[Marxism] Syrian Notebooks

Louis Proyect lnp3 at panix.com
Fri Mar 2 09:00:34 MST 2012


Syrian Notebooks
Jonathan Littell

‘They’ve been calling me Al-Ghadab, “Fury”, from the beginning,’ 
the smuggler said, his big beard split by a mischievous smile, 
‘But I laugh all the time!’ A stocky man wearing a black tracksuit 
and carrying two mobile phones, Fury stood in a freezing apartment 
in Tripoli. Two men were with him, both Lebanese, smugglers 
apparently. But he wasn’t a professional. ‘When it began,’ he told 
us later, ‘I was just about to get married. I had a choice: 
revolution or marriage.’ In July, when the first units of the Free 
Syrian Army were formed, he began to shuttle back and forth for 
them: transporting all sorts of things, the wounded, medical 
supplies and journalists like us. His family is well-off: ‘I don’t 
do it for the money.’

Morning. Rain was falling hard. One of the two Lebanese, at the 
wheel of a people carrier, was driving us – Fury, the photographer 
Mani, and myself – down the small streets of Mount Lebanon, 
avoiding the Lebanese army posts, out onto a large rocky plain. 
Syria was right in front of us. At a bend in the road, three boys 
were waiting for us on motorbikes. They weren’t professionals 
either, just local farmers, their hands red and calloused. They 
took us through muddy paths between houses and fields; we passed 
ragged children, a few beehives, some horses, until we reached a 
house where smiling farmers served us coffee. A radio call: the 
road was free, so we left for another house, further on in the 
village. At that instant, a text message from the Ministry of 
Tourism appeared on the mobile phone: ‘Welcome to Syria.’ We had 
passed through to the other side of the mirror.

Unlike other hamlets a little deeper in, this village had remained 
calm: ‘There aren’t any demonstrations here,’ our host explained. 
‘We don’t want to attract the mukhabarats and risk disturbing the 
traffic.’ But the FSA wasn’t far off. Fury returned with a pick-up 
truck, packed us into the front, and we set out. Fields, orchards, 
little rutted roads; an officer from the FSA was travelling in 
another truck, then we got to a checkpoint, on a bridge, held by 
fighters who controlled the endless stream of traffic, smugglers 
coming from Lebanon, carrying everything people here lack. A flag 
floated over the checkpoint, black, white and green with three red 
stars: the flag of the Syrian revolution.

Fury’s mobile rang constantly; the FSA has observers everywhere, 
to warn him in case of troop movement or – the most dangerous of 
all – mobile checkpoints. The next day, a friend of Fury’s, a 
deserter from the Syrian army, would be killed at such a 
checkpoint, not far from here, machine-gunned as he was trying to 
run away. Fury kept a grenade next to the steering wheel; if he 
got caught, it wouldn’t be alive.

On the road, visible a few hundred metres ahead, stood one of the 
fixed checkpoints that surrounded the small town of al-Qusayr; 
Fury veered off onto a dirt track to avoid driving through 
wasteland where a few Bedouin families were camping. Then we were 
in the hamlet, where we navigated through alleys between 
two-storey buildings made of crumbling concrete, glum-looking in 
the rain. ‘The FSA will liberate Homs before Qusayr. The regime 
will never let go of Qusayr. If they lose Qusayr, they lose the 
whole border,’a civilian activist would tell me two weeks later in 
Homs. But the Syrian army seemed already to have lost control of 
the town. Aside from the checkpoints at the outskirts and the 
tanks that were more or less concealed because of the agreement 
with the Arab League, it only controlled the town hall and the 
hospital, in the centre of town.

I would pass the town hall many times, a large four-storey 
building in the Soviet style, its windows smashed, sandbags on its 
roof to protect sniper nests. Until recently, the snipers fired 
regularly into the streets, especially at night. After an assault 
the FSA managed to enter it and signed an agreement with the 
commander; his men have remained quiet since then. In fact, the 
FSA travelled freely throughout the town, sometimes in pick-up 
trucks armed with heavy machine guns, with the insignia of the 
al-Faruk katiba, the unit in charge of the zone, on their doors. 
Every night, when civilians gathered in the street to protest 
against the regime, dozens of armed FSA soldiers positioned 
themselves at the crossroads to protect them. ‘We rarely 
intervene,’ an officer I met the next day, with a dozen of his men 
in a farm outside the hamlet, explained. ‘The checkpoints stay in 
place, and they don’t bother us. We only attack when the regular 
army attempts an operation.’

