A report on Egypt from a friend

A very good friend of mine (who wishes to remain anonymous) recently visited Egypt and wanted to share his thoughts about what he saw there. A very interesting insight into the state of the country following the toppling of Mubarak. 


Why the “Egyptian revolution” died before even starting.

My recent visit to Cairo was an eye opener on the nature of the revolution in Egypt. From the airport the foreign observer can see there is something off in this country and that people are in a strange mindset built on pride turned arrogance and anger turned envy.

The main conclusion of my trip to Egypt is that nothing has changed. The regime is still in place with the army controlling anything worth controlling. The system has used the demonstrations to get rid of the Mubarak family that was getting a bit too greedy but has ensured nothing would change. The generals are still dictating their orders behind the scene but how could it be any different when you see the physical importance of the army. Indeed, from the airport, you pass next to a huge number of buildings and bases that are all owned by the army in its different components. In other words, the army has built and controls such a network that it is not a “small revolution” that will impact their power.

Now let’s be honest, none of this is a surprise. We were all concerned about the “peaceful” military coup and the impact it would have on the revolution. The real surprise came from the people and their behaviour. The first surprise was the complete dislocation of the society. The divide is frightening with a happy few living (even now) like they are in Miami and the vast majority fighting for a piece of bread. Even now, clubs and fashionable bars are packed with Gucci wearing boys and girls who don’t hesitate to spend 300 dollars on a bottle of Blue Label or a Russian prostitute... while in the bazaar you can see people begging for a piece of bread. Even now, the upper class lives like they can suck the life out of this country ad vitam aeternam. They are still spending on booz and shiny things and disregard completely those who are standing at the door. They are still behaving like Egypt is not a Muslim country with places that are forbidden to a woman wearing the hijab. They are still living on a rent provided by the regime we wanted to believe was overthrown.

The second  surprise came from the prevalent mindset on the street. This was the most frightening sight during this trip. The best way to describe the situation is to use the word ANARCHY. It is not like Cairo was an easy going city where people were kind to each other in the first place but the situation has seriously deteriorated. The number of kidnapping is now equivalent to Sao Paulo in the late nineties and street criminality is worse than any place I have been to (and I have been to Mexico!). Any opportunity to take a few pounds is good from the cashier selling the visa to the garbage truck. The excuse used by all my interlocutors is the fact that people have discovered how much was stolen from the country by the apparatchiks of the regime and they see the state of poverty they live in... and they think: “Why not me, why wouldn’t I steal as well and take from those who have more than me”. The information, the discovery of the financial crimes of the regime has generated anger and envy instead of goodwill and a need for justice. People don’t want justice, they don’t believe the regime can ever give them justice, they only care about themselves and that’s it. All the stories we heard on tv about young guys helping with traffic and with the security of their neighbourhood is now in the past because the current situation (as I experienced it) is that any service is billable (and at the highest possible price) and that militias or private security are making a lot of money out of the anarchy reigning in town.

The fact is you cannot build a revolution without a doctrine and without principles. A revolution needs theoreticians to build the framework and the direction. France had Robespierre and Marat, Russia had Marx and Lenin but what do we have in Egypt... A revolution without head, without doctrine, without ideal. This is called anarchy! There is a clear lack of ideology and rules. Everyone says they want more freedom and justice but what is their definition of freedom? Nobody can tell me or tell the people of Egypt... So, they do what is best for them and for their close relatives... That’s called Anarchy and nothing good has ever come out of anarchy. Yes, the Egyptian revolution died before starting and what we saw on Maydan Tahrir was the initiation of an apocalyptic anarchist ritual not the beginning of a glorious revolution. Today, Egypt is a failed state with a corrupt army, a corrupt police, an economic elite enriched by rents instead of innovation and risk taking... and people who don’t care about their neighbours or their homeland. It is anarchy!

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The Syrian army destroys Syria in order to save it

The lion is very angry but he doesn't seem to be making very much sense these days. I don't understand what the Syrian regime thinks it can accomplish by doing what it is doing. Crush the uprising before Ramadan? Break the spirit of the people? Somehow I find it hard to believe that after four months of facing the most terrible of dangers that the Syrian people will be cowed into submission by a desperate show of force. But what can we really expect from this regime that has only managed to excel at self-preservation during the forty years it has been in power.

