Travel
My Cousins and the Apricots
admin, Jan 3, 2025
By Iñaki Estívaliz
Correspondent to the Middle East for Claridad newspaper of Puerto Rico and Cáñamo magazine.
Beirut, January 3, 2025. For me, the word «damasco» (apricot) has always had a profound evocative power. It transports me to One Thousand and One Nights, particularly The Tale of Attaf and its «house of wisdom,» which was its library, a refuge during adventures centuries before it became the capital of what we now know as Syria on January 1, 1944.
But the plural form of «damasco» evokes something even stronger for me, taking me back to my childhood when my cousins and I would steal unripe apricots from the orchards of Chipiona during the transitional era. We’d end up with stomachaches, but at that age, the adventure was worth it.
The apricots had to be green because the owners would pick them once they turned yellow. If they didn’t, the overripe apricots would fall to the ground, where pigeons and rats would peck at them. I’ve also eaten plenty of apricots and dates by cutting off the half that those winged or non-winged rodents had already nibbled on.
For me, «damasco» is a grand, evocative, and beautiful word, like the «duraznos» (peaches) I encountered in Gabriel García Márquez’s books. Every time I hear the word «durazno,» I feel the urge to read Latin American magical realism.
The trees of these fruits belong to the Rosaceae family. Their fruits are a typical drupe with fleshy pulp and a hard pit in the center, like the peach, the bully of the family, with its cotton-like fine-filamented skin—less romantic than the apricot. The apricot is also amusingly and more commonly known as «albaricoque.»
Now that I’m in Beirut, after an eternal and chaotic layover in Istanbul, preparing to travel to Damascus tomorrow or the next day, I can’t help but think of one of those many independent playdays throughout my childhood in Chipiona.
It was customary for Chipiona’s kids to walk into any bar when thirsty and ask for water. They’d serve it in a clean glass, sometimes with a grumble, or point to the earthenware water jug at the end of the counter.
Usually, it was my cousin Carlos, a year younger than me, and I causing mischief. We’d leap from rooftop to rooftop as if training to become athletes or soldiers. We loved invading abandoned, often ruined, houses, where there was always one room that reeked of excrement. Among the rubble, scattered pages of sticky porn magazines—stained with what made us feel older: rebellious semen—added to the mystery.
On holidays, we’d sneak into houses under construction, pretending to be builders or outlaws hiding. One winter, when nature called, we developed the habit of relieving ourselves in the white construction helmets of architects and draftsmen. I always had a strong sense of class consciousness and never allowed Carlos to do his business in the yellow helmets of the workers.
I had a lovely childhood and youth, full of luck, because I did many fun things that could have landed me in juvenile detention. My parents would threaten me with the «boarding school.»
Once, during one of our forays into the town orchards to steal figs or whatever else we could find—or trying to milk goats without knowing how, bruising their udders in the process—we secretly took our cousins Jonnie and Charlie along to steal apricots.
If Carlos and I were around 9 and 10 years old, they must have been about 5 and 3. Charlie didn’t talk yet, not even in English (they were cousins by birth but American). We knew we were doing something forbidden and dangerous by bringing the youngest one along on this adventure.
I’ll never forget Charlie’s expression of happiness as he ate green apricots. We knew our stomachs would hurt later, but if we waited for them to ripen, the owners wouldn’t leave anything for little thieves like us.
I watched Charlie devour the apricots. His fine blond hair was full of unpleasant bits of apricot flesh, which also protruded from his ears and nose. He looked immensely satisfied, but I started to feel a bit disgusted. I reached out to wipe his face to avoid the spectacle, but Jonnie stepped between us. I thought he would take care of his brother better than I could, but instead, he gave him a slap on the back of the head (a «ga’natá,» as we say in Puerto Rico).
My memory of Jonnie is that he was a very problematic but extraordinarily handsome child. To me, he resembled a young James Dean.
Jonnie grew up from a bully into a nerd who posts nerdy things on social media and has a full-on nerd face. He could have been a cast member of The Big Bang Theory, but since he doesn’t post pictures of his girlfriend, we don’t know if she looks like Amy, Penny, or Bernadette.
Charlie, on the other hand, always seemed like a walking light bulb to me during the years I spent with him. His head grew to adult size long before the rest of his body, and I saw him as a smiling bulb. He also cried a lot. He was our Kenny (“Who killed Kenny?”).
Jonnie, Carlos, and I often forgot about him when climbing lamp posts, trees, or the hedges around Aunt Dori’s pool. Suddenly, someone would remember and ask, “Where’s Charlie?” Within seconds, we’d hear a loud, dry thud, like a head hitting the ground from somewhere higher than we’d climbed. A second later, an ear-piercing wail would start. When we’d rush to help him—more worried about being scolded than his health—he’d still be crying but would begin laughing uncontrollably. With his face covered in dirt and his cheeks still wet from tears, he’d forget what had happened as soon as he saw us.
In my wanderings around Beirut since I arrived, I’ve noticed there are more lights, the streets are cleaner, and there’s no longer an army of begging teenage shoeshiners or Syrian women renting children to beg pitifully on the sidewalks. I hope they’re doing well and that what they’ve returned to in their country is better than what they experienced on Beirut’s streets.
I haven’t been to the neighborhoods that used to be controlled by Hezbollah or the Syrian and Palestinian refugee camps. They say there’s nothing to see but rubble.
I reached out to Charlie, who, with age, now has that James Dean look. When I almost froze to death in North Dakota at the Standing Rock reservation during the harsh winter of 2016, he sent me $400 without asking. I think he was a grad student then. He didn’t even have the good job he has now.
When I told him months ago that I wanted to return to the Middle East, he sent me $700 without question.
A lot is happening in Syria now. After 50 years of a military dictatorship, various groups have managed to eradicate tyranny. The situation is complicated, with many groups and interests taking sides.
It’s a great hope for a great country, but we’ll see how events continue to unfold. I am here.
On January 4, Claridad will accept donations to support this coverage. This initiative aims to encourage people hesitant about digital platforms to contribute.
I’ve almost spent the cash I brought because I had to buy a reliable cellphone for these conditions. I must admit I’m very soft-hearted, and a significant portion of the donations I receive will likely go to help Palestinians and Syrians who truly need it.
To donate in cash, stop by Claridad.
You can also donate via Venmo, PayPal, Zelle, or Western Union:
Cesar Ignacio Estívaliz Lopez
787-585-0112
iestivaliz@yahoo.es
iestivaliz2017@gmail.com
In Damascus, All is Well
Admin – Jan 7, 2025
By Iñaki Estívaliz
Special Correspondent for Claridad in the Middle East
The day after Epiphany, we left Beirut at five in the morning headed for Damascus. It was still dark as we navigated a winding mountain road. In the darkness, the roadside shops and precariously perched houses reminded me of Puerto Rico, defying gravity above steep cliffs.
As the day broke, the scenery transformed from Caribbean to Mediterranean. Pine forests, olive groves, vineyards, and cypress trees (without cemeteries) emerged in the light. Everywhere, the cedars stood tall—the emblem of the Lebanese flag.
