The Syrian War
Thee Journals Told Through the Eyes of a Syrian Protester
Max Zhang
The Spark of a Revolution December 26th, 2010 It was a stench of death, of lives lost and families torn apart, it was carried across the city on gentle winds, evoking the distasteful memories of days not long ago. It was the smell of motor oil and kerosene. For westerners, these smells merely signified gas stations and lit fireplaces. For the people of the Syrian War, they conveyed the odor of the grim reaper, the thief of so many innocent lives, barrel bombs filled with incendiaries, chemicals and shrapnel that were indiscriminately dropped onto civilian neighborhoods. I grimaced as I stepped into the alley, my sinuses were assaulted by the miasma of burnt oil and kerosene. The walls of the building were blackened by the legacy of the bomb. It reminded me of the same torch marks that had befell my house as my parents lost their lives while I was at school… “Khalil! Come quick!” A piercing shout speared through the haze within my mind. It was my friend Amir, his face was red, and he was panting heavily, but before I could inquire further, he dashed off. I frowned, despite the perilous environment that we had lived in all our lives, I had never seen Amir act like this. I picked up my bag from the ground and began to jog after Amir. I arrived in the village square of our town Daraa, in the middle was a line of boys my age. Almost an entire month ago, a few of them had painted the walls of our school with Anti-Assad slogans. They were merely the actions of rebellious teens, seeking thrill and attention from friends. Only five boys had done it, but twenty-three were taken away. All twenty-three were kneeling there, with faces bloodied and bruised. Their faces were gaunt and devoid of emotion, they had been stripped away of the spark of innocence that had once been held in the eyes of every child. By the time I had finally comprehended what had happened, the entire town was here. Anger and aggravation spread through the ranks of our townspeople like a wildfire… Flashback Starts
“Do not worry, I am sure he will be all right!” I am not sure how many times I have repeated those empty words as I walked through the town, comforting torn and desperate parents. As is stepped into the next house, I reflected on the state of our town. The brutal actions of the police had ripped away twenty-three bright lights from this ominous and war-torn town. Parents were separated from children without so much as a warning. Friends had been lost and roll calls in school came short. Over the course of weeks, I saw many of the once-dignified and warm parents that I had known all my life become reduced into bawling drunkards.
Flashback Ends
I shook my head, the actions of the police had been too much, this was not merely oppression from power-hungry and abusive police! It was the deprivation of basic human rights from children not even old enough to drive in most other countries. The stirrings of rebellion rippled through the crowd; suddenly, an echoing cry rang throughout the square: “REVOLUTION!!!”
January 27th, 2011
A Loss of Innocence “Last night, yet another group of peaceful protesters were attacked using violent force and firearms by the Syrian police,” A woman’s voice resounded through the tinny speakers of the radio on the stool a the Daraan pub, distorted by the cheap quality of the speaker, what might have been a clear and pleasant voice had been reduced to a barely understandable squabble. While I could understand what was coming out, I certainly didn’t like it. “This marks the 3rd event this week where Arab Spring protesters have been attacked by the police.”
The rest of the bar leaned closer the radio in anticipation, waiting for more news of the revolution that they had started. The women’s voice rang out again, “After the revolution started by the people of Daraa, the seeds of revolution have spread across Syria like a wildfire. While many people had been willing to take violent action, others still wanted to remain peaceful, sadly those peaceful protesters are now taking blame from the police for the actions others.” Hearing the reports of the shootings brought unpleasant memories to mind, memories of the first protesting… Gunshots… Above the never-ending shouts of protesters and the constant drumming of boots on asphalt, gunshots echoed through the city. I had come to one of the first peaceful protests after the Daraan revolution, expecting great minds of the masses to come together and repel the darkness of
Assad’s government from our once great land. But I had come to find a few ragtag groups of men and women barely enough to form what others would identify as a “protest.” “Why are there so few?” I had asked a man standing closest to me. In response he stated that rumors of police brutality and shootings up north had deterred anyone from coming. I had laughed such speculation off, saying that the rumors were just that, rumors. But now those rumors escalated into a sick reality, the musky smell of gunpowder was a constant reminder of one fact: I, Khalil Nassir, was caught in the middle of a police shooting on innocent peaceful protesters. As that thought raced through my head, I realized I had to get away. I ducked down through an alley, emerged onto another street and kept on running, away from the gunshots, away from the horror… “Khalil!” A piercing voice rang through my subconscious and I snapped out of the flashback. I realized that my mind must have blanked for a minute. “What are we supposed to do now?” The small lanky teen I knew as Amir inquired, half as questioning our predicament, and half rhetorically, in reaction to such horror. Inside my head, I was imagining what was going to happen to our country. With the police attacks of innocent protesters, more and more people would join our side. But it was still unclear if we would have enough men to achieve victory within a revolution. We could not win with force against such overwhelming odds, we would need to gather support from outside our country to achieve peace within. Then I saw some cans of spray paint on the barstool near me. I had grown up aspiring to be an artist, maybe this way I could make a real difference. I grabbed some cans of spray paint and ran out the door. When people asked where I was going, I simply answered, “I’m going to make a difference.” The Beginnings of Change March 15, 2011
Lives lost... Families torn apart… Once happy lives impoverished and blighted… A miasma of smells filled my nose, an invasive blend of aerosol and dust. The soft and constant sound of spray paint was an oasis of calm in the barren and war-torn desert of this city. I must have worked for over an hour, but it felt like no more than a minute. I simply cleared my mind, pulled out all the horrors I had lived through from my head and let those thoughts guide my hand, spraying an aerosol propelled fume of colors at the bare brick in front of me. Stepping back, I admired my work, then I simply walked away, knowing that people would soon see it, take pictures, and upload it to Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter for the world to see. Our side could not merely achieve victory in a revolution by force alone, we would need the help of the world, and this is how I would contact them. Moving through the alleyways and back lanes of Daraa, I moved on to the next location. As I arrived at the wall and began painting, I slowly drifted into my memories…
“Khalil! Have you heard the news!?” A small boy exclaimed as I walked into the pub, which acted as the main forum for the people of Daraa. “Supporters of the revolution have taken up arms across all of Syria, and the government has begun a crackdown against them, the war for our country has begun!” THUNK! My bag of spray paint dropped to the floor as I stood there, not sure how to react. I didn’t know what to say, so I remained silent, picking up my bag and settling into my seat. Suddenly, a drone erupted in everyone’s ears, the drone only created when aircraft fly overhead.
“FIND COVER!!” I shouted, everyone knew of the devastating impact of barrel bombs, some having experienced it firsthand. I immediately ran through the pub and leaped over the bar, seeking shelter beneath its metal cover. As I curled up into a fetal ball, the barrel bomb that landed just outside the tavern filled the entire room with an immense roar of heat, light, and sound.
Snapping out of the stream of memories, I shook my head. A portrait of barrel bombs and death had appeared in front of me. We had suffered many casualties from that bomb, but it had not stopped the people of Daraa to, like me, fight against the oppression of Bashar Al-Assad’s regime. 6 years later, the war continues. Much had changed since the dawn of this conflict, thousands have lost their lives on either side, even more had fled the country, and the two behemoths of the world, the US and Russia, had become involved. However, it is still unclear how much more will change or how much longer the war will last. I only hope that in the end, the sacrifice that we have made will be worth it. Image Sources: - Index of /wp-content/uploads/2016/03/ - Image Source: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-4312502/The-boy-anti-Assad-graffitichanged-world.html