The Americans and the Israelis bomb the country willy-nilly, yet we don't hear a peep out of the Syrian regime. But if the Syrian people ask for freedom and dignity, well, we can't have that, now, can we? Oh no, the beloved leader is very happy to use the Syrian army to occupy Syrian cities and villages but when the Israeli army shoots Syrians on the Golan Heights then the valiant Syrian army is nowhere to be seen. This regime and its apologists have always favoured the argument of "the plan" as a justification for the humiliation and stupidity that is called the Syrian regime. If the enemies of Syria bomb it, Syria "will respond in a time and place of its choosing" (read that as never and nowhere), and when the Syrian army is riddled with corruption, sleaze, inefficiency and poor morale, we are told that the "real" Syrian army has some devastating and secret weapons that it can use, but it is hiding them from the prying eyes of the Zionist enemy. I see, is this the same Zionist enemy that somehow managed to assassinate a Syrian army general in Lattakia? Or Imad Mughniyeh in Damascus? I feel safe already...

Today, the brave Syrian army is fighting a vicious and courageous battle against ghosts that only exist on Syrian regime newspapers and television stations. This ghost is dastardly, bearded and armed. He cuts Syrian soldiers to pieces and feasts on their kidneys in an orgy of violence and terror. He puts burkas on Syrian maidens and brainwashes children to become violent religious extremists. The Syrian people don't realise how mortal a danger they are in, how deeply they have already been implicated. So the Syrian army must destroy Syria in order to save it.

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شام - ريف دمشق- سقبا - انشقاق متظاهر سلمي وانضمامه...

Highly amusing spoof of a peaceful protestor 'defecting' to the Shabiha thugs.

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مظاهرات مدينة سلمية / جمعة صمتكم يقتلنا 29/7/2011

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I haven't commented about very much recently, but I must say I think it is a disgrace that Somalia can be undergoing such a serious famine whilst Saudi Arabia, the land of profligacy and excess, is so close to it. Somalia is one of those countries that intrigue me, what with the fact that it has never been a proper country, the levels of piracy on its coastlines and the interminable civil war and countless militias and warlords that keep emerging. I was told by a friend of mine who had been to Kenya that Kenyans despise Somali refugees, sometimes speeding up their cars as if to run them over if spotted. What a tragedy.

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The Torture of My Father by the Syrian Regime

My father was arrested and tortured by the Syrian regime in the eighties. Many of my friends and acquaintances don't know this little fact, and it is something I have not talked about except to those who are very close to me. Even as a family we've never really sat down and discussed it, we just left it buried in the past hoping to move on with our lives. My father told me the full story a few years ago, in one of the few discussions we've shared as adults, putting into perspective a very dim memory I had of the night of his arrest.

Today Syria is at the crossroads, at a historical junction point, and I feel it is a duty of mine to write down this memory and to share it. For the regime apologists who have always tried to convince me with doublespeak and lies, now you know why none of your excuses ever had any effect on me. I was never under any illusion as to what this regime represented or of what it was capable of and in writing this post I hope it helps slightly with the healing process that the entire country needs to go through. I pray for justice and not revenge. I'll start with what I remember happening, and then I'll relate what he told me.

That night I was very excited; I think I was not older than seven years old. This was the first time my father would fly down with us to Syria. Almost every summer we used to fly back from Larnaca to Damascus and spend a few weeks at my grandmother's house, but it was never with my father. We went through passport control in Damascus International Airport uneventfully, and I remember we were picked up by both my uncle and my aunt. We put the luggage into the trunk and then began driving away from the airport. We had barely started driving to the airport exit before our car was overtaken by white Peugeot's and police cars. Men surrounded our vehicle and were banging on it but when my uncle rolled out the window he was told to shut up and stay in the car. They asked if he was my father and he said no. Then they opened the rear doors of the car where I was sitting in the middle between my mother and father. They asked my father his name and subsequently grabbed him and started to drag him out of the car, swearing and yelling. I kept asking him where he was going and my mother kept telling me to stay quiet. My father turned to me and said these are his friends, that they wanted him to go with them. I kept saying I wanted to go with him, but my mother pulled me back and wouldn't let me move. We were finally allowed to drive off, and I was again told these were his friends, and that they insisted on taking him with them because they miss him. All I remember is being upset that I couldn't go.