We left behind a Beirut that was markedly different from the one I had known in August. Shortly after I left the country, the Israeli army invaded southern Lebanon with ground troops. The Mossad planted bombs in thousands of communication devices belonging to Hezbollah militia members, detonating them in two waves that caused dozens of deaths and thousands of injuries. The Israeli Air Force, under the control of Benjamin Netanyahu, bombed neighborhoods dominated by the Iranian-backed political-military group, reducing them to rubble.
I visited those devastated neighborhoods and witnessed the harrowing aftermath of mass death firsthand. Yet, somehow, the Palestinians never lose their smile.
Surprisingly, the wealthier and touristy neighborhoods, or those untouched by the bombs, were shining in an unexpected splendor. Streets like Hamra or Armenia, cosmopolitan and bustling, were cleaner, brighter, and livelier during this ceasefire than in August. The swarms of children and teenagers trying to convince you to let them shine your shoes—even if you were wearing flip-flops—were gone. The Syrian women begging on the sidewalks with babies in their arms had all but disappeared.
The Beirutis now seemed happier and more talkative than during my first visit. I suppose that after 75 years of civil wars, invasions, economic crises, and assassinations, they have learned to savor brief moments of peace like no one else.
We arrived at the border knowing full well that we might not be allowed to cross. However, on the Lebanese side, they stamped our passports without issue. After traversing eight kilometers of no-man’s-land, we reached the Syrian side. After an hour of waiting for approvals—and with the help of our Syrian fixer—I could hardly believe they had allowed us entry. A skilled fixer with good connections is worth more than any government permit, especially in a transitional moment like the one Syria is experiencing.
After 53 years of the brutal tyranny of the Assad family—13 of which were marred by civil war—early last December, following a 12-day offensive led by the Islamist group Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), insurgents overthrew Bashar al-Assad, who sought refuge in Russia.
HTS had long been regarded as a terrorist organization with ties to Al-Qaeda, and there is concern in the West that, despite showing a more moderate face now, they might ultimately become as radical as the Taliban.
Of the dozen Syrians I’ve asked, “How do you feel about what’s happening?” every single one responded that they feel “optimistic and hopeful.”
Once inside Syria, it becomes clear the country is in a delicate state. Credit cards don’t work, and gas stations are out of service. People buy fuel by the gallon along the roadside.
When we reached Damascus, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Thousands upon thousands of people were out living their lives, crowding the avenues, streets, alleys, shops, and bazaars. On my brief strolls through the old city, I didn’t see a single soldier, tank, or sign of conflict—at least not yet.
It’s true that sometimes, in Damascus, you feel like you’ve stepped into One Thousand and One Nights. Delightful food stands, shops selling all kinds of exotic goods for Westerners, and even little booths where people pay to get perfumed without having to buy the entire bottle.
You see women wearing burkas, others with headscarves, and some with their hair uncovered. A few wear charming French berets tilted over their headscarves, and every few steps, you cross paths with a Jennifer Lopez of the Middle East.
Perhaps there are no militarized insurgents in the streets because they’re more focused on organizing a new government than on oppressing people.
After 53 years of the Assad regime’s ignominy, the streets are teeming with life, free of fear.
It must be something like what half of Spain felt in 1975 when dictator Francisco Franco died—though he passed away in bed as a generalissimo.
In the coming days, weeks, or months, we’ll see if the wolf has merely donned sheep’s clothing or if Syrians will truly have the chance to live under a moderate and human-rights-respecting government.
-IE
When the Journalist Becomes the News
Admin – Jan 9, 2025
By Iñaki Estívaliz for Claridad from Damascus
Journalism professors teach that the journalist should never become the news. It’s a rule I’ve blatantly broken lately, but in this case, it should serve as a slap in the face to dogmatists and strict rule-lovers.
This Thursday, I finally made it to the Syrian Ministry of Information to pick up my press permit and be able to work as a journalist in Syria in the coming days.
No one at the ministry spoke English, and those of us without a translator are left to fend for ourselves. However, there’s usually some fixer working with other colleagues or fellow journalists who speak Arabic and lend a hand.
This time, my guardian angel was a French journalist who spoke Arabic, English, and Spanish in addition to his native French. He was also enduring the same Kafkaesque process of going from office to office, only to end up back at the beginning. Thanks to his command of Arabic and his generosity, we managed to navigate the process together.
At one point, when it seemed everything was finally ready and we were just waiting to get the piece of paper, I was able to connect to the internet. I checked the logistics group for journalists in Syria, where they were discussing how, the day before, Israeli soldiers had detained a Syrian lawyer—who often works as a fixer—and French journalist Sylvain Mercadier in the occupied Golan Heights.
I showed my phone to my savior, asking if he’d seen the news.
“That’s me,” he said. Surprised, I asked him to tell me what had happened.
A group of journalists had been filming the previous day as about twenty Israeli soldiers walked through the streets of the town of Al-Hamidiye.
The French journalist had previously witnessed Israeli soldiers cutting power lines and entering homes, terrifying residents and traumatizing children.
The soldiers forced them to stop filming and ordered them to delete everything they had recorded. The journalists complied.
The soldiers then began removing everything from the journalists’ vehicle and found a laptop they wanted to confiscate. The lawyer, Mohammed Fayyad, who was working as Sylvain’s fixer, protested and was detained. Sylvain tried to defend him, and he was detained as well.
“We were clearly identified as press. They interrogated us brutally, beat us, and kept us for about five hours with our hands cuffed behind our backs and our eyes blindfolded, lying on the ground,” Sylvain recalled, showing the bruises on his wrists and legs.
“They hit my colleague in the back of the neck with a rifle butt and smashed glass around us,” he added.
Sylvain said he wasn’t scared because, just before they took his phone, he saw that his colleagues had already mobilized, and Reporters Without Borders had issued a statement. He believed it was only a matter of hours before they’d be released.
“They just wanted to intimidate us, stop us from doing our job, and they boasted that in two hours, Israeli troops would be in Damascus,” explained the multidisciplinary journalist, who works for various Arab and French outlets.
Later, they were left on a path in the middle of nowhere.
Sylvain claimed the soldiers stole $200 from Mohammed, took all their memory cards and SIM cards, and disabled his phone, which still doesn’t work. Sylvain is currently without a cellphone.
The Israeli army issued a statement claiming they hadn’t mistreated the journalists, who, according to them, hadn’t followed instructions, and thus were «kindly detained.»
Sylvain is frustrated that French media presented both versions as if they carried equal weight, even though, as he says, “everyone knows the value of the Israeli army’s propaganda.”
Several groups of journalists who had been eavesdropping as Sylvain told me his story wanted to interview him on the spot. Sylvain hadn’t showered since his arrest the day before, and when we met again that evening, I didn’t recognize him. He looked like a completely different person—relaxed, with a clean face and loose hair.
The French freelance journalist has 15 years of experience in the Middle East, especially covering the Kurds in Syria and Iraq. In the course of his work, he’s also been arrested in Turkey and Yemen.
“Despite all this pressure, we’re determined to continue our work, and I believe this story can be a source of inspiration for other journalists,” he said resolutely.
-IE
Syrian Artists Strive to Organize to Defend Themselves Against the New Islamist Government
Admin – Jan 10, 2025
By Iñaki Estívaliz for Claridad from Damascus
Syrian artists, as a collective—though not all as individuals—were protected under the tyrannical regime of the Al-Assad family, which was overthrown last month by a coalition of Islamist groups. This protection was largely due to the interest in the arts shown by the former president’s wife, Asma, a London-born patron of the arts.
