you need to have the right background, socially and financially. Then you need to have the right connections. Finally, and most importantly, you need to have the right passport. You learn quickly that life is about learning where the walls are, and where you stand in relation to everybody else. You might be walking down the same street as another, possibly go to the same class in school, but you could be living in totally different worlds.

We had that in Syria. We lived in different worlds and we were strangers to each other. The school I went to had a lot of rich children and as I grew up I realised that not everybody had problems paying the fees as we did, or have to buy their groceries on tab and be gently reminded whenever it got too big. One time I accidentally broke the glass to our classroom door and the school wanted me to pay the 800 Syrian pounds to have it replaced. The whole class was told that the window won't be replaced until I paid for it, and so I faced the daily terror of coming to school each morning and being asked by friends why my family wouldn't pay that money. And when they did and the glass was finally replaced I happened to be shutting the door when it cracked a second time. I don't remember if I had to pay again, because the glass obviously wasn't installed properly, but at the time it felt to me that if lightning were to strike anybody twice then it would be me.

Then there was that fateful day when I was told by my parents that we won't be going to the school because there was a "mix-up". The days turned into weeks, months, and then years, and I stopped answering the phone when friends called. I secretly opened a letter from the school my parents had hid and found out it was because we hadn't paid the fees. But I kept on pretending to believe them for a long time. I'd meet some friends occasionally, but generally I'd had enough. I couldn't pretend to be in the same circles and hang out carefree in the pizza parlours and spend my allowance like my friends because I didn't have an allowance and because even taking a taxi to get to where they were meeting was something I had to think long and hard about. And then there were the 'other' problems at home that made me feel even more isolated from my friends, because they all seemed so well adjusted when I'd visit their homes, problems that I couldn't even start talking to anybody about at the time. So I chose to be alone, and I sat and watched the world go by each day from our balcony, and imagined a life where I can get away from it all, where all our problems would be solved and I would be able to afford a PC and loads of music CD's and be able to go to school and study something wonderful and creative and meet new friends and have a life and get a great job and - dare I even think it - meet a nice girl and get married one day. I day-dreamed a lot because there was nothing left to do, and when I left Syria for the first time in 1998 I was still a dreamer, with no idea of how I was going to do anything and no idea what I really wanted. I did get to study, I did get many jobs, and I'm typing this post on a shiny new iMac that the younger me would only have dreamed about. These are quiet, small victories for me that I secretly savour, though something I suspect many of my old school friends would still find hard understanding.

When I went to Reyhanli to volunteer at the Salaam school last December and then again in June I was struck by the fact that I was going back to a proper school for the first time since I was fifteen and I was meeting students who are the same age I was then, though I don't remember looking anywhere near as young. It was an intense rush for me because I'd spent over two decades trying hard to forget these things. Those weeks were all about the children, but I got so much more in return. It felt like a waterfall of emotion, and I was coming to terms with memories such as the broken window and the grocery tab that kept growing and growing and the long months and years outside school, things I hadn't even thought about till then. I was standing in a room full of children who had exactly the same worries and insecurities, and who were going through the exact same thing I was. And they were all looking at me expecting I-don't-know-what, and some of them would cry saying they felt they had no future and that the world had abandoned them and they were missing out on a real life. Maybe it was fate, but I did something then I had never done before, I told the class that I had to leave school just like them. A girl raised her hand and asked me why, and I could feel them all look at me intently. I paused for a split-second and told her it was because my daddy didn't have the money to pay the school fees. The class was silent, I suppose it must have sounded odd to them that this guy coming from abroad should have had the same problems as they did. I told them everything, and in doing that I remembered, and I came to terms with these things myself, a process that is still going on now.

I told the children that I used to be afraid about the future as well, and about having my life slip away while the world moved on. I told them how I used to feel embarrassed to see friends in the street because I didn't want to tell them that I wasn't going to school anymore, and then I told them that it took me a long time to go back to university and to study but I did it in the end; that it wasn't going to be easy, but that whenever I thought the doors of the world were closed on me a small portal would open for me somewhere, call it karma or the universe or kismet. And I told them that each one of them had a portal just for them, a chance, however small, and that they could take it if they kept their eyes open. I told them that they'd each have their time, and that one day they will look back on these days and think about what they went through and that they'd even feel a bit nostalgic. Their eyes were a little bit wider as I told them all this. And I knew then why I was really volunteering there, and why sitting with these children and spending time with them was so important.

When the week was over and we all said goodbye I couldn't help but feel that maybe there was a reason I had to go through all those difficulties myself, I mean, none of these children were even born when I left school and left Syria. Somehow we shared a common experience, and I was able to reach out to them from across all those years to tell each and every one of them that it will be alright, and mean it, because I knew that the universe provides for us all in its own strange way. I know now that we can't change everything or erase what's already happened, but if we pay attention to life closely enough, and if we want to, we can try to change somebody's world for the better.