Over the weeks I continued to ask about where my father was, and I was given excuses that he was at my other grandparent's house, or that he was busy. One morning we woke up and found that he had come back. I still recall seeing him for the first time. He looked very tired and his feet were in a tub of water that smelled horrible because of some medicine that was in it. I asked him why his feet were bleeding and swollen, and he said that he had stepped on some nails by accident one night as he went to get a glass of water. That was all there was to it, until I grew old enough to realise that something was wrong with that story.

What my father would tell me many years later was shocking. He had been pulled out of our car and taken to a white Peugeot, the vehicle of choice for the Syrian security services. He was ordered to tuck his head between his legs and was crammed between three or four intelligence men. He was amazed that so many people could be made to fit in it. They beat him if he raised his head and the two men on either side of him shoved the barrels of their machine guns into his waist which hurt him a lot. He remembers being driven for what seemed like an eternity, and getting beaten if he moved or raised his head. Then they were driven into what he thinks was a building, the car stopped and he was ordered to get out. He was in some kind of bay with high walls and with guards holding machine guns, all aimed directly at him to fire if he moved. Later he would tell me that this amused him slightly, that all this fuss was over him like he was somebody important. He was then shoved into a cell which had many people and that had filthy floors. One man in the cell kept annoying him and asking him why he was really there, but my father told him he didn't know. He also thought, and rightly, that the man had been put there to try to find more information about him. Later he was taken to a massive and well furnished office where a superior of some sort was seated behind an enormous desk. 'Come B, the commander said gently, come closer and let's have a chat. What is somebody from a good family like yourself doing here, what is the matter?'

My father told him he was clueless as to why he was arrested, and gradually the conversation became more tense. There was a guard standing next to my father, and when he kept insisting he knew nothing the guard began beating him. Now the officer was angry, he shoved a piece of paper and a pen in front of my father and ordered him to write down his entire life story. Once that was finished, they dragged my father off to an interrogation room and over a period of several days he was beaten, caned, hosed down with water and  whipped with electric cables and put into a tyre where he was beaten some more. He was not allowed to sleep and the food was awful. Every time he'd pass out from the pain they would throw a bucket of cold water over him and he would wake with a start. At some point, he was made aware that he could leave. They took him to another branch where he was taken to the main office. There he saw my grandfather and uncle, they had finally managed to pull enough strings to find him and get him out, but they were shocked to see the state he was in. The officer there had been chatting to them amicably, and when my father was seated and offered a coffee, he was asked if there were any hard feelings. My father sarcastically said that there were none, staring directly at the officer. He was then allowed to return home that night.

The ordeal did not end here, however, and over the next few weeks, even though my father could barely walk, he had to report weekly to the mukhabarat offices. Finally, he was given permission to fly abroad and we all went back to Cyprus. The experience changed him for he was never the same after that and, though he never spoke of it much, I know this has always haunted him. My father had no political activities, interests or affiliations. He had absolutely nothing to do with the bogeyman of Syria, the Muslim Brotherhood, or even Islam, for he drank, ate pork and I had never seen him pray in my life. His only crime was the misfortune of being a Syrian and of annoying somebody he worked with at the embassy, so they wrote a false report about him. When he came back to work one of those dogs smiled cruelly at him, "So! I see you've come back to us?". My father looked at him, said yes whilst bitterness engulfed his heart, and began his work for the day. He had kids to feed.

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Ship of Fools - My Thoughts on Syria's Opposition Abroad

As'ad Abu Khalil is right in this regards, this guy is an awful orator - and he is representative of many who speak for the Syrian opposition abroad. In fact, I can almost guarantee that he was given credibility as a speaker and an opportunity to speak precisely because many of the older generation of Syrians are so devoid of imagination, so lacking in intellectual ability, that they think the world is impressed by anybody who has a title of "Doctor". This isn't just in Syria, however, but endemic in the Arab world and it is especially rife in Egypt - that's what I've noticed anyway.