Now, many of these artists fear they will become targets under the Islamist rule.
After 53 years of brutal tyranny by the Al-Assad family, including the last 13 years of civil war, the Islamist group Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) led a 12-day offensive in early December that ousted Bashar al-Assad, who sought refuge in Russia.
HTS has long been considered a terrorist group with ties to Al-Qaeda. Western nations worry that, despite the group’s current moderate façade, it may become as radical as the Taliban.
However, the U.S. is engaging with HTS diplomatically and has recently withdrawn the $10 million bounty it had offered for information leading to the arrest of its leader, Ahmed al-Sharaa, formerly known as Abu Mohammed al-Jolani.
Another Mohammed, a lover of Cuba whom I met at the Havana Café in downtown Damascus, told me that Syrians, in general, feel happy and hopeful to have emerged from the tyranny of the Al-Assads.
“Perhaps some Christians are worried,” noted this Syrian, who has traveled to the Caribbean four times. “But the new government, still in the process of organizing, allowed the celebration of Christmas without any issues.”
“And what about women?” I asked.
“Al-Jolani has a mother and a daughter who are hardworking women. He won’t tolerate abuse or restrictions against women,” he assured me.
On the other hand, many artists are indeed fearful. This week, about 50 of the country’s most renowned artists gathered at the Zawaya Gallery in Damascus’s old city to share their fears, hopes, and common strategies to defend themselves against the attacks they anticipate under the new government.
One after another, they spoke, agreeing that the Islamists “are not interested in art, culture, education, or the magnificent history of our great nation.” They emphasized the need to “stay united, establish strategies to defend each other, and remain vigilant.”
One artist suggested stepping out of their isolated studios, where they could be targeted individually, and working in public squares to present themselves as a strong collective: “We need to show the new government that we must be respected.”
A very elegantly dressed septuagenarian woman expressed her distress, saying that throughout her life, she had worked on her sculptures freely. Since the insurgents arrived, she has been too afraid to create, feeling frustrated and unsure of how to avoid offending the new government.
Another young woman, dressed in haute couture like many attendees, argued that whatever decisions were made there would be meaningless because, ultimately, “we’re waiting to see what (Donald) Trump does.”
One artist, Marwan Tayara, who refrained from speaking at the meeting, later shared his thoughts with me. “We should create a symbol to identify us, like the pink ribbon for breast cancer awareness or the Palestinian watermelon. Something impactful—a trend—so that anyone who loves art can wear that pin,” he proposed.
Marwan, a former elite electrical engineer, left circuits behind to dedicate himself to art. He founded the nonprofit MADAD Foundation in the house he inherited from his late wife. A corrupt neighbor from the old regime had attempted to seize the property.
I visited MADAD’s headquarters in old Damascus, navigating cobblestone alleys that reminded me of the Albaycín in Granada. After several attempts to locate the house due to the lack of signage, I found it at the end of a narrow, dim passageway with two austere doors.
When Marwan finally greeted me and I entered the house, I was struck by its beauty: the central courtyard, the fountain, the plants, the open rooms, the stucco work, and the geometric embellishments on the furniture. From the rooftop, the great mosque of Damascus and half the city were visible.
“Houses in Damascus are like a woman’s veil,” my guide explained. “From the outside, you see nothing, but behind the veil lies the wonder.”
Marwan fought hard to keep the house, which was in ruins. His wife had restored it using original plans she found in a European library. He ultimately prevailed against the neighbor attempting to seize it by securing the favor of someone in the government with more authority than the corrupt official protecting his adversary.
The foundation now involves around 75 people.
Marwan has always managed to navigate bureaucratic obstacles, enabling his collective’s exhibitions to tour the world: “I know how things work, and I know how to solve problems.”
Pragmatic in politics, deeply cultured, and profoundly humanistic, Marwan says he feels “a great sense of relief” with Al-Assad’s departure and has no plans to leave the country despite the new Islamist government—a decision some of his friends have made.
“I have a different passport and could live wherever I want. I’ve traveled the world, but this is my home. I want to stay here—I’m not leaving again. I used to love traveling, but now I’m anchored to my motherland,” he admitted.
Marwan describes himself as “a firm believer in the power of love,” asserting that people are inherently good and just need to understand one another. “All religions are the same under different names, but they all speak of peace and love,” he said.
He cited the earthquake that devastated Aleppo two years ago as an example of how adversity united people, with art playing an important role as both a balm and a unifying force.
Marwan believes Syria’s main challenge now is its lag in education and knowledge but expresses immense confidence and admiration for the younger generation of artists.
A passionate lover of Damascus, the world’s oldest capital, he stated: “The universe is a creature, and Damascus is one of its hearts.”
-IE
Yarmouk: A Small Gaza Begins to Revive in Damascus
Admin – Jan 11, 2025
By Iñaki Estívaliz for Claridad from Damascus
The Yarmouk refugee camp, located about eight kilometers south of Damascus, is a city of rubble and buildings riddled with bomb and shell damage of all calibers. Looking in any direction along its dusty streets and avenues, the landscape of devastation stretches endlessly to the horizon. Slowly but surely, it is beginning to rise from the ashes.
Founded informally in 1957, Yarmouk once housed around 400,000 Palestinian and Syrian refugees. Throughout the last century, it endured countless hardships, crises, and conflicts, but it was during the past two decades—particularly during the Syrian civil war—that its residents suffered their worst moments, leaving only about 8,000 people remaining.
The camp faced brutal attacks from the 4th Division of Maher al-Assad (the brother of the deposed tyrant) and the Russian Air Force.
Abu Mohammed, a 40-year-old fruit vendor, recalls how the enclave was controlled by various rebel groups between 2012 and 2015, and from 2015 to 2018, «supposedly» by the Islamic State (ISIS).
In 2013, 3,000 Palestinians were forcibly evacuated from the camp and remain missing to this day. «We know nothing about them, but it’s said that a Shia militia killed them all,» he says.
That year, Mohammed recounts, people began «killing dogs to eat, using weeds from the streets to cook. There isn’t a single family here that hasn’t lost at least one member. If you left the camp, you didn’t know if you’d be allowed back, and any suspicion could lead to hours of detention.»
Under the control of the Syrian army, a blockade was imposed, causing over 200 people to die of starvation.
Mohammed remembers one of the darkest periods in the camp, when the Syrian army established «committees» that no one could challenge—not even the militia.
«They were Druze-Alawite units that entered homes, raped women, killed many men, and then hung a portrait of al-Assad on the wall, telling us he would be our only god from then on,» he says.
The vendor is quick to clarify that there were many Alawites in the camp «who were not bad people. They were good people, but they didn’t dare to protest. You have to understand them,» he adds.
Like others interviewed for this report, Mohammed believes that between 2015 and 2018, when ISIS supposedly controlled the camp, «it was actually an invention of the regime to punish us.»
In 2018, ISIS withdrew, and the next day, the Syrian army bombarded the camp for four days, allegedly to expel them, even though they had already left.
