In the Lion's Den_ An Eyewitness Account of Washington's Battle With Syria - Andrew Tabler [60]
A number of protesters had already climbed onto apartment-block balconies across from the embassy—a perfect pitcher’s mound for the rock barrage that was still under way. A banner reading IT’S NOT FREEDOM THAT YOU MEAN, BUT INCITEMENT WHAT [sic] YOU MEAN was draped over one terrace railing. Where the stones came from was anyone’s guess, but their brown, earthen color indicated that they did not come from the immediate surrounding area, which was completely paved or covered in asphalt.
One of the climbers, a Syrian man in his early thirties with long black hair and a shortly cropped beard, finally made it onto the terrace of the embassy complex’s second floor, which was home to the Swedish embassy. He immediately began tugging at the Danish coat of arms, a colorful metal plate under the flagpole a floor above. Breaking it loose, he lifted it above his head and slammed it to the earth. Momentarily silenced by the spectacle, the crowd then roared approval, as chants of “Allahu akbar” echoed again. Unable to reach the Danish embassy on the third floor, the bearded man hoisted the green banner of Islam—on which was written LA ALLAH ILLA ALLAH, WA MUHAMMAD AR-RUSUL ALLAH (There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is the prophet of God)—up the Swedish embassy’s flagpole. The crowd roared again.
Protesters were excited but not full of the kind of hate that might justify their stoning a building. While my light-brown hair, blue eyes, and northern European features (a Danish friend once told me that I look a bit Scandinavian) would have seemed to scream “hit me,” I noticed not so much as a dirty look. I was sporting a short-cropped beard, which could have been taken as a sign of Muslim piety. Every time Leila called me on my mobile phone, I made sure I spoke in Arabic. When a few English words slipped out of my mouth, a number of protesters looked my way, but not too hard.
Things soon turned sour. Protesters began throwing office paraphernalia from the Danish embassy into the crowd. Suddenly, black smoke began billowing, as the protesters set the Chilean embassy on the first floor ablaze. I immediately looked at the security forces gathered in front of the church. They were still standing around, still only smoking cigarettes. More flames shot out of the embassy, and the crowd erupted in approval. I tried to push my way toward Leila, who was in front of the church beside the security services. I spotted something square and flat resembling a pizza box sailing through the air—it looked as if it might hit me. As I ducked, the object hit a number of protesters. They tore the package apart, only to find a plastic raincoat with a company logo on the breast. People tried to rip it apart, found it too tough, stepped on it, and just let it lie on the ground.
The mob rage didn’t seem too convincing. In fact, people seemed to be just enjoying the spectacle. It was hard to move through the dense crowd, but a simple pat on the back and a murmured “afwan” (sorry) allowed me to pass. Few, at least so it seemed, gave me a second look. When they did, they gave a little smile when I started taking photos. They want me to see this, I thought.
After about ten more minutes of struggling and frantic phone calls, I finally reached Leila and some friends in front of the church.
“What’s with them?” I asked.
“Come on, Andrew, mukhabarat is controlling everything,” one of her friends said with a patronizing look on her face.
I hadn’t dared talk to anyone in the crowd, but now with Leila at my side, we could play Local Reporter, Foreign Journalist without much trouble. Leila began asking people questions, and I started taking photos.
“Inti ajnabiya?” (Are you a foreigner?), a group of male protesters asked Leila. Her physical features are very Syrian, including olive-brown skin; brown, curly hair; and brown eyes to match. Leila was