Notice that when you speak to somebody who did a Phd in the Middle East that they always insist on being referred to as "Doctor". In fact, notice the plethora of "Doctors" who pepper Arabic satellite channels. Especially "Doctors" on Islamic channels or on government propaganda channels. We have managed to transform an educational title into something that is disgustingly elitist. In the UK, many of my lecturers would be embarrassed if I called them that, they always insisted I call them "Bob" or "Dave" or "James", and I still do.

I was at the demonstration in front of the embassy last week and whilst chatting to a friend of mine, who happened to be a doctor, I saw several people approach him to ask for his card and see if he would be interested in attending their meetings and discussions. One person said that their group already has "four doctors" and that they are always interested in bringing in more "doctors and intellectuals". Naturally I was ignored because I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt but that suited me fine because I could listen to his stupidity without his realising it. If the cross-section I have come across at these demos is representative of Syrian 'intellectuals and doctors', I despair for the country. One of them has this bizarre party called the Wasat Movement, which represents absolutely nothing as far as I can tell and is utterly generic and bland. This man gives out a business card which has "Poet" as his title. What a silly, pretentious man! To give you an idea of how self important and petty this man is, he once had a vicious argument with another opportunist journalist who works for Levant News (an opposition website), Mohammad Fattouh, about who was to speak to the news camera. He was furious that somebody would try to steal or share the limelight with him. Another 'interesting' personality you can come across in the demonstrations, Obeida Nahass, calls himself a "Syrian politician and journalist" on his Twitter profile. I think I will put down that I too am a politician, and a four star general, on my Twitter profile. Many of you might have seen his son on a lot of protest posters or online, a blue-eyed, blond haired toddler with the Syrian flag painted on his face and shouting defiantly- I even saw a pro-regime acquaintance put that on his Facebook profile.

My impression is that these people are opportunistic, unimaginative to the extreme, and politically clueless. I can so easily see them becoming puppets of the United States or Israel, so desperate are they to assume any kind of power whatsoever. That doesn't mean I don't support the toppling of the corrupt and brutal Syrian regime, but with an opposition like this abroad, the future prospects for Syria remain as bleak as they are with the Assad family still in power. On a positive note, the internal opposition in Syria will, I believe, wash away completely these Cold War relics and political dinosaurs. There are people whom I think are completely amazing, people such as Razan Zeitouneh, Haitham Man'aa, Haitham al Maleh, Michel Kilo, Aref Dalileh and the courageous people running the Local Coordination Committees within Syria. The seeds of a future lie with them, and not with these clowns I see at the London demonstrations.

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Look at these guys, do they look like somebody who can run a country? They couldn't run a a piss-up in a brewery... .

بفكر فى اللى ناسينى - محمد عبد الوهاب

I'm still a human being...

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When Iran is displeased with the United States, katyushas land in the Green Zone.

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A Descent into Madness

It took three months to bring the illness of a whole country up to the surface. Murderous security services, indifferent government officials and slick pro-government advertisements were all mobilised to the service of the one leader and his eternal reign. Was it like this in Germany or Italy? When Mussolini and his Black-Shirts took power? Of course I wouldn't know, I wasn't even born when the 'Corrective Movement' led by the previous immortal leader, father of the present immortal leader, was carried out.There might have been a time when the country was a normal one, when there used to be statesmen, politicians, artists and thinkers who genuinely and freely discussed what they thought was best for the country. But that was so long ago that perhaps nobody really remembers what those days were like. Instead we have a grotesque parody of a country. A nationalism that is embodied with utter loyalty to the father-like figure who is the protector, the educator, the leader. Truly, those who are ignorant of history will be condemned to repeat it. Like a nightmare that is resurfacing, I can see the rise of corporatism and a form of fascism emerging.