The trip from Qusayr to Homs, about thirty kilometres, was made in 
the same way: by going from one house to another, from one vehicle 
to another, from one hand to another. A wide network of civilians 
helps the FSA and the revolution. At every stage, a car or a truck 
or a motorbike goes in front to check if the road is free. And 
when we moved, there were always people in front, around, behind 
us; mobiles were continually ringing in with the latest news. 
Everything happens as if a grid has been put in place to counter 
the police and security grid of the Ba’ath Party and the 
mukhabarats that has dominated the life of the country for 
decades, and in which the entire population, in one way or 
another, is caught. The counter grid, almost as effective, is made 
of civilian activists, notables, religious figures and, more and 
more, armed forces – the deserters who form the FSA. The counter 
grid resists the other one, circumvents it, and is even starting 
to absorb it in part. When you travel between the Lebanese border 
and Homs, it becomes visible. There has, of course, always been 
passive resistance to the regime’s grid, but now this second grid 
has completely broken away. As if Syrian society, since the 
spring, had split in two, and parallel societies were coexisting 
in the country, in mortal conflict.

What is especially striking is the political intelligence of 
ordinary Syrians involved in the revolt. Abu Abdo, one of our 
drivers, asked us, ‘So, have you seen the Salafi here, as Bashar 
says?’ ‘That depends,’ Mani replied. ‘What do you mean by 
“Salafi”?’ ‘Exactly. The word means two things. The Muslims of 
Syria follow the way of moderation, and to live correctly they 
have to follow the example of a pious ancestor. That is the 
original meaning of the word. The other, which implies the 
Takfiri, jihadist, terrorist movement, is a creation of the 
Americans and Israelis. That has nothing to do with us.’ Later on, 
during a long break at a farm, he would show himself to be very 
critical of the opposition parties: ‘Today, unlike Hama in 1982, 
it’s the people that’s rising up. The Muslim Brotherhood, the 
Communists, the Salafi and the other political movements are 
running to catch up with it and climb up on its shoulders. But the 
Syrians in the street refuse the politicisation of the movement. 
They accept help from wherever it comes, but that help can’t have 
strings attached. The streets reacted to reaction to oppression 
and humiliation; they didn’t demand any particular political 
option. The Syrian people were raised as if in a hen house: you 
have the right to eat, sleep, lay eggs, and that’s it. There’s no 
room for thought. It’s the North Korea of the Middle East.’

The conversation continued for most of the journey. We skirted 
round a vast chemical factory, from which a foul stench emanated; 
further on lay the Homs lake, a thin blue tongue; clouds covered 
the horizon, but the sun shone beneath them, illuminating the 
muddy, chaotic countryside, dominated by that industrial dinosaur 
with its immense heaps of yellow powder. In front of us the 
Damascus-Homs highway was already visible, elevated and full of 
traffic, just like in normal times. This was the last obstacle we 
had to pass, closely surveyed by the regular army. But here too 
the FSA had its means, which must be kept secret. Behind the 
highway we waited for another car, with two young fighters from 
the FSA. In no time we had reached the first of the city’s 
suburbs. A little further on, in the middle of a wide avenue, an 
FSA checkpoint controlled a crossroads. The liberated 
neighbourhood of Baba Amro was just beyond it.


‘Baba Amro is a state within a state.’ B., the soldier who was 
talking to me, is a handsome man with a thin, mobile face and keen 
eyes, lit up as much by his faith as by the fast he had been 
keeping since he joined the Free Army in December. He was not a 
deserter, like most of his comrades, but a civilian from Aleppo 
who, shocked by the regime’s crimes, decided to take up arms. His 
words, though, were spoken before 4 February, the day the Syrian 
army — Jaysh-e-Assadi, members of the opposition call it, ‘Assad’s 
Army’ — began intensive shelling of the neighbourhood, causing 
several hundred deaths. Until then, Baba Amro was considered a 
‘liberated neighbourhood’.