Abu Mahmud, a 42-year-old Syrian refugee who hid in the camp for years to avoid being conscripted, confirms Mohammed’s account. Mahmud is still searching for one of his uncles, whose name was found in the records of the infamous Sednaya prison, where «many died, and others went mad.»
The streets of Damascus are filled with men who have lost their sanity.
«Now we feel a sense of psychological security,» says Mahmud, who, three days after the fall of the al-Assad regime, traveled 400 kilometers to Aleppo to visit relatives «peacefully, without anyone asking for papers.»
«Bashar al-Assad claimed to be an ally of Palestine, but he only wanted to exploit the Palestinian cause for his own interests. That’s why he received international aid, kept most of the money, and distributed very little,» laments Mahmud, echoing a sentiment shared by many interviewed.
«What the dictator did here is exactly what’s happening now in Gaza,» he points out.
Ismail Al-Khatib, 54, is the muezzin (the person who calls to prayer) of the Al-Wasin mosque, which is currently being restored thanks to a donation from one of its worshippers.
«When ISIS left, the army bombed the camp’s 30 mosques, many of which are irreparable. In one of those mosques, families were taking refuge, and dozens of people died, with over a hundred injured,» recounts Al-Khatib, who says he has lived his entire life in fear but now has hope for a better future.
He claims that Syrian intelligence «invented ISIS in the camp, disguising the regime as the Islamic State.»
For the religious leader, who hopes to have his mosque restored by the next Ramadan, Benjamin Netanyahu and Bashar al-Assad are «two sides of the same coin.»
One symbol of hope is Abu Sahadi, 52, who takes care of his mother, who fled Palestine during the Nakba (the Great Catastrophe) in 1948 at the age of eight.
Sahadi has opened a small traditional restaurant on Yarmouk’s Palestine Street, hoping to inspire the return of the camp’s former residents.
«People are coming back little by little. Once there’s electricity, more will return. I decided to open this food stall to encourage people to come back. The first thing people need is places to eat. It’s true that progress is slow, but it’s fine. The most important thing is that the regime is gone,» he says.
Abu Said, 66, who never left the camp, sums up the situation: «Iran and Syria always claim to support Palestine, but they are against Palestine.»
-IE
Bombs Are for the Poor and Minorities
Admin – Jan 14, 2025
By Iñaki Estívaliz for Claridad from Damascus
In the heart of Damascus, in the historic old city and the wealthy neighborhoods, there are barely any signs of 13 years of civil war or the violent overthrow of the tyrant Bashar al-Assad last month.
The Syrian capital buzzes with activity in dozens of bustling markets, brimming with all kinds of goods and food, and it’s rare to see traces of bombs or shellfire.
As in all wars, the bombs—what a coincidence—always target poor neighborhoods or areas populated by ethnic and religious minorities.
The peak of this violent discrimination by bombs is evident in Damascus in neighborhoods like Jobar, just a short walk from the city center. Until 1975, Jobar was an independent village and is mentioned in the Talmud as a Jewish settlement. It used to be a pilgrimage site for Syrian Jews, as it houses the two-millennia-old synagogue of the same name, built in honor of the prophet Elijah.
Jobar is also the burial site of Rabbi Shmuel Elbaz-Abuchatzira, a 16th-century patriarch.
In 2013, the neighborhood became the center of a battle between al-Assad’s army and the rebels, reducing much of it to rubble. Throughout the civil war, it remained a hotspot for hostilities.
On June 14 and 18, 2017, the neighborhood was bombed by the Syrian Arab Army, and on June 20, it was attacked again by land and air, with support from the Russian Air Force.
I decided to visit Jobar alone, without a fixer, relying solely on Google Translate to get by.
But I didn’t find a single soul to interview. Crossing an avenue from a bustling wholesale market full of life, Jobar now is nothing but rubble.
-IE
A Butterfly in Hell
Admin – Jan 15, 2025
By Iñaki Estívaliz for Claridad from Damascus
Photos by Pablo Medina
Muafak Arwani is a Syrian poet who, for decades, concealed the true meaning of his poems. He recited them in teahouses but never published them, fearing repercussions until the fall of the Al-Assad regime last month.
Born in the city of Hama, in central Syria, in 1963, Arwani moved to Damascus for high school and later studied engineering and Sharia (Islamic law).
In 1982, after returning from vacation, he discovered his city under siege. All males over the age of 10 were being arrested. Hama, known for its opposition to Hafez Al-Assad’s dictatorship, had been bombed, invaded by tanks, and turned into a city of checkpoints.
“They arrested my father, my five brothers, and told women fleeing to leave their doors open,” the poet recalls.
His five brothers, aged between 10 and 17, remain missing to this day. Arwani reflects his mother’s pain and love for her lost sons in his poetry. He also writes about the longing he feels for his two children, who emigrated to Germany and whom he dreams of having by his side again.
Arwani himself was arrested and spent his first two-and-a-half years in prison.
After his release, he was conscripted into military service but was detained again for being related to an army defector.
He had never met the relative in question—Mukhles Arwani, a pilot who had refused to bomb Hama and fled to Jordan.
For two years, Arwani was tortured, repeatedly asked about the relative he didn’t know.
He was held in a vocational school for electronics and mechanics, where he endured unimaginable torment.
“They tied my hands behind my back, put my head in a press, and started tightening it while asking the same question,” he recounts calmly.
“Some heads exploded, and the next person to be tortured had to clean up the blood and remove the corpse before putting their own head in the press.”
Arwani says he saw the head of the torturers infiltrating anti-regime demonstrations.
“The spy’s family collaborated with intelligence and ran a workshop repairing the regime’s damaged vehicles,” he alleges.
On the night of December 8, as the rebels reached Damascus, there was a knock at his door. His wife froze in fear.
But it was the building’s janitor, a good friend, bringing 20 exhausted and hungry strangers. They were rebels. Arwani and his family fed them and gave them shelter for the night.
“Thanks to God and our boundless patience, the fifty years of the Al-Assads now feel like just a few months,” he says.
He places his hopes in Ahmed Al-Sharaa, the leader of the new Syrian government still in its infancy, whom he believes will be a blessing for the country.
“Muslims never think of revenge. It’s more of a women’s sentiment—the hope for a new life,” he says with conviction.
Arwani emphasizes that this is the spirit Al-Sharaa embodies: “He has told us, ‘You are free. We seek no revenge.’”
He references a Quranic verse that says, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” which grants the right to revenge but ultimately concludes, “if you forgive, it is better.”
For Arwani, poetry has always been a salve for enduring an intolerable reality.
When asked how he feels now, after Bashar al-Assad’s fall, his eyes light up.
“For me, for my mother, for my whole family, I feel like a butterfly—weightless, floating with happiness.”
-IE
Art and Feminism to Heal and Build a Better Future
Admin – Jan 20, 2025
By Iñaki Estívaliz for Claridad from Aleppo
Natalie Bahhade, Aleppo’s only DJ and one of the few in Syria, is a young psychologist dedicated to healing the traumatized youth of her city and building an inclusive future through art and feminism.
Born and raised in Aleppo, Natalie studied psychology in Beirut and completed a master’s degree in arts in Rome. She lived in Germany, where she once considered settling, but eventually decided to return to Syria.