Fascism, to the surprise of many people, was not just about burning Jews and gypsies in ovens. It was a disturbing ideology that aimed at subjugating the individual utterly and completely, not to a class but to a country and a leader. Complete obedience, all rights within the state and none outside of it, the individual away from this family collective was worthless. I can't imagine what it was like in Nazi Germany, but perhaps it was similar to what I am seeing today. Intellectuals, writers, artists and painters coming together into this vision of a 'Fatherland' with the wise, benevolent, 'Great Leader' who will look after all and not be afraid to act sternly against his errant children. His picture looks down upon you everywhere, disapprovingly at times, affectionately in others. You can only cry at the awe-inspiring radiance that comes down from his gentle and youthful face. Those who do wrong are punished, and if they promise not to do it again they will be forgiven and allowed to bask in His glory. Those who do not will be shunned by the true believers. By His ardent supporters who sit and listen stupidly to the speeches He makes, to the catchy slogans that his mouthpieces replicate even more stupidly.

Today we have an entire society that has been subjugated into this paternal vision of politics. The industrialists, the politicians, the army, the security services - all worship our leader, our "Fuhrer". But he is not like that Fuhrer, this one is a dwarf compared to that monster, but he is learning quickly. He speaks affectionately of "The Youth" and so his mouthpieces also start speaking of this youth. They speak sombrely and respectfully of the grave issues affecting this youth, of how they are the future of this great nation and how gentle a flower they will grow to become. The 'youth' respond ardently to this call for responsibility as our motherland faces this time of crisis. Facebook groups wax lyrical with affectionate terms of how the youth will rise to 'the challenge set' by this dwarf-Fuhrer. They will get to work, roll up their sleeves, and with youthful exuberance, start building a bright future and stamp out the 'germs of conspiracy'. They will throw rocks at those who displease the dwarf-Fuhrer, they will ridicule those who question his wisdom, they will dutifully march out to show their support for him in the blistering hot sun. He is their father, and they are his bastard offspring. Together they dream of forging a nation in their own image: illegitimate; hideous; and imbecilic.

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What do you think you are doing Mr President?

The only armed gangs that are attacking and killing people in Syria are the gangs which are wearing military uniform and are working for the regime. Today Hama is witnessing the beginnings of what could be another massacre - seven people killed and counting - as the regime begins to tighten down on a city that has been virtually free of security services for almost a week. This is not 1982. Even more astonishing is that in less than a week over one hundred opposition figures will meet with the regime in a conference of "National Dialogue". How exactly national dialogue is supposed to take place whilst bullets are flying and people are being tortured eludes my understanding, but then again the entire political charade that takes place under this regime also stretches the limit of my comprehension.

There is a new reality that is being created on the streets of Syria today, this reality is being shaped in the face of bullets, sticks and knives. No ideologies are driving this, instead you have average people who are sick of corruption, oppression and lies. What kind of a country is it where the police and the armed forces are there to terrorise and occupy the people rather than defend them from criminals or invaders? Some people tell us ridiculous stories that the only alternative to the Assad regime is the Muslim Brotherhood. These are the same people who believed that the only person who was qualified to rule Syria eleven years ago was an ophthalmologist who had never run for political office in his life, who was younger than the age stipulated in the constitution, and who happened to be the former president's son. This insults the intelligence of every rational human being, and it is offensive to me to hear somebody say such things.

The other fallacy that I am expected to believe is that the only protection against sectarianism in Syria is by maintaining the existing sectarian government. As one political commentator (pro-regime) said in an interview recently, Syria is an Alawite state, and like the Jews of Israel, Syria is the only country where Alawites have control over their own affairs. Well that takes the biscuit if anything does and it does put Rami Makhlouf's comments, linking the Syrian regime's stability with stability in Israel, in some kind of perspective. In all honesty, I don't know what Syria will look like if the Assad regime goes, but can anybody honestly say that a regime which is shooting protesters dead is really serious about reforms? The onus is not on the protestors to stop protesting, it is on the government to stop shooting people and start responding to people's demands. The regime so far has shown that it is incapable of doing even that, so the prospect of it leading any kind of meaningful reform are virtually non-existent. Let us stop fooling ourselves.

Will the future be better than today? Nobody knows, but at least Syrians will have a say in it for better or for worse. And I think that is a start for a better Syria.

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I'm very worried about Hama and what is happening there. The city is fiercely independent and the memory of what the regime did there in 1982 is still fresh...