It’s the sort of working-class neighbourhood at the outskirts of 
the city where the middle classes normally never set foot, a 
neighbourhood of four or five-storey concrete buildings, sometimes 
covered in sheets of polished stone and usually unfinished, each 
squeezed up next to the other along alleyways where two vehicles 
could barely scrape past each other, and populated with workers 
and veiled women we only catch glimpses of. At streetcorners, 
roving vendors offered bowls of ful to eat with your fingers; the 
kids wore scarves and caps knitted by their mothers in either 
black, white and green or else blue and orange: the colours of the 
revolution or of Al-Karama, the Homs football team. In front of 
the Gilani mosque, empty coffins were piled up, ready for use; 
behind it, two graves had already been dug, in case sniper shots 
made the cemetery inaccessible. It was ice-cold, damp, 
bone-chilling; the sky was grey, drowned in a fog through which 
you could just see façades of buildings and outlines of minarets, 
and hear gunfire, the sudden explosions of shells, and calls to 
prayer resounding.

The FSA held the perimeter of the neighbourhood. There, you were 
on a real front line, which passed through crumbling apartments, 
riddled with holes from exploding bullets and shells, full of mud 
and debris, beautiful overturned sofas, burned television sets, 
beds torn apart. In the west, opposite the orchards and the 
stadium, was Haqura, where Mani and I had been living for almost a 
week with a unit from the FSA. Aside from two or three stubborn 
individuals, the civilians had all fled. The streets that lead to 
no-man’s-land are defended by sandbags, laughable obstacles 
against tanks. The walls of apartments and gardens had been 
drilled through so that the fighters could move from one building 
to another without going into the street. The HQ of Hassan, the 
unit commander, looked out onto a wide street, and we would take 
tea on the pavement, huddled around a fire despite the risk of 
mortar shells: ‘Inshallah,’ the men laughed.

One morning, we were woken up by more sustained gunfire than 
usual. Some soldiers rushed into the apartment, shook the men who 
were still sleeping, and took machine guns, cartridge belts and 
rocket-propelled grenades from the room that was being used as an 
arms store. We followed them at a run to HQ, then to a street 
lined with buildings. We climbed upstairs. In a devastated room, a 
fighter was firing machine gun volleys through a gap left by a 
shell; another, in the living room, was firing rounds from a rusi, 
the local name for a Kalashnikov; the burnt smell of cordite 
filled the apartment. Someone explained: a sniper had begun firing 
at civilians from the large building under construction opposite, 
wounding four. The FSA was firing back, trying to dislodge him. 
This lasted for about four hours, during which we wove our way 
from one apartment to another to watch. The positions of the 
regular army were not far away, 200, 400 metres; you could see the 
sandbags clearly if you risked an eye. When you were on the roofs, 
you could hear bullets whistling by or slamming into walls; from 
time to time, the explosion of a rocket-propelled grenade shook 
the air. The FSA is not trying to capture the enemy positions, 
just to force the snipers to withdraw and stop shooting at civilians.

Baba Amro wasn’t made secure at one fell swoop. In November, the 
last time Mani visited, a Syrian army checkpoint still controlled 
a central crossroads, and its snipers shot at all the streets 
around it, thus cutting the neighbourhood into slices. ‘We managed 
to surround them,’ an adjunct of Hassan’s explained, ‘and we cut 
off their supplies. Then, when observers from the Arab League 
came, we used them to negotiate their retreat, without any 
bloodshed. There’s still another checkpoint at the end of the 
avenue, but it’s much more vulnerable now, and they don’t shoot at 
people anymore, because they’re afraid of us counterattacking.’ 
For the fighters in the Free Army, the protection of civilians is 
an essential part of their mission. ‘In principle, the army should 
remain neutral,’ Lieutenant Abdel Razzak Atlas, one of the leaders 
of the Al-Faruk katiba, who takes pride in being the first Syrian 
officer to have defected last June, declared. ‘It is there to 
protect the people and the nation. But it has done the opposite.’ 
B., the volunteer from Aleppo, who, when night falls, recites 
magnificent poems in classical Arabic to his comrades, was more 
lyrical than his commander: ‘We are fighting for our religion, for 
our women, for our land, and only then to save our skin. They are 
fighting just to save their skin.’

