The welcome may be warm on the streets of Syria’s cities, but past and present conflicts never seem very far away. Nick Redmayne reports. Photography by Swiatek Wojtkowiak
Strolling beneath the artificial starry sky of Souk Al-Hamadiye, whose lofty iron roofs remain distressed by the bullet-holed constellations of a 1925 anti-French insurrection, I become the object of attention. However, though a sale would no doubt be a welcome bonus, often as not the stall-holders of Damascus simply want to say hello.
‘You are very much welcome,’ is the greeting of choice, although it is generally followed by the amiable caveat, ‘but I hate very much your government.’
A gentle, educated and reflective man, Hassahn Zahabi oversees a shop selling Damask cloth and handicrafts near the Roman gate into the souk. From among intricately woven silk samples, his son produces cuttings cataloguing his father’s former role as English-speaking guide to A-list dignitaries as we chat over a cup of sweet tea.
‘Yes, it was very convenient for them,’ he says, ‘also convenient because I did if for free. I learned Swedish from UN soldiers in the Golan, too. Later, I guided Kofi Annan and spoke Swedish with his wife.’
Zahabi has retained a fondness for the Swedes, it seems: ‘Americans are like a peach; soft, velvety, very attractive, deliciously sweet and juicy. Bite deep and you break your teeth. Swedes are the opposite… like a walnut.’
I ask Zahabi how he thinks the West can improve relations with Syria. ‘Change your attitude. You are welcome, but it is the nature of the powerful, in this case the West, to break their promises. I say they should be more neutral, less duplicitous. It’s true we are a bit disorganised and sometimes react in a crazy way, but once we give our word we stick to it. Muslims do not approve of pragmatism or Machiavellism. Call us naïve if you like, but we believe that something is either this or that – it’s that simple.’
I ask what he thinks of his own government. ‘I am not a member of the [Ba’ath] Party or a particular fan of the President, but I don’t believe the US is our saviour either.’ His tea finished, Zahabi makes his apologies and leaves to attend a funeral.
Whether through poor PR, perceived malicious intent or a reputation for political awkwardness, Syria’s public image – in the West at least – is not to be envied. A lot of bloody water has flowed down the Euphrates since US, UK and Syrian forces, together with those of other Arab states such as Saudi Arabia, fought to evict Iraqi invaders from Kuwait. In the ensuing peace following George Bush Senior’s victory, the coalition melted away; in his son’s war of liberation, the ‘axis of evil’ has grown to encompass former ally Syria.
Whatever your political persuasion, it is difficult to describe Syria’s neighbourhood as anything but problematic. In the south, Israel steadfastly occupies the Golan Heights, to the west Lebanon’s schisms cast accusation and draw succour in equal measure, while to the east Iraq lies just a $12 taxi ride away. Within Syria’s borders the aftershocks of regional conflicts are felt daily, generally without alarm but nonetheless acting as a constant reminder of a highly active religio-political landscape.
President Bashar Al-Assad was never really groomed for power. That role had been reserved for his flamboyant and charismatic elder brother, Basil. Such plans, however, ended in 1994 when the 33-year-old engineer and horse-riding champion was killed in a car crash.
It was assumed by many in the West that Bashar’s presidency would bring with it swift liberalisation. Indeed, for a brief ‘Damascus Spring’, change seemed likely as political prisoners were released and intellectuals and opposition politicians engaged the populous in lively debate. Then, deciding that enough was enough, the old guard roused itself and a clampdown was instituted.
Syria reverted to political type – with an all-powerful leader backed by a pervasive state machine whose defining boundaries remind its citizens constantly of the West’s betrayal of the Arabs. Since the 2003 US-led invasion of Iraq, President Bashar has attained unique, though possibly unenviable, status as head of the Middle East’s sole remaining Ba’athist regime.
