Remembering the Syria of Yesterday

The first thing I noticed in Syria was Bashar al-Assad. This guy was everywhere. There was simply no doubt who was in control, and who was in power. You’d see his picture in the kiosks of street vendors, in the windows of bus stations, plastered on the backs of cars, posted over the gates of mosques. I saw Assad stretched four stories tall and draped across the front of buildings; I even saw his picture in the men’s restroom (in the corner of a mirror, rather than the bottom of a urinal). This was spring 2010, one year before the country would begin turning into a warzone. While I was there I actually witnessed a protest of sorts. My friends and I were walking along the streets in Damascus when perhaps fifteen young men wandered into a roundabout with picket signs—they were pro-Assad demonstrators hired by the government to protest… traffic, I suppose.

Beyond the absurdity that was the constant reminder Assad’s narcissism, the trip was amazing. I met some of the friendliest people I’ve met anywhere in the world in Syria.

In Hama, the group I was with met a few young men that wanted us join them while they sang songs in a public park (I get the feeling they were interested in the girls I was with). We talked—not about politics, not in public—and they sang songs in Arabic, before they asked us to sing a song for them. I’m not much of a singer and I’m also a bit shy so I wasn’t keen on joining in when one of the girls I was with started singing “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey. It seemed ridiculous for a moment, but then the young men joined in knowing… most of the words I suppose.

I woke up early one morning in Homs and walked into the main reception area.  I say ‘main reception area’ when what I really mean is the hostel owner’s living room. He offered me coffee, and even though I declined he brought me a cup anyway. I was soon followed in by the owner’s young child who turned on the TV to watch the same Batman cartoon that I grew up with.

Our last day there we were wandered around the Khan As'ad Pasha, a historic market that's now popular tourist trap near Ummayyad Mosque. The friends I was with were interested in getting a souvenir that involved colored sand in glass bottles. I distinctly heard a sound I was not expecting to hear in Damascus: Dimmu Borgir, a fairly intense metal band, was blaring out of one of the nearby stores. I followed the sound into a store that sold tacky little necklaces to tourists and the store clerk quickly reached out to turn the volume dial to off on his CD player. The store clerk was heavy set, likely in his late 40s and was wearing blue jean shorts and a polo shirt. His appearance didn’t exactly scream ‘head banger.’ He began going through the usual store clerk greeting when I changed the subject to Dimmu Borgir. He laughed and explained that he used to be in his own death metal band, one of the few that have apparently ever existed in Syria.

I had done a research paper in the past about the metal scene in Iran, so I was curious about how it might compare. I asked if he ever had ever encountered any problems being in a metal band.

He shifted uncomfortably. “Of course,” he said.

I replied, “From the government? There are laws?”

He seemed to size me up for a minute and looked around. This isn’t the kind of conversation you would have comfortably in public, not with Assad’s secret police permeating the country. “Yes, from the government,” he answered. He explained that his band’s lyrics had to be approved by a government censor if they were going to distribute it on CDs. Not only that, but there were only three clubs in all of Syria where his band could play. The clubs had to have special permits and so did each band that played. At these clubs, the shows were even regulated. The fans, he explained, were required to remain seated.

In my head I conjured an image of every other metal club I’ve been in, dingy and a bit dark, with a long haired black-clad band screaming their heads off and pushing their amps beyond their capacity to make a reasonable sound; I imagined similarly black-clad fans with ridiculous makeup… seated motionless and quiet in their fold-out chairs. It was the single most depressing image I may have ever put in my own head.

I didn’t really know what to say. “That’s terrible, man,” I said. Impotent as it was, it was the best I could come up with.

He didn’t seem angry or bitter.  He just shrugged, his eyes heavy with fatigue. “It’s fucked. In Syria, you’re not allowed to be yourself.”

A local woman wearing hijab walked into his store and he began with his typical store clerk greeting, this time in Arabic. He gave me half a smile and a nod, and I left.

I have no way of knowing what became of any of them. The rockstar in Damascus, if he has stayed put and kept his head down, could be perfectly safe. Damascus has been hit with a few bombings, but largely the regime is still strong there and the city has escaped the worst of the violence. The singers in Hama however, I do truly fear for.  Hama was the site of Hafez al-Assad’s wrath back in 1982 when over 10,000 people died under the crush and thunder of artillery and bombs. The city hasn't faired much better as Hafez's son confronts the current uprising. Perhaps the worst has come to fruition or perhaps they are far away in Jordan or Turkey as a refugee. There’s simply no way to know.

When I see reports from Syria in my newsfeed, I feel a mix of emotions. The sadness in me simply wants them all to be safe; the anger—to my shame—wishes for them to fight Assad’s terrible regime and have vengeance for the more than 25,000 that have perished under the Assad regimes forces; but really what I want most is for that rockstar in Damascus to have found something to feel hope for, that though things maybe more horrific and horrible now than they’ve ever been, his country’s future is more malleable now than it’s been in decades.

There is reason to despair and reason to be afraid, but this is nothing new for Syrians. What is new, is that while for the past year Syria's present has been more dark and bloody than most can remember and Syria's future is completely uncertain, there is hope in that uncertainty; today there is hope for a free Syria tomorrow.