Almost all the fighters in the FSA were forced, before they 
deserted, to take part in repressions. Very few were ready to 
admit to having killed people. ‘Me? I shot in the air,’ they 
almost all say. But their disgust at what they were made to do, 
their feelings of guilt, are palpable. It can be felt in their 
insistence, when you meet them, on exhibiting their military ID. 
The testimony of one former soldier I met a few days later in the 
centre of town was true for all of them: ‘They brought us into the 
streets to fight armed gangs. I didn’t see any armed gang. The 
officers told us: The ammunition isn’t there for nothing, shoot, 
shoot as much as you can.’

The deserters described a regular army falling quickly into 
decline. Many times, the FSA officers I found myself with received 
precise, detailed information from the officers who had remained 
in service; they also received, for money or for the cause, arms 
and ammunition from them. Lt Atlas tells me how he had tried, in 
May, to organise a mutiny of two brigades and a battalion along 
with other officers. ‘Everything was ready. But the others didn’t 
want to go through with it, because they were afraid of being 
crushed by the air force.’ Here is the real meaning of a no-fly 
zone, repeated at every demonstration – a demand that surprises 
the West, since, unlike Gaddafi, al-Assad has not yet deployed his 
air force against civilians. ‘If we get a no-fly zone,’ Atlas 
said, ‘half the Army will mutiny. The regime will be over.’

‘It’s an army of thieves,’ grumbled Abu Amar, a non-commissioned 
officer. ‘No one who can pay joins up, only the poor enlist. It’s 
an incompetent army that can’t function properly. Its only purpose 
is to line the pockets of the Alaouite community.’ This dissident 
Shiite sect, regarded as heretical by many Muslims, is the sect of 
al-Assad’s clan and of most of the leaders of the security forces. 
There aren’t many Alaouites in the FSA, but they exist. I met one, 
Fadel, at a checkpoint in Baba Amro: ‘When I saw the army killing 
civilians,’ he explained to me in front of his comrades, ‘I said 
to myself: “I am not with them, I am with the people.” Not: “I am 
Alaouite, so I am with the Alaouites.” No. If they are doing evil, 
I am trying to do good.’ Still, the immense majority of fighters 
in the Free Army are Sunni, and that can be seen in their symbols, 
the names of the katibas like ‘Khalid ibn Walid’ (the Prophet’s 
main companion) or else ‘Kawafil el-Shuhada’ (‘The caravans of the 
martyrs’). Many people are vehemently critical of this. ‘Why do 
they choose names like that?’ exclaimed M., also a Sunni, an 
activist who had taken refuge in Beirut. ‘It’s our revolution, not 
the Prophet’s! We have our own martyrs, they should use their names.’

In this ‘Sunnification’ of the revolution, there is the temptation 
of Jihad. That is probably the greatest risk the Free Army faces, 
since it would play into al-Assad’s hands. But this argument 
doesn’t discourage the FSA officers, in Homs at least. ‘If it 
continues, we’ll really become like Al-Qaida. If the world 
abandons us and supports al-Assad, we’ll be forced to declare 
Jihad, to make the fighters from all over the Muslim world come 
and internationalise the conflict,’ Atlas told us explicitly. This 
wasn’t his personal vision, the Military Committee in Homs had 
discussed it, and they all approved. Other officers confirmed it. 
They stressed that this idea wasn’t the fruit of religious 
radicalisation, but it was a strategic calculation, naive as it 
may be. For Atlas, a declaration of Jihad could end up in 
Iraq-style chaos, perhaps even in civil war, and would force the 
hand of the West, which would finally be obliged to intervene. 
This young Syrian officer wasn’t familiar with the external world, 
its logic and constraints. But he expressed the call of the masses 
rebelling against the regime: ‘The people want NATO intervention!’ 
That wasn’t the case a month ago; despair has changed the rules.


