Syrian revolution comes to Damascus as rebels openly patrol the streets

As night falls over the central district of Barzeh, crowds of men, women and
children gather among the crumbling old city walls to shout for the downfall
of the regime. Walking, silently, and swiftly down narrow alleyways, they
pass men sporting balaclavas and clutching Kalashnikovs stationed at the
entrances to the public square. Members of the group that likes to call
itself the Free Syrian Army, they provide ‘security’ for the demonstrators.

For months these protests would last minutes, or be violently dispersed up by
security forces. Over thirty people have been shot dead here by regime
security, locals told the Daily Telegraph. But now, surrounded by
their own military, the crowds are becoming ever more confident and openly
defiant.

“Now we have our fighters to protect us, the regime knows this and they don’t
dare to come here. We are not safe but now if the regime wants to come he
has to bring tanks and troops,” said Asra, a Sunni Muslim pharmacist who has
been calling for the demise of the regime since early April.

Drumbeats accompanied the crowd in dances and songs that have been well
rehearsed over the 11 month uprising. Crowds waved the revolutionary flag,
jumping up and down as they yelled passionate cries of ‘death to Bashar,
death to the donkey!”. Men in fluorescent yellow jackets, their faces
wrapped in cloth to prevent being identified in photographs worked as
stewards managing the crowds. A boy no older than 12 stood on a makeshift
podium leading the crowds.

The slogans, a medley of prayers of solidarity for the ‘brothers’ coming under
relentless bombardment in other cities, cries of outrage against the regime,
and calls to remember the ‘martyrs’ killed in the last month, showed the
boiling anger that has sprung from the months of violent unrest.

“This lady’s son died here, in these protests,” shouted Asra above the noise
of the crowds. “He shouted to the police ‘why are you killing us? Please
stop’. So they shot him dead.”

“They killed this boys’ father,” she added, grabbing the shoulders of a
12-year-old with curly brown hair and deep brown eyes. “He comes here
everyday to call for freedom and revenge on his father.”

Most uproarious came united cries of “first we trust in God, and then in our
Free Syrian Army!”. The armed gunmen watched silently from the rooftops.

But the innocence of the peaceful protests are giving way to a more sinister
form of action. Outside of the protests, Burzeh’s streets are filled with
the secret informants for the opposition. Lounging on street corners, young
men listen to conversations, and watch the movements of residents, intent on
weeding out the “spies”; people who reveal activities of the opposition to
the regime, or in some cases are passionately aligned with the President.

Activists from Barzeh admitted to the Daily Telegraph that eight people
have been assassinated in area in the past few months, but the figure is
likely to be higher.

Those that are not killed, are bullied into toeing the line. Shopfront covers
dotted across the district have an ‘X’ sprayed on them. “We do that to those
that don’t close their shops when we call for a strike. It is a warning that
they must join us,” said Asra.

Barzeh is not the only pocket of defiance in central Damascus. Activists say
that across the capital men are secretly being armed.

“[Bashar al-Assad] kills us, we are not his people. He is a criminal,” said
Hana, another activist. “Before we did not want to kill anyone, we did not
want to use weapons, but now we don’t see any other way. Now this is war.”

“They don’t want us to live in freedom,” said the wife of a wealthy Sunni
businessman. “They think this is about money, but it is not, it is about
dignity.” ‘They’ she said, refers to the Alawites, the minority ruling sect.

Asked where their place should be in society after the regime falls, many
activists shrugged their shoulders, having given it little thought. “We will
be the majority,” said one Sunni opposition member simply.

“All those that killed, must be killed,” said another Sunni activist. Working
with an organisation that promotes democracy and freedom, he had long spoke
the language of peace. But after months of seeing his friends killed or
beaten, or family members arrested, logic was overrun by visceral emotion.

Many opposition activists remain committed to the belief that they do not want
this to be sectarian war, but increasingly they grudgingly accept that it
may become one. With this battle largely divided along sectarian lines, the
only common understanding between all sides is that the road ahead is likely
to be a bloody one.

A Sunni local journalist told the Daily Telegraph of his fears.

“We are a moderate Muslim family, with many Alawite friends. But now my
brother comes home from protests speaking about the ‘filthy Alawites’.
Imagine how people who have lost their loved ones in this war feel”.

“When you see the YouTube footage, the videos of torture, arrests and house
raids, the perpetrators are always speaking in an Alawite accent. So now
when anti government protestors hear this accent they connect it to the
dirty act,” he added.

“My Alawite friends are frightened. First they were frightened of losing their
position in society, now they are also frightened for their lives.”

Across the city, in Alawite and Christian neighbourhoods, hatred for the
opposition is also virulent. “I hate dogs, we have too many dogs in the
suburbs,” spat an Alawite woman as state television showed images of the
‘terrorists’ attacking her country. “Our President will never surrender to
them”.

As Damascus is plunged into darkness by daily power cuts, businesses languish
under biting sanctions, and Western nations up the rhetoric against
President Assad, minority groups in the city are increasingly living in fear.

Christians who have long supported the Alawite regime in order to ensure
protections and rights for themselves feel their status is threatened, and
that the comfort of their livelihood is inextricably linked with the
survival of the regime.

“We are all afraid,” said ‘Adam’, a wealthy businessman. “There have been
al-Qaeda bombings here in the capital, and I can here gunfire in my
neighbourhood. I am forty years old and I have never seen anything like
this.”

“These Arabs are thinking with their hearts. They do not comprehend the
reality of war. Syria is not like Libya, we have a huge army. Two or three
million people will die. And for what? For a change in government? Is it
worth it?”.

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