Damascus is a city that swallows its sounds, and with them, its news. As I strolled through the old city today, just blocks from the most momentous civil unrest Syria has seen in years, the only sensory input I was receiving were the smells of the spice market wafting into my nose. It wasn’t until I reached the end of Straight Street and headed out into the new city that I got my first sign something was amiss.
I turned right and headed toward Hamidiya, then noticed the gaggle of men with leather jackets and dark moustaches up ahead. They were waiting on the sidewalk in front of a mosque—the same mosque that had been in the background of videos from the Hariqa protests a few weeks ago. As I passed in front of them on the opposite side of the street, I started to hear the chanting. I looked right, and there they were: a block of people, stretching the width of the street, pumping their fists, shouting in unison, and advancing straight toward me. At first, I thought they were chanting “bi rouh, bi dam, nefdik ya Bashar,” the same classic pro-Assad line the last set of Hariqa protestors had embraced. In a way they did, but with a twist. Instead of shouting “Bashar,” they’d substituted “Syria.”
I kept walking, lest I get caught up in the thick of it. Shopkeepers stood on their stoops, gawking. When I felt I’d made it a safe distance ahead, I turned back. The protestors made it to the main road, shouting something about freedom. When they waded into traffic, security descended.
Pedestrians peeled off from around me and began running toward the epicenter, apparent insta-cops. A frazzled traffic cop, armed only with his baton and whistle, tried in vain to keep cars moving through the crowded street. Before long, three men in plain clothes rushed past me dragging a man in a patterned vest who looked to be in his 50s. They seemed to be taking him toward Hamidiya. When they reached an open space, they pushed him down to the pavement on his hands and knees. I turned away for a few moments to gauge whether the protestors were coming any closer. By the time I turned back, he was gone.
Minutes later, so were the rest of the protestors. Security had turned them back into the Hariqa market from the main road. Some lingered around the square a block inside, but most dispersed, swallowed back up by the city. All that was left were lines of white vans full of security personnel, and on the street, endless groups of leather jackets.