Her unwavering life mission is to help people heal from the scars of war through art, particularly young Arabs, in a country devastated by half a century of Al-Assad tyranny.
“I believe art is a powerful tool for healing,” she insists.
After traveling across Europe to prepare for this mission, she realized the West wasn’t the place to fulfill her vision. If she truly wanted to help, she needed to return home and engage directly with her community.
After seven years abroad, she began a new journey within Aleppo, working on various cultural projects with a focus on young people.
But like every Syrian, her story is far from simple.
In 2012, her family traveled to Lebanon for what they thought would be a two-week visit to relatives. When they tried to return, the protests against Bashar Al-Assad’s regime had escalated into open civil war, the airport was closed, and they couldn’t return for five years.
Her family took refuge in Latakia, a coastal Syrian city where her father found work, while Natalie moved to Lebanon to study.
At one point, when her family considered returning to Aleppo, they changed their minds due to a wave of kidnappings targeting older people for ransom.
Her family’s furniture factory in Aleppo was occupied by the various militias involved in the conflict.
In 2018, despite the war continuing until last month, the family finally returned to Aleppo and managed to reclaim their factory. Once her parents were back, Natalie felt encouraged to return as well.
“Living abroad while your country is at war is terrible. It divided me. My body was in Europe, but my mind was here with my people,” she recalls.
For her own mental health and to achieve her goal of helping others, she decided to return home and began volunteering with various organizations.
In 2021, she started working at her father’s factory. In an industry where 95% of workers are men, she found herself almost entirely alone as a woman.
“It was a challenge for me and for my father, who worried about how the workers would treat me as a woman. But no one ever disrespected me, and I’ve become an essential part of the workflow,” she says proudly, adding that they recently hired another young woman.
Alongside her factory work, Natalie began organizing art events, starting with cultural nights at a local pub. She performed as a DJ once a week, presenting different themes each night.
Unlike Damascus, which had a vibrant and cosmopolitan artistic community supported by the dictator’s wife, Asma, Aleppo and the rest of Syria outside the capital had “zero artistic events of any kind.”
The obsessive centralization of the regime stifled cultural activities outside Damascus with endless bureaucratic hurdles.
“We began gathering Aleppo’s artists, who felt isolated and marginalized, and started building a cultural community,” she explains.
They organized exhibitions featuring local artists and experimental events under the framework of the Karasi (Chairs) Collective.
One of their weekly initiatives, “Cinema Without Borders,” prioritizes post-screening discussions over the documentaries or films themselves. Attendance is limited to 25 people to ensure everyone has the chance to share their opinions. “Dialogue is what matters most,” she emphasizes.
After two years of working as a collective, they decided to pause due to the corrupt regime’s bureaucracy, which made it nearly impossible to obtain permits for public activities.
“The regime wouldn’t let us do anything unless we were under the protection of the first lady in Damascus,” she laments.
When the regime fell last month, women from various religions in Aleppo took to the streets to paint murals with messages like, “There’s nothing we can’t achieve together,” or, “There are chairs here for everyone.”
“It was a gift to the people with an important message. I smile every time I see one of the murals as I walk around the city,” she says happily.
Now, they’ve resumed their activities with renewed energy.
However, most of the artists participating in her events are men, which she sees as her biggest challenge.
They also host weekly Cultural Salons, where they discuss how to present their demands to the upcoming Ministry of Culture.
“We want to bring in experts from abroad whose governments have implemented successful cultural policies we can learn from. Culture and art can revitalize the economy and society as a whole,” she argues.
They also hold open mic nights for poets and storytellers, providing a platform for talent in a city where there’s little to do. Every two months, they plan to host major concerts or exhibitions.
Regarding the new government, she believes it’s too early to evaluate. She considers the current situation a “transitional phase, a salvation government.”
“We don’t have expectations yet because this won’t be the government we end up with. We’re preparing for the worst-case scenario. We hope for elections and an inclusive government that truly respects Syria’s diverse population,” she says.
Aleppo alone is home to people from 13 religions and sects.
“If we don’t have an inclusive government, it won’t be sustainable. It’ll lead to another war or conflict,” she warns. “All efforts must go toward ensuring every group is actively represented.”
To explain her strategy, she cites an Arabic proverb equivalent to “the squeaky wheel gets the grease.”
She insists feminism must play a key role in this cultural battle.
Regarding the situation of women in Syria, she says that while Syrian women already work and have an active role in society, they have little political representation in parties or parliament. “That’s the real problem,” she points out.
As a DJ, she faces challenges in a role that isn’t socially accepted. People are surprised to see her performing, and her parents dislike the idea of her on stage in places where alcohol is served.
She regrets the absence of organizations in Syria advocating for women’s rights but is optimistic they’ll emerge soon.
She believes Syria’s future holds “infinite possibilities,” both good and bad.
“The future may be out of our control, but our actions now are in our hands. We really need to be active and raise our voices,” she proclaims.
Catholics of Aleppo Bet on Women and Children to Build Syria’s Future
By Iñaki Estívaliz
Photos: Iñaki Estívaliz
Jan 22
Leaders of Aleppo’s Catholic community in northern Syria argue that the country’s reconstruction, following half a century of the Al-Assad regime’s tyranny and 14 years of civil war, must prioritize the inclusion of women and focus on the education of children and youth.
Before the war, Aleppo was home to approximately 600,000 Christians; today, fewer than 60,000 remain.
Brother George, a Marist who speaks impeccable Spanish with a French accent, oversaw the congregation in Lebanon and Syria for 13 years. However, he stepped down from his leadership role to focus on directly aiding those most affected by the war, particularly families living in extreme poverty.
His efforts are centered on children’s education, women’s empowerment, and direct humanitarian aid, such as distributing food baskets.
Brother George explains that he realized poverty isn’t just an economic issue—it’s also “rooted in people’s minds.”
“It was essential to free people from that mental poverty,” he emphasizes.
He also discovered that what society often sees as its weakest link—women—is actually the most valuable factor in breaking the cycle of poverty. But first, “we need to empower them by fostering personal and community development.”
“Knowing that women work day and night, inside and outside the home, they need a personal space where they can find themselves and grow, away from the domination of men,” he asserts.
With this in mind, they began organizing training courses to “overcome the prejudices ingrained in our minds.”
In these three- to four-month workshops, Christian and Muslim women come together and discover that, despite their differences, they share many similarities on a human and familial level.
It’s vital, Brother George insists, for women to discover their own personal space and connect with other women.
“In the Middle East, women are often referred to as so-and-so’s wife or so-and-so’s mother. Rarely are they called by their personal names. Women must identify with themselves. Breaking away from this traditional and patriarchal framework is crucial,” he stresses.
As Christians and Marists, Brother George says, they have the real-life example of Mary.
At this point, Brother Esteban, a Spaniard from Burgos, chimes in, pointing out that Mary is the only woman mentioned by name in the Quran.
“Even for the Muslim community, the quintessential woman is Mary, whom they call Mariam,” he notes.
Brother George reiterates that “the education and empowerment of women are the most important issues for the country’s development. The future must focus on these two fundamental pillars; they are the foundation for peace and dialogue.”
“More than ever today, as we write the future of this country, women must be at the center, alongside the education of children,” he adds.