For 11 months now, everyday life in Syria has been punctuated by 
demonstrations. The most important occur on Fridays. They follow 
an unwavering ritual, like the one I saw on 20 January in Baba 
Amro. As soon as the noon prayer ended, the men in the mosque 
shouted the takbir, ‘Allahu akbar!’, and poured out of the door. 
Outside, the activists, amid clusters of riotous children, were 
waiting with flags and banners. The procession formed, threaded 
through the streets, then walked up an avenue, chanting slogans 
and waving signs and photos of martyrs, below a building where 
sometimes snipers from the regime lie in wait. At the crossroads, 
armed soldiers from the FSA kept watch. The procession joined 
others on a wide street that crossed the neighbourhood. I climbed 
onto a roof with some activists who were filming the demonstration 
to get a full view of the spectacle: there were at least 2000 
people, maybe even 3000. ‘If they didn’t shoot at the 
demonstrators,’ an old gentleman said to me, ‘all of Homs would be 
out in the street.’ In the city centre, hundreds of young people 
formed rows, arm in arm, shouted the takbir again and began to 
jump to the rhythm of the drums and the revolutionary songs struck 
up by the leaders, who were standing on a scaffold in the middle 
of a circle of dancers. At one side, a crowd of veiled women – a 
sea of white, pink and black scarves, with babies and balloons – 
ululated and took up the leaders’ chants along with the men. 
Around them, the balconies were crowded with people. The 
atmosphere was one of mad exhilaration, furious, desperate joy.

At the end of the demonstration, dozens of young people surrounded 
me, trying out their four words of English. They all showed me 
their scars, their bruises, their electrical burns, or where 
bullets or shrapnel had struck. The brother of one of them had 
been killed by a sniper as he was crossing the street, the mother 
of another by a shell; everyone wanted to tell everything, right 
away. They were waving their mobile phones: ‘Shouf, shouf, look!’ 
A corpse mottled with torture marks, another with its skull 
smashed in, in yet another the camera lingered on each wound, 
gaping holes in the groin, the leg, the chest, the throat. 
Wherever we went, it was the same. In an emergency clinic in 
al-Khaldiye, in the northern part of the city, the smartphone of a 
young nurse appeared even before tea did: on the screen, a man is 
dying in the hands of a doctor who is trying to intubate him on 
the ground, at the foot of the sofa I was sitting on. He was a 
taxi driver; he was hit in the face by a bullet and is lying in an 
immense pool of blood, his brain pouring onto the floor. ‘You see 
the hands, there?’ the nurse said. ‘That’s me.’ She went on to the 
next video, the tea arrived, I drank it without taking my eyes off 
the little screen. Every mobile phone in Homs is a museum of horrors.

That same evening, still in al-Khaldiye, another demonstration. At 
the corner of the main square looms a wooden copy of the famous 
old clock of Homs, which dates back to the French colonial era. It 
is painted black and white and covered with photos of martyrs. 
(It’s on this same square that the 3 February massacre would take 
place, the day after I left, killing about 150.) A large banner 
proclaimed the demonstrators’ allegiance to the Syrian National 
Council: ‘No! To imaginary opposition, fabrications of Assad’s 
gangs. The SNC unites us, factions divide us.’ All around, 
mountains of rubbish cluttered the streets; ever the since the 
revolt started, refuse has no longer been collected from 
opposition neighbourhoods. Songs and dances, which take the form 
of zikr, the mystic dances of the Sufis, roused the crowd, while 
the leaders chanted slogans: ‘Idlib, we are with you! Teblisi, we 
are with you! Rastan, we are with you until death!’ This yearning 
for a union of communities, faced with the regime, was explicit: 
‘We are not rebelling against Alaouites or Christians! The people 
are one!’ ‘Wahad, wahad, al-shaab al-suri wahad!’ shouts the 
crowd, ‘The Syrian people are one!’ Standing on a man’s shoulders, 
a red-headed boy of about 12 called Mahmoud led the crowd, 
chanting the cult poem by the murdered Ibrahim Qashoush, ‘Get out, 