On another note, it is interesting that the second topic which is trending on the FT.com is Syria.

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A Syrian Short Story

He opened his eyes. The first thing that came to his mind was that he had to pee, and urgently. Clambering clumsily out of bed he rushed off to the bathroom, annoyed that he had to wear those clunky plastic slippers before going into the dimly lit, Arabic style toilet. He was always afraid that he might slip and fall into it one day if he was not careful. Having carefully aimed to the centre of the hole and not splashing anything onto the tiled, orange-coloured, floor, he took one end of the water pipe dangling from the tap and splashed water around the area to wash away any traces of urine, just like his father had shown him. Ever since his fifth birthday Samer was very proud of the fact that he didn’t need anybody to go in to the toilet with him. But his father had brought him a little wooden frame to sit on if he needed to do a number two. That was still tricky to manage with this style of toilet, especially when he had to use the pipe to wash up afterwards. He wished they had a toilet more like the one he remembered at his auntie’s house, but they had stopped going there after his mother died last year. His aunt used to give him sweets and let him watch cartoons on their TV. Their TV had channels that showed cartoons all day and night, not like the one they had in the old living room. That one only showed cartoons in the afternoon, and the rest of the time it was all boring grown-up stuff. Samer closed the bathroom door behind him and took off the red plastic slippers, resting them up against the wall, and then walked barefoot to his father’s bedroom. It was Saturday.

The bed was still made up, and his father was nowhere to be seen. Samer frowned at this, and remembered how he had stayed up till it got dark, when he had promised his father he would go to bed. He didn’t really want to go to bed last night, but he felt that if he did this on his own, without being told to, then he’d show how big he was getting. To be honest, there wasn’t much to do once the sun set anyway. The door was closed and Samer had been too afraid to go outside. It seemed that he wasn’t that big yet. The clock ticked silently on the wall as Samer stood at the doorway to his father’s room. Even though his father wasn’t there, it was somehow comforting to just be there. Everything there reminded him of Baba, the shirts hanging from the wall, the comb on the desk of drawers, his father’s prayer mat rolled up at the foot of the bed. On the wall above the bed there was a picture of his parents together. They were smiling down at him from the wall, his father had his arm around his mother and his hair was a lot blacker and thicker than it had become recently. His father’s moustache was also black in the picture, even though Samer knew that now it was mostly grey.

At that moment, a growl from his stomach reminded him that he was feeling hungry. The absence of Samer’s father would have to be thought of later, preferably after eating something. He went off to the living room to open the fridge and see what was inside. Luckily for him their fridge was quite small, and he could see the round plastic container on the middle shelf. He took it out, along with the bed of flat Arabic bread and began scooping the yoghurt with bits of bread that he tore off. Usually his father would have put the yoghurt in a plate, put some of that green stuff on top, mint, that was it, and then some olive oil on top. Everything his dad did was always so nice, but his father had not come back since going out to the mosque the day before. That was very strange indeed, and a horrible thought occurred to Samer at that moment. The night before he had taken sweets from the cupboard, whilst his father had been out of the room, and he had eaten two of them. His father always told him to never eat more than one sweet, otherwise his teeth would go black and fall out. Maybe the bird had told his father about this and now his father was upset and had left him. He pushed the bad thought out of his mind. He didn’t want to start crying now that he was trying so hard to be a big boy. Still, the fear lingered in his mind and his little heart had beat a little bit faster whenever he wandered too close to it. Soon his father will be back and everything will be alright. 