Despite Syria’s historic animosity towards neighbouring Iraq, contemporary travellers cannot help but make certain naïve contrasts and comparisons. In today’s Syria the streets are safe; violent crime against the person is rare, education is free and compulsory to age 16, women enjoy social freedom and hold professional careers, while religious diversity and tolerance appear the norm. As you stroll the streets of Damascus you cannot help but wonder what might have been had the US and its allies managed to engineer this seemingly calm status quo over the border. Perhaps President Bush would have been hailed as a heroic nation builder and the troops would have been home by Eid ul-Fitr.
Despite their repressive and controlling nature, Syria’s Ba’athists never aspired to the violent excesses of Saddam’s regime. In Damascus these days, big-brother-style posters of a moustachioed Hafez Al-Assad have been replaced for the most part by similarly ubiquitous, though somewhat gentler, images of Bashar.
A freelance English teacher, Naji Abou Saleh, recently returned from Kuwait, sums up the prevailing domestic view: ‘Bashar seems to like everything I like. He’s very honest. He is a man of peace. It’s true there is corruption throughout the Arabic world. Some around him are corrupt, but he is the best person to lead the country.’ However, while the moustache may be fainter and the firm paternalism may be some years away, the cult of personality surrounding this interrupted London ophthalmology student is mature enough.
For Western visitors the reality of Syria is a pleasant surprise. At street level, Damascus is far more welcoming than is London or New York. Running, with some Western press colleagues through evening crowds, to catch the magnificent Umayyad Mosque before it closed, while wearing a backpack not obviously full of camera equipment, I considered how a parallel endeavour might play out in post 7/7 London. In the event, the imams keep the doors open a little longer than normal and allow us special access to the 7th-century structure, fourth holiest site in Islam, close to the tomb of the 12th-century, crusader-routing Saladin, and last resting place of what is claimed to be the head of John the Baptist (Prophet Yahia to Muslims).
Just as London is not the UK and New York is certainly not the US, Damascus is not Syria. Just over 200km north of the capital lies Hama, now a city of some 340,000 inhabitants on the Orontes River, known historically for its immense ancient waterwheels or norais. Always a conservative town, in 1982 Hama lay at the epicentre of an insurgency waged by the Islamic fundamentalist Muslim Brotherhood. This came to a head in February of the same year after a prolonged campaign of bombing and assassination, including an attempt on the life of the President, targeted the Ba’athist leadership.
Although a Sunni organisation, the Brotherhood seemed intent on an Iranian-style revolution and issued a call for a nationwide uprising to overthrow Al-Assad’s secular ‘socialist’ regime and replace it with an Islamic theocracy and Sharia law. On 2 February 1982, the government sent in special forces together with mukhabarrat secret police, backed by artillery and air power, under the command of the President’s brother, Colonel Rifat Assad. The troops took up positions outside the city, cut phone lines and denied access to journalists, then commenced an overwhelming bombardment. Fighting lasted for three weeks, with the government allegedly using poison gas to overcome strongly fortified rebel positions and the secret police conducting a campaign of reprisals when the dust finally settled.
Veteran Middle East correspondent Robert Fisk, probably the only foreign reporter to witness the crushing of the rebellion, estimated an overall death toll approaching 10,000. Amnesty International later put the figure at up to 25,000. The military force was overwhelming, the fighting was inglorious and brutal, the result emphatic. The Muslim Brotherhood ceased to be an effective force in Syria and no other armed Islamic opposition has since attempted to fill its place.
When I visit Hama, the norais are idle, waiting for the heat of the summer before they give voice to their creaky irrigation of the fields. After the buzz of Damascus I cannot help notice the subdued feeling on the streets. Some bullet-pocked walls and bombed-out buildings remain even now, their testimony passing unremarked. Islamic dress among men and women is more prevalent than in many other towns, visible adherence to daily prayers similarly so.
Shopkeepers seem, if not unfriendly, then certainly wary, while an encounter with a carpenter, who could only be described as chippy, combined with aggressively defensive attitudes from three sharp-suited businessmen, seem to confirm that unsurprisingly Hama is not Syria’s party town.