What is striking in these exuberant demonstrations is the power 
they produce. They serve not only as an outlet, a collective 
release for accumulated tension; they also give energy back to the 
participants, fill them with a little more vigour to endure. The 
group generates energy and then each individual reabsorbs it; that 
is also the point of the music and dancing. They’re not just 
provocations or slogans, they are also, like the Sufi zikr, ways 
to generate and receive strength. The Syrian revolution – a rare 
thing – survives not just because of the weapons of the FSA, or 
even the courage of the rebels; it keeps going because of joy, 
dance and song.

Mosques also play a key role. In one neighbourhood of the old 
city, on Friday, 27 January, the imam quoted from the companions 
of the Prophet, Abu Bakr in particular, to insist on solidarity. 
His sermon grew louder and more strident when he mentioned those 
who had died in the neighbourhood; ‘God is great!’ the 
congregation respond in unison. ‘All this blood that has been 
shed,’ cried the imam, ‘is our blood, all these souls killed are 
our children. But still, we say to our oppressors, to all those 
who are excessive: Whatever you do, victory will be ours!’ Ritual 
knits together and unifies the community. Its collective will, 
emerging from discussions during the week, is brought into focus 
by sermons; thanks to them, more than any other mechanism under 
this long dictatorship, it is possible to speak of ‘public 
opinion’. Since the mukhabarats made visits to Christian or 
Alaouite quarters impossible, I was unable to see how things were 
with them.

The final layer of this onion of civilian resistance is the 
activists. In al-Bayarda, a poor area next to al-Khaldiye, one 
activist, Abu Omar, showed us round, pointing out where shells had 
hit, the avenues where snipers lurked, the people cutting down 
olive trees to keep warm. In front of a shop selling almonds, a 
crowd of children surrounded us and a handsome 17-year-old in a 
blue tracksuit shouted at Mani: ‘They arrested my father, they 
arrested my brother, they beat my mother! They came to arrest me 
and if they find me, they will kill me! All that because I go out 
and say I don’t like Bashar!’ He was the leader of the local 
demonstration. He stretched out his neck and pinched his Adam’s 
apple: ‘My only weapon is my voice!’ He turned back, raised his 
arm and launched into a spontaneous demonstration of his art, by 
chanting a revolutionary song. Another teenager accompanied him 
with a drum held under his arm, and the children took up the 
refrain, clapping their hands; his voice was clear and beautiful. 
But he knew the danger. The day before, we had taken part in a 
demonstration in the old city; now its leader, Abu Annas, was 
close to death, seriously wounded in the chest by a shell from a tank.

The young man who had taken us to that demonstration, with the 
thwarted intention of bearing witness live on al-Jazeera, was 
called Abu Bilal. We lived for several days with him and his 
friends in a quiet house in the old city, barely a few hundred 
metres from the Homs citadel from which the forces of the regime 
were machine-gunning the streets. Every morning, we piled into a 
car with two or three members of this team who, braving the 
snipers, film funerals, the wounded, the dead. Omar Telaoui, from 
Bab Sbaa, is one of the most famous. He appears in his videos with 
his face uncovered, a scarf with the colours of the revolution 
around his neck, with each new victim giving an enraged speech on 
the circumstances, the place, the date. Every night, as soon as 
they get home, Omar, Abu Bilal and the others rush to their 
laptops. At the mercy of an intermittent internet connection, they 
upload their videos to YouTube, send the links via social 
networks, and give interviews to TV networks, almost all of them 

The Western media rarely use these sources, apparently thinking 
that in the absence of one of their own reporters, these videos of 
horror ‘cannot be verified’. But these images, sometimes shaky, 
taken as close as possible to the atrocities, constitute something 
precious, and those who film them risk their lives every day. As 
Abu Slimane, an activist from Baba Amro, told me one night, ‘Our 
parents were enslaved by fear. We have broken down the wall of 
fear. Either we conquer, or we die.’

13 February

These articles first appeared in Le Monde and were translated by 
Charlotte Mandell.

More information about the Marxism mailing list