.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

US Strikes In Syria

Since 2011 Assad has progressively escalated his war against the Syrian people. His regime set the daily killing quotas, they escalated from small arms fire to tanks, cannon, rockets and airplanes. As the days turned into weeks and the months turned into years we were subjected to the same diatribe demanding that innocent unarmed people die for the principles of those watching them from a thousand miles away. Anybody who thought otherwise was dismissed as a warmonger. The chemical attacks came, and still the world did nothing. Then ISIS emerged, it almost overran the north of Syria before the Free Syrian Army along with Jabhat al Nusra pushed it out, and it went on to overrun most of Iraq. Then the world took notice but that was only because ISIS were about to commit the mother of all massacres against the Azidis of Iraq. Nobody complained about the airstrikes against ISIS in Iraq. Today those airstrikes began in Syria, and like earthworms after the rain the people who were silent before have now appeared and are able to speak.

Now they wring their hands in anguish. They pray for Syria. They wish there was another way. They worry about the innocents whose lives would be lost if the US led strikes against Syria materialised. Maybe to them a death by a US made bomb is a far worse fate than being killed by a Russian made one. So they shake their heads, "No, this won't do at all. It is one thing to watch a country bleed white over the course of three years, but to have the United States cauterise the cancer that is ISIS immediately, well that's just outrageous".

There's only one reason why the United States is bombing ISIS in northern Syria, and that's because the Assad regime gunned down innocent protesters in 2011. In his first speech after the protests in Deraa, and when his regime could no longer pretend like nothing was happening, he ranted and raved about a terrorism that didn't exist in Syria yet. He warned, no he threatened, that Syria will turn into another Afghanistan. He abandoned the north east of Syria, he struck oil deals with ISIS, he deliberately avoided bombing their headquarters whilst raining his wrath on the parts of Syria in control by the Free Syrian Army. His army obliterated parts of Homs, and eviscerated Aleppo, in a scorched earth policy that his soldiers spray-paint christened as "Assad or this country burns". If there is anybody who holds the moral blame for all that has befallen Syrians since then, it is this bankrupt regime and its Russian and Iranian backers.

Syrians have had three years of this murder. Three years of his apologists using smoke and mirrors and every trick in the book to paralyse the international community and prevent it from doing anything about the barrel bombs and the chlorine bombs dropping on the heads of civilians. Again and again the spectre of Iraq is raised, not so that anybody can learn anything, but to frighten anyone from action, however much needed, to help Syrians. The anti-imperialist camp must, at any cost, oppose intervention in Syria and they are pathologically incapable of comprehending its necessity. Others will get on to the moral high horse and say that strikes on Syria will lead to innocent lives being lost. Of course, they don't seem to mind much that the very next day those lives could be lost either by an overzealous ISIS fanatic enforcing his apocalyptic vision of a utopian society, or that death could come by Assad's barrel bombs or rocket attacks or air strikes. No, for that they can only offer the potential victims a lot of moral anguish, hand wringing and anxiety as they are crushed between Assad and ISIS. Heaven forbid that anybody interfere, that anybody try to do something.

Last year many of those same people cheered with joy that strikes against the Assad regime were averted after he used chemical weapons against the Syrian people. Since then the death toll in Syria has risen to over 200,000. But they have nothing to say about that. They've been too busy spending the last year basking in the warm glow of their own self righteousness. Since then Assad and his Shiite allies have managed to push back the Free Syrian Army (without ever challenging ISIS seriously) and ISIS has emerged from a fringe lunatic group to a lunatic messianic state controlling an area larger than the size of England. The non-interventionists are responsible for this turn of events, and they are responsible for the rise of ISIS. They offered no solutions, only obstacles. They don't have a position you can criticise. They just insist that nobody have a position either, that Syrians die for the principles of somebody else; somebody who can rubber-stamp the revolution and say, "Yes, you're a bonafide revolution and we approve of you", and say to them, "We will sing your praises in post-graduate Middle East courses across the Western world for all time, and write books about your sacrifices". 

The fact is non-interventionists have no right to talk about who may or may not get hurt in Syria, to pretend to be concerned for the innocent, and they have no right to hold the moral high ground after the debacle we've seen in Syria for the last twelve months. This is a disaster, step aside and let someone do something about it.  

.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Tired

Time is so short, yet the days go by so very long...
A seed dropped in the desert, thirsty for your rain.

Hold my face in your hands.
Let this tired loser rest...

.