Some residents, however, can foresee an increasingly positive future and are not afraid to back this up with substantial personal investment. Rashid Al-Bessky owns the Aspasia restaurant in Hama’s old city, an area held by the Muslim Brotherhood in 1982 and subject to a considerable amount of contemporary reconstruction. Al-Bessky’s family has invested $2.5m over four years to refurbish a crumbling Ottoman house, once a regional centre for administration under the French mandate, as an atmospheric courtyard eatery.
His restaurant is buzzing when I call in, its tables populated liberally, with a small ‘l’, by Hama’s hijabed ‘ladies who lunch’. I ask Al-Bessky about the funding of restoration work. ‘I think that Unesco has a project of some sort, but we didn’t get any help, and the German ambassador was in contact, but I paid for all this out of my pocket.’
Seeing he is happy to talk, I ask about 1982. ‘Well, there was a problem that started around 1979 in Iran. The insurgents here were people from Syria and from outside. They wanted a special history for themselves.’
What did he remember of the fighting? ‘I was only a boy. For 40 days soldiers came to our house saying, “Have you any food to spare? Have you water? Are you the owner?” Nobody knows exactly how many people died. Many left, but they all returned – everyone loves their city. In Hama, Muslims and Christians are living together in the same apartment blocks. Christians with Muslims – you’re looking for your God your way.’
Whatever may have happened in the past, Al-Bessky is enthusiastic about President Bashar. ‘Everyone likes what he is doing. He wants good relationships with Europe and the US – with all nations, in fact. As for Iraq – I don’t want to think about what’s going on there. I’d rather concentrate on my business. There is a border in my head and I don’t want to cross it.’
Hama’s turbulent recent past lies only just beneath the surface as Mohammad Khir Al Khousi explains as he shows me the sights of the town. ‘The insurgents’ bombing campaign made ordinary people frightened even to use buses or to leave their homes,’ he says. ‘There were perhaps 1,500 to 2,000 fighters and they were given the chance to surrender. It’s very simple. Maybe 1,100 were killed. Not many escaped, perhaps 50 or 100.’ Al Khousi’s figures are very much lower than those quoted by Amnesty International, but he is adamant. ‘If so many people died – 10,000 or 20,000 or even 30,000, as they say – why was there no international outcry? Why didn’t the United Nations say anything?’
Why, indeed? Though at the time, having witnessed the 1979 Iranian Revolution, many outside Syria considered the Muslim Brotherhood as one fanatical Islamic movement too many, and one that could be dealt with without external involvement. The clarity of hindsight begs further comparisons with Iraq. There are striking similarities between aspects of the fighting at Hama in 1982 and the battles for Fallujah in 2004 – where US Marines became embroiled in house-to-house battles with insurgents.
Al Khousi is forthright on both topics. ‘All foreigners should leave Iraq as soon as possible. Arabs, we know each other, but foreigners… they can never know us. When the war started in Iraq I didn’t have a job for nine months. I have a wife and children and we were eating and drinking politics at that time. When you destroy an economy, you destroy lives. This is our life. We can’t choose our neighbour.’
I drive away from Hama past roadside stalls selling fish freshly caught in the Orontes. Boys and men step into lines of oncoming traffic waggling sizeable specimens by their gills, feigning life in decidedly dead fish. I am not tempted.
As the jeep pulls away from the city I am reminded of something Zahabi said to me back in Damascus. ‘We prefer to live with our sorrows rather than accepting the West’s promises of happiness, because we never know whether your promises will give us more sorrow.’
Given the proximity of a land rich in broken promises and overburdened by sorrows, you can see his point.
HOW TO GET THERE
BMI operates regular flights
from London to Damascus
www.flybmi.co
On the itinerary
Peregrine Adventures
offers 14-day trips to Syria
and Jordan, for £1,050 per
person ($2,000), B&B, not
including flights.
www.peregrineadventures.co.uk
Further reading
Bradt Guide to Syria,
by Diana Darke
(www.bradtguides.com)
? INSIDE THE MIDDLE EAST
AIRS SATURDAY AT 09:30, 15:30
AND 19:30; SUNDAY AT 13:30
AND 19:30 (CET).
