In the Lion's Den_ An Eyewitness Account of Washington's Battle With Syria - Andrew Tabler [68]
“Andrew, we have to watch what we are writing,” Leila told me as I walked into her office. She was nervously trying to light a cigarette. “We are responsible for everything anyone writes from here, be it for Syria Today or outside newspapers.”
From day one, we knew that our publication had to make it past the Syrian censors, so we were as careful as we could be concerning red lines. Both Hugh and I could get away with a lot more when we published in the international press.
“What do you mean ‘we are responsible’?” I said.
“I mean things are bad, and anything anyone from Syria Today publishes can be used against us,” Leila said, with a twinge of nervous anger in her voice. “They could close us down.”
The reason to be cautious would become apparent a little later that day, when Hugh, Othaina, and I headed down to the old justice palace to cover an opposition rally. It was March 9, 2006, the forty-third anniversary of the declaration of emergency law in Syria. For the second year in a row, members of the National Union of Syrian Students (NUSS) were busy beating up and chasing off opposition figures that were staging a sit-in in front of the old Ministry of Justice—a stone’s throw away from the radio station where martial law had been declared in 1963, the morning after the Baath Party seized power in a military coup. Multiparty politics in Syria had been suspended that day, all in the name of bringing to an end the raging political instability that had plagued the country since independence in 1946.
A man with gray hair broke from the crowd of demonstrators, arms waving overhead. Scores of student-union protestors were on him like a swarm of bees, shouting “traitor” while beating him with wooden sticks adorned with Syrian flags. As I took a photo of the melee, Hugh and Othaina sized up the situation, notebooks in hand.
“Come on, let’s go talk to that guy!” Hugh said.
Othaina and I looked at each other. Without saying a word, we understood that the worst thing that could happen to this brave man at that moment would be for two foreigners to ask him how he felt about being abused and beaten up. We probably knew the answer anyway.
“That’s the story!” Hugh shouted, eyes wide.
In an ideal sense, he was right. But in a country where nationalist sentiments were high due to US and UN pressure, it was often hard to know what to do. If the man wanted to talk to foreigners—and put his neck on the line—that was his choice. But if we approached him, it could be seen as the very treasonous activity of which he was being accused, possibly leading to dire circumstances that could prevent him from enjoying the permanent freedom he sought.
We did not have time to mull it over, however, since the students quickly converged on another target—me.
“We are here to support Syria and President Bashar against the traitors!” one protestor shouted, as the crowd closed in around us. “The West just wants our oil!” I could hear someone whispering the word “American” behind me. Suddenly, a sweaty young man with wild blue eyes, short-cropped hair, and a Syrian-flag bandanna appeared.
“So, an American!” he boomed, strutting like a rooster. The crowd roared. Someone started tugging on the belt of my raincoat, which admittedly would have been more appropriate on Washington’s Dupont Circle than the edge of Damascus’s Old City. I went silent, as did Hugh. Othaina shouted back, “We are journalists for a Syrian magazine!” and whipped out a few copies of Syria Today. The protestors, most with confused expressions, stared at the magazines’ covers.
Not to be cowed, the blue-eyed man raised his arms above his head. “America—fuck America!” he screamed, throwing his arms down. The crowd roared again.
Suddenly