Children must be taught to respect their peers and resolve differences without violence, he explains.
“Learning to accept that the other is not the enemy and that we can share justly” is essential for Brother George, who stresses the need to overcome “fears and anxieties” and transform them into “challenges,” or else “we will remain paralyzed and subjected to ideologies imposed by others. During the war, fear prevailed; now is the time for challenges. Fear does not build; challenges bring hope.”
He reminds us that Christians have been rooted in this land for 2,000 years.
Brother George recounts how Christians were first called such here, with Paul of Damascus and the faithful of Antioch.
“The Christian presence here includes figures like Saint Simeon the Stylite, Ignatius of Antioch, and many others. During the Umayyad era, Christians contributed to translations and worked in governance. To the west of the Euphrates, the Syriac community and to the east, the Assyrians, are still Christian communities today,” he explains.
“Today, we share a common culture, a common language, and a future to build together with Muslims,” he insists.
He stresses the need to train young people in trades to rebuild a society that was once prosperous and productive but is now “a society that begs for aid.”
Brother Esteban arrived in Aleppo two years ago, after experiencing coups and wars in various African countries. However, he says he has never witnessed a stage as “thrilling for the nation’s living forces” as this one.
Franciscan Father George (Bahjat Karakach), superior of Aleppo’s St. Francis of Assisi Cathedral, echoes the Marists’ views on prioritizing children’s education and women’s participation in rebuilding society.
Trained in Italy, Father George returned to his native Aleppo in 2022 to find a city “empty and sorrowful, with shuttered buildings and homes. Eighty percent of the population had moved abroad. Only the poorest, those without the means to flee, remained.”
As the new Islamist government reveals whether it intends to build a moderate and inclusive state, Father George proclaims that “stability is the only way to rebuild the country.” Meanwhile, his parish provides 2,500 daily meals to those in need.
Syria has endured half a century of tyranny “without hope,” 14 years of fratricidal civil war, the COVID-19 pandemic, the 2023 earthquake, and international sanctions against the Al-Assad regime that continue to affect the population.
Medical equipment in hospitals is outdated and cannot be repaired due to these sanctions.
He laments that surviving schools are operating at three times their capacity and that teachers are severely underpaid.
Father George criticizes the new government’s attempt to erase the figure of Zenobia of Palmyra, a historical example of resistance, from school textbooks. Syrian society has risen against this effort to cancel “a remarkable woman.”
Father George asserts that women have always played an important role in Syrian society, but now they fear the influence that countries like Iran or Saudi Arabia—where women are discriminated against—might exert on the new Islamist government.
“We must prevent power from being monopolized by one sector. Inclusivity is essential. We must avoid a scenario where women or Christians like us are treated as second-class citizens. We have to contribute to building the new Syria,” the Franciscan argues.
He concludes, “If you ask women on the street, and if they’re honest, they will admit they fear that a radical government could impose the hijab on them and exclude them from public life.”
When I Learned to Clean My Butt Civilly, I Returned to the Wild West
By Iñaki Estívaliz for Claridad
I bid farewell to the water spray that sanitized my anus at Istanbul Airport. I chose to relieve myself squatting over the uncomfortable Turkish toilet—a horizontal fixture equipped with a bidet hose—and ignored the Western toilets with their scratchy, scraping toilet paper.
I was eager to arrive in Boston to hug my kids and tell them about these things. That in the Middle East, people are more civilized than in the West in many ways, such as healthier eating and personal hygiene. I wanted to share with my children the fascinating history of the region and the hundreds of photos I’d taken in an attempt to capture its vast architecture and humanity.
I wanted to tell them that beyond the ignominy of wars fueled by the poison of elites of all religions, despots of all ethnicities, and tyrants from all backgrounds, the vitality and goodwill of humble people from all walks of life and beliefs always prevail.
It took me weeks to stop thinking about how many people before me must have touched the bidet hose to clean themselves. Initially, handling the hose felt gross to me, while toilet paper seemed ideal—despite the abrasiveness of certain brands.
Once I got used to seeing the hoses next to toilets, I began experimenting with them, but I would end up soaking myself and splashing the entire bathroom.
I asked several Spanish colleagues if they used the bidet hose. Their unanimous and proud “Of course, don’t you? Not yet?” made me feel somewhat idiotic and very much an outsider—like those journalists who have spent decades in the region but know no more Arabic than salam aleikum (the civilized Arabic greeting meaning “peace be with you”) and shukran (“thank you”).
But I didn’t fully learn how to use the spray until I asked Pablo Medina, the correspondent for La Voz de Galicia, how it was done. He replied with a serious and unequivocal “Aim.”
At first, this didn’t seem as obvious as it might sound. “What do you mean—aim one eye at the other?” I thought.
Once you master the spray—an experience that ultimately provides a pleasant sensation and leaves you feeling as clean and refreshed as in a TV ad for a spa—using toilet paper starts to feel medieval.
This seemingly trivial matter occupied my thoughts as I landed at Logan Airport in Boston. Knowing I’d be interrogated the moment they saw the Lebanon and Syria stamps on my passport, I fantasized about telling the Homeland Security officer: “Those people are ahead of us, sir. They clean themselves with a spray, like the Japanese. They eat the best Mediterranean cuisine. They are a welcoming people who now have some hope of prosperity, with a new president in Lebanon and a transitional government in Syria that, so far, is behaving well after 50 years of family dictatorship and 14 years of civil war. Unlike here, where you’ve elected a troglodyte as president.”
Of course, I wasn’t going to say any of that, but I’ve always enjoyed daydreaming.
Last August, when I arrived from Beirut after spending two weeks reporting on southern Lebanon, Byblos, and the capital, a plainclothes officer met me at passport control. He spoke Spanish and Arabic but addressed me in English. He was an expert in the Middle East who cordially and conspiratorially said: “Sorry to trouble you after such a long journey, but the intel you might share with us could be very valuable. You journalists can access places we can’t.”
On that occasion, I didn’t feel intimidated because I had nothing to hide. Speaking with him didn’t betray anyone or myself. Everything I had done, everywhere I had been, and everyone I had spoken to had been written about and published on my networks or in Claridad. So, I wasn’t even slightly nervous. In fact, they made me feel important.
This time, however, shortly after Donald Trump’s inauguration, the experience was entirely different.
The young agent at passport control didn’t know where Lebanon or Syria was or what was happening there. My passport showed entries and exits from Lebanon but no Syrian stamps. I showed her the slip of paper with the Syrian entry stamp. For some reason, Syrians were no longer stamping passports, opting instead for a separate permit.
The agent wrote a “P” on an orange card, slipped it into my visa booklet, and had me wait by her side.
A very unpleasant Homeland Security officer then collected me and silently guided me to a common waiting area for “suspicious cases.” I felt as offended as a rock star unrecognized on the street. My glamour as an international conflict reporter had been stripped away.
Four young, expressionless uniformed agents were reviewing documents in an impersonal room.
A Dominican woman was crying.
A more experienced uniformed agent emerged from an office to ask her about her medication. “For high blood pressure,” translated a Latino agent with robotic Spanish, visibly proud of his guns and unnecessarily heavy-duty Level 4 bulletproof vest. “And when do you take it?”