Before sitting down to eat, he decided to turn on their TV from the button. He didn’t know how to use the control, the buttons confused him and when he played with it once before the television gave off a horribly loud noise and the screen would go white. Only his father knew how to fix it when that happened. No, it was far safer to turn it on from the button on the front. The TV always came on properly when he did it that way. As it slowly came to life, he went back to the sofa and began to eat bits of bread. There were no cartoons yet, only some bald man with a moustache talking about something for grown-ups. It all seemed incredibly boring, sometimes a song would play and there were always pictures of the Syrian flag. He knew it was the Syrian flag because his father told him, but he had no idea what a flag was supposed to be or why it was important. His father once said that this flag was for all of us, that we were all Syrians and our flag was the most important thing. At the time, Samer didn’t really understand or pay much attention, it all seemed silly, but since he was now trying to be a grown up, he decided that he must start paying attention and do more grown up things. He decided to start practicing from now, and stared at the screen with the same look his father did. It made him feel like such a big boy! But he still didn’t know what all the fuss was about. The man was saying something about how everything was fine, but that there were terrororists (difficult word, he decided to ask his father about it when he was back) who came from outside, and that they were doing bad things. The TV showed a lot of police men carrying big boxes with that same Syrian flag on it, and people were throwing rice on them. One of the poor police men couldn’t keep his eyes open and Samer wondered for a second whether the man might trip and they’d all drop the box. That didn’t happen, and the bald man with a moustache came back on to talk some more. He said that we were all OK because the president would look after us. Samer chewed the bread intently whilst watching, but he dripped a bit of yoghurt on his shirt and had to turn to get a Kleenex. He wiped it deliberately and carefully, feeling embarrassed that he couldn’t even eat without making a mess, let alone watch television like an adult.  As he turned back to the television he could see the president with some older children, and they were giving him flowers. The president looked like a very nice man, and he was tall with a warm smile. He seemed happy to be with the children, and Samer wondered what it would be like to meet him. That would be so exciting! Just then he felt comfortable, knowing that the president would protect them from these terrerorists or whatever you call them. Maybe if the president knew that Samer was a big boy, he might let him help him with the grown up things that presidents do. Then his father would be really proud of him.

His father! Where was he? Samer looked at the door, and the empty living room around him. He remembered the sweets and began to feel frightened again. Maybe his father really was angry, he had never left him alone before. At that moment a coldness gripped his chest, and he dropped the peace of bread that he had been about to eat. Tears began to well from his eyes and a slow cry came out of his mouth. He was going to live in this house all alone, his father had left him and his mother had died in that accident a year ago. He turned to the side of the couch and buried his face in the pillow, crying. He must have fallen asleep at some point because the knock on the door woke him with a start. Maybe baba was back? Samer jumped up, but decided against opening the door because he was never supposed to open it to strangers. He waited for what seemed ages, staring at the big blue metal portal. There was another knock. Then a voice, female, called out. ‘Samer? Samer open the door darling, it’s me, you’re Auntie, please open.” Samer paused for another moment, then clicked the door lock with his thumb. It creaked open slowly and his aunt appeared. As soon as she saw him she burst into tears, hugging and kissing him. He stood there motionless, not quite sure what to do. Her warm tears were on his cheeks and he felt her hands touching his face and going through his hair. “Samer habibi you’ll be coming with me alright?” “But baba will be worried about me!” he cried nervously. His aunt muttered something to herself and then began crying even harder. “Don’t worry my darling, baba had to go for a long journey and he asked that you stay with us till he gets back. You'd like to come and play with Yosra and Abd wouldnt' you?….Yallah habibi, you’re Uncle Shafik is waiting for us in the car". The door closed behind them. 

That night the house was dark. The only thing that could be heard was the ticking of the wall clock in the bedroom. In a picture hanging on the wall a handsome young couple smiled out into empty space.

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A Night in Trafalgar Square for the Syrian Victims of Repression

I am hearing of rumours that the Syrian security services are amassing for a strike of some sort against the Syrian city of Hama. Recently the city has been completely free from the regime and the President Bashar al Assad sacked its governer yesterday after an enormous protest took place there. I think the regime will be incredibly stupid if it decides to do anything similar to its 1982 massacre within the city. With a month of 'Fridays' coming in less than a few weeks - Ramadan - the entire country would erupt on a scale that is unprecedented for the past three months. The struggle of the Syrian people against sectarian and thuggish rule continues. This regime will not give up easily and the alternative is less than clear, but there is no going back to the old days of fear.