At first, I thought it was nice they cared about her health, but it quickly became clear they didn’t care about her at all. She murmured something unintelligible between sobs, repeating louder and clearer each time, “I want to die, I want to die, my mother’s there, my daughter’s out here, I want to die, I want to die.”
I wanted to ask why she was there, if she had traveled without documents, if her mother was in the Dominican Republic, if her daughter was a minor and alone in Boston. I wanted to write her story, to help however I could, to call an army of lawyer friends.
“I want to die, I want to die…”
I barely managed to say, “Don’t say that, ma’am, please don’t,” when I stood up, intending to sit beside her and console her.
Then I heard, “Sisar?”—their mangled pronunciation of César, my formal name.
I grabbed my backpack and walked to the plexiglass booth of the Homeland Security officer.
The young agent, likely of Chinese or Korean descent, asked me the strangest questions.
“What is Claridad?”
“A newspaper in Puerto Rico.”
“Do you live in Puerto Rico?”
“No, I live here, in Cambridge.”
“How is that? You live here but work for a Puerto Rican newspaper?”
“Uh-huh.” (I spared her further explanations that would’ve made her feel even more clueless.)
“How long have you worked for Claridad?”
“I’m not a full-time employee, but I’ve collaborated with Claridad for nearly 25 years. I’m their main international conflict correspondent,” I boasted.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, as if she’d just grasped a tiny bit of the world.
The kind young agent handed me my documents with a sort of ethnic humility, almost ashamed to be doing a job for which she hadn’t been properly trained. She lowered her eyes and said I could leave.
Out of habit, I muttered “shukran,” the Arabic word for “thank you,” which she didn’t understand and which therefore didn’t trigger any alarms in her security system.
“Thank you,” I added, now in English, as I left that dreadful place where a Dominican woman was still crying and saying she wanted to die.
Here’s the translation into English:
Anarchy, Drugs, and Hope in a Syria in Transition
A new government has restored peace to Syria after half a century of tyranny under the Al Assad family, who turned the country into a narco-state to fund their despotic regime. In the early days of the transition, people hope for a better future in a kind of anarchic utopia.
By Iñaki Estívaliz
On December 8th, rebel groups managed to depose dictator Bashar al-Assad, who exiled himself to Moscow, ending a 14-year civil war and 54 years of bloody family tyranny that had turned Syria into a narco-state. Bashar succeeded his father, Hafez, in 2000, who had been prime minister since 1970 and became president and secretary general of the Arab Socialist Ba’ath Party in 1971 until his death.
The civil war destroyed entire neighborhoods and cities, often with the help of Russian airstrikes; it claimed hundreds of thousands of lives, and countless opponents were tortured to death in regime prisons. Many who survived the torture went insane and can now be seen wandering the streets of Damascus, their eyes and steps lost. Some have forgotten their names, only remembering their prisoner numbers in infamous prisons like Saydnaya, known as “the human slaughterhouse.”
The Islamist group Hayat Tahrir al-Shams (HTS), which seized control of the country in a 13-day blitz offensive, set as its first goal emptying these prisons, where mass hangings and hundreds of daily tortures occurred.
Utopia in Damascus
I arrived in Damascus a month after the fall of the Al Assad butcher regime, the day after Epiphany, when rebels were slowly starting to take control of government institutions and still did not have enough personnel to establish a presence in the streets. I spent three days in Damascus until I encountered my first Kalashnikov. Rebel soldiers were seen getting in and out of vehicles, heading somewhere more important than the city center or the old town. Ahmad Al-Shar’a’s men, president of transitional Syria, were more concerned with taking the pulse of the state’s bureaucratic apparatus than with street security. Only the highest-ranking officials had fallen from grace; others were being recycled due to the rebels’ lack of human resources.
Far from feeling threatened, I enjoyed the bustling streets, the crowded markets full of products and customers, with people going about their lives without authority to fear, living a few weeks of brief anarchist utopia. A happy and peaceful anarchy without tourists, but with many journalists.
It’s important to remember that during the Assad era, people feared expressing themselves freely in public. Authorities had spies everywhere, taking notes in cafes, restaurants, and schools. An unflattering comment about the regime, noted in a notebook, meant automatic disappearance for the person who made it—who would end up dispossessed of all their goods, tortured to death, hanged, shot, or simply vanished. These hated spies were also victims of the system, as they came from the most impoverished social strata and had no other alternative but to starve to death.
The enthusiasm for the new government, which has so far shown moderation, led thousands of young people to go to barracks and police stations to volunteer. Slowly, these young people are being deployed in urban areas that might require security. They wear shiny black uniforms with balaclavas, have no slogans but improvised armbands, and are armed with old Kalashnikovs.
Since the rebels need good press, their weapons do not intimidate journalists, who move freely through the marvelous swarm of endless markets, bazaars, and souks, with streets dedicated to specific products or trades. There are intricate alleys where blacksmiths copy keys or weld heaters; passages for Persian rugs; others for hookahs, known as shishas in Syria where these water pipes were invented; others for perfumes; others for carpentry; others for nuts; others for spices; and even one street where foosball tables are made and repaired.
Food stalls are at every few steps, and cafes are hidden at the end of every dark alley. In the center of the main market in Old Damascus stands the majestic Omayyad Mosque, built on Roman marble and a Christian cathedral, where the remains of Sultan Saladin rest—who was the terror of the Crusaders and a wise, respected man who unified the region under Islam.
The fear that the Islamist government may turn extremist, not be inclusive, or crack down on women’s and LGBT+ rights is minimized by the refrain repeated by all consulted for this report: “Nothing can be worse than the Al Assad regime.” For now, Syrian women decide whether to wear a burka, a veil, or leave their hair uncovered. Some wear a stylish French beret tilted over their headscarf.
While the rebels settle into power, as of January, neither bank cards nor gas stations were working. On sidewalks and road shoulders, jerrycans filled with benzene were sold to fuel vehicles, which refueled anywhere with the help of improvised funnels.
International Sanctions and the Narco-State
Now, the main concern of Syrians is the international sanctions imposed on the Al Assad regime that are still in effect, hindering the country’s progress. Bashar, with the help of his brother Maher, the bloodthirsty leader of the 4th Armored Division of the Army, responsible for numerous massacres in refugee camps and opposition neighborhoods, turned Syria into a narco-state to fund his regime under international sanctions.
Journalist Helena Pelicano from La Vanguardia visited one of the Captagon production centers seized by the rebels shortly after Bashar’s fall. On the outskirts of Damascus, hidden on the top of a mountain to the northwest, where nothing would be found unless you knew it was there, rebels showed the millions of pills being produced. It is estimated that Al Assad made about four billion dollars a year producing Captagon, a synthetic drug known as the «cheap ecstasy» of the Middle East. Each pill cost mere cents to produce and sold for three to twenty euros. According to United Nations estimates, Assad’s Syria produced 80% of the world’s supply of this stimulant, phenethyline—Captagon’s old brand name—that was first used in Germany in the 1960s to treat narcolepsy, depression, and ADHD.
In the Middle East, it became popular in the 21st century after most European countries banned it due to its high addictiveness. For years, Captagon has been known as the drug of jihadists. However, it is used in many contexts: in parties and nightclubs across the region, by taxi drivers and night shift workers, by students during exams, by soldiers enduring long shifts and hunger on the front lines, and even for increased stamina during sex.