On another note, the candle light vigils that take place almost every Friday night in Trafalgar Square in London are attracting a great level of attention to the plight of the Syrian people. Last Friday I was amazed by the variety of ordinary people who stopped by to express sympathy and support for the Syrian uprising. It was particularly effective since it was also Canada Day (a celebration of that country's national day in the United Kingdom) and the number of Canadians who were asking about how they could help was breathtaking. I was particularly impressed by a group of Canadian boys who were very polite and serious in their concern for what was happening. One of them said he 'happily speaks for all Canadians' when he says that they fully support the plight of the Syrian people. At times like this, common human decency can shine through the layers of indifference and media confusion. It was refreshing to say the least.

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الثورة السورية قنص المصور بدم بارد من قبل شبيحة بشار في كرم الشامي 1 7 2011

A chilling video showing what appears to be a man capturing the moment he was shot to death on his mobile phone camera. I don't see any reason why this should be considered a fake and I believe this to be genuine.

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On the Freedom to Criticise

When I first began this blog, I was extremely supportive of the resistance that Hezbullah was undertaking, especially in light of the monstrous war against Lebanon in 2006 when over eleven hundred Lebanese people were killed by the Israeli Defence Forces. The fact that I took that position was not because I was forced to do so, but because I was free to make my own mind up and stand by what I believed in. Today I'm doing the same thing in supporting the Syrian people against the brutal dictatorship that is now stomping down on their necks. I don't respect Nasrallah or Hezbullah in the slightest for their sectarian and quite disgusting siding with an oppressor. It seems that not all oppression is the same, and I cannot take seriously somebody who cries crocodile tears for the oppression of the Palestinians whilst in the same breath announces that Syrian blood is not worthy of their support.

The past three months have seen me undergoing a drastic re-evaluation of a lot of my previous positions and I am much more supportive of individual freedoms and the exercising of personal choice without being coerced or intimidated. I also support the freedom to criticise, argue and disagree, something that I have relished doing over the past five years that this blog has been running. What I cannot condone - yesterday, today or tomorrow - is forcing somebody to stay quiet because I disagree with them or - even worse - force them to agree with me. I can be vicious in my criticisms, but it is never personal and never vindictive, only a clash of principles with wit as a weapon.

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The musings of an exhausted blogger

I have been asked why my writing about events in Syria is sparse, and the truth is that I have been feeling quite emotionally drained lately. Since January I have been on a roller coaster ride with political ups and downs - what with Tunisia, the subsequent downfall of Egypt's Mubarak, the bloody crackdown in Bahrain and a civil war in Libya. But it was the Syrian uprising which, naturally, had the higher mental impact on me. In the last three months people have been showing their true colours with regards to Syria, and after a bewildering period of time, it became apparent to me that there are regime propagandists and sophists who were going out of their way to confuse everybody. I don't have the energy to go through names, but I do know those who were intellectually honest and those who were not. I have had discussions with many of them and politeness will not stop me from calling some of them sleaze-bags with no moral backbone. Nothing will be forgotten, but everything in good time.

It is clear now that Syria is NOT under some bizarre foreign conspiracy, at least not this time. There is a widespread Syrian uprising in cities, towns and villages. It is very clear that the security services are unable to control it, and violence has not broken the spirits of the protesters. At some point you realise that no matter how much you punch somebody, if they won't do what you want them to do then nothing you can do will change that. The security solution - the only one the Assad regime knows - has failed. Surprisingly the United States and Israel have been remarkably meek regarding events in Syria. Today the US seems to have given a nod to the regime to use some kind of 'roadmap' for reform in Syria. I don't think the Assad's will take it, they know that any kind of concession from their side at all will mark the beginning of the end. But at the same time, I don't know what else they can do to hold on to their position. Something has definitely changed over the past week in Syria, at least since that opposition conference. More and more Syrians I know who would never have dreamed of commenting on the politics of their country are now being openly critical of the government, or at least mocking the version of events that its odious official state media are presenting. Syria has changed forever, and nothing will return it to the state of fear that has governed it for the past forty years.

I think the regime knows this, and the scale and brutality of their initial response might be getting scaled down soon. Still, the hard battle for the people will be gaining ground against the Baath party and the ruling family of Syria that have become so enmeshed in the apparatus of the state. Every inch will be contested from here on in, but I do believe that once this metamorphosis (this is what is really happening) completes, the Syria we will see is going to be completely different - and far better. Let's hope for the best.

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