In Assad’s factories, the rebels guarding the remnants of the production showed journalists the thousands of pills hidden in spools or in plastic fruit for the centerpiece of a grandmother’s house. “The rebels were delighted to help expose the evil of the old regime,” Helena Pelicano says about her visit to the dismantled Captagon production center. The journalist reports that the custodians of the stash insisted they would destroy everything, as they don’t consume it because it’s forbidden by Islam.
“You also have to consider that before the war, Syria was the largest pharmaceutical producer in the region. We had many pharmaceutical factories, and even four public universities of Pharmacy, as well as several private ones. We had many people working in this field,” explains Antoine George Makdis in Aleppo.
Tony is a Syrian Aramean, “but I am Latin Catholic,” he adds with a Franciscan cross around his neck. From Aleppo, Tony is blonde with blue eyes and resembles the singer Michael Stipe from REM. He explains that when sanctions were imposed on the sector, professionals in the field started facing difficulties, especially from 2014 onwards, to feed their families amid the chaos. Tony recounts, “The regime invested in drugs because there was already an infrastructure, and we had a lot of people skilled in this field.” The worst came in 2023, when Jordan, supported by other regional countries, bombarded drug production centers and transport vehicles in southern Syria, causing innocent victims.
He explains that many Syrians had gone to Russia in the 50s and 60s to study pharmacy and that there was a significant government investment in the pharmaceutical and chemical fields back then.
“It’s not about accusing those involved in Captagon production. When you’re hungry, when you have to feed your children and live in a war zone like this, sometimes you have to do things you wouldn’t normally do,” defends the founder of the Warsha collective.
Complex Hope
Tony is missing the index finger on his left hand. He lost it on January 2, 2019, when a mine exploded during a photography project in an old Aleppo cemetery. The Warsha workshop office has seen every young artist in Aleppo with artistic aspirations. Tony is well-known throughout the city. He’s the kind of guy who stops to chat with a friend wherever he goes. Some of the current members of the collective, who mainly work on documentaries, are former child soldiers rescued through audiovisual art.
Tony works as a fixer, guiding and informing journalists who hire his services, though he also helps low-budget journalists like me. He found a room for a German journalist to stay in his parish. He let me stay a week on a mattress on the floor of the Warsha workshop room. He kept me warm with those rough but effective UN blankets.
He was going to get me some cannabis to enjoy the bombed beauty of Aleppo and its impressive citadel, but Tony always had something more important to do. He also spoke a lot about Syria’s rich cannabis history, about the «assassins» (hashish smokers), the balms made from the sacred herb to put children to sleep, and the textiles woven with hemp throughout Syrian history. «Cannabis is an important part of our heritage,» he said.
Despite behaving like a distracted genius who speaks in a torrent, jumping from one topic to another and frantically picking up threads, thanks to Tony, I was able to better understand the Syrian reality beyond the surface. It’s not that some are good and others are bad. It’s that there are many people from different origins, cultures, ethnicities, and religions. They’ve all suffered a lot and are all armed.
“We Syrians need a drama to live. If two weeks go by without a drama, we get bored and start thinking, ‘Who should we kill now?’” he jokes with his dark Franciscan humor.
“Syrians aren’t racist. We hate everyone equally,” he laughs.
Tony reminds me of the Armenian genocide, which has been happening silently for over a century. He tells me about the dangers faced by the Alawites, a sect of Islam superficially embraced by the Assads, who never cared about them but now face the wrath of the tyrants’ victims. He points out the Shiites and Sunnis who want to kill each other; the Catholic and Orthodox Christians; the Kurds and Druze; and how people of all kinds understand each other, but always some authority or governing party intervenes to disrupt coexistence. He insists that people get along until someone tries to be too clever or an external intervention comes. There’s Al Qaeda, but also ISIS, the Muslim Brotherhood, and rebel groups that appear and disappear as fast as bullets. Sometimes the Arab League is relevant; other times, it’s not. Turkey sometimes supports some and other times supports others, like Iran or Russia, always with Israel as a looming threat. But now, everyone is waiting to see what Donald Trump will do.
Tony assured me that «this didn’t start with the civil war. This started in the region with Gamal Abdel-Nasser,» the Egyptian military and political leader who was the main Arab political figure of his time, known for promoting pan-Arabism and Arab socialism, and who served as president of Egypt from 1954 until his death in 1970.
Meanwhile, the hopeful people on the streets consume as though the promised prosperity has already arrived, and the rebel transitional government shows signs of moderation as the days go by.
In his speech on January 30th, rebel leader and interim president Ahmad Al-Shar’a reaffirmed his inclusive vision for a transition process that «is part of a political process that requires the genuine participation of all Syrians, both inside and outside the country, to shape their future with freedom and dignity, without exclusion or marginalization.»
«We will work to form an inclusive transitional government that reflects the diversity of Syria, with men, women, and youth working together to build new national institutions that will lead to free and fair elections. A Syria that extends its hand in peace and mutual respect,» said Syria’s interim president.
The Hashish Monopoly by the State
Syria is a country bordering Jordan, Turkey, Lebanon, Iraq, and Israel, with 370 kilometers of difficult-to-control borders for a newly created government. Although the new authorities are distancing themselves from Captagon production, and exports of camouflaged drugs have collapsed, while I was there, signs indicated that the fight against trafficking was being fought in details such as the prohibition on journalists using drones near borders, to avoid being mistaken for smugglers or having their equipment stolen for illicit use.
It’s possible that Captagon production, identified with the fallen Al Assad regime, will move to neighboring Iraq. But what about hashish? Unfortunately, I could only try a single joint upon arrival, made with Lebanese marijuana and local hashish. The Syrian friend who invited me is an exceptional consumer. I can’t give much information about him because he could easily be identified and prosecuted. But he’s an older man than me who, thanks to his dual nationality, has traveled worldwide and been to Amsterdam a dozen times, where from the first to the last visit, he smokes his first and last joint in the same café where he first tried hashish. In Syria, he only smokes in his office and when he’s in the car. He never smokes cannabis in public in his country. He buys his Lebanese marijuana and Syrian hashish once a month, so I suppose I could have asked him for some joints for myself, but his warm hospitality and unwavering Arab commitment to attending to his guest were so generous that, after having eaten at his house with his family, asking him to buy me a SIM card for the phone (which is only sold to nationals), and enjoying his contacts, stories, and the fresh new $100 bills that are the only ones accepted in transition Syria, I didn’t want to take advantage of him. But the real reason I didn’t ask for joints was that I thought if I suddenly got reported at the hotel or arrested somewhere, they would ask where I got the drugs. I would never betray my friend. And since I fortunately haven’t tested my resistance to torture, better safe than sorry.
Tony confirmed to me that cannabis use is not widespread among the local population because «the government abused people to prevent them from using cannabis in any form.»
“We’ve lost much of our heritage. Bashar prohibited any use of cannabis among the population, but continued to enrich himself from large hemp plantations, both for industrial and recreational use. He monopolized the production and sale abroad, stealing an important part of the Syrian people’s cultural legacy,” the artist lamented. -IE
