On our way to Damascus in 2004, Dore and I stopped at Homs, a city that served as a mid-point between Krak des Chevaliers (a crusader castle) to the west and Palmyra (an ancient ruin) to the east. As soon as we got settled, we searched out the souk, the market place where everything is sold. Syria was known for its textiles and I was especially drawn to the fabric shops. It was late in the evening. The shops were still open but the regular shoppers had pretty much gone home.
I walked into this particular shop because of the rows of eye-catching and colorful fabrics. They were folded and stacked neatly on the shelves. A young man was working in the shop. He greeted us and made tea. While Dore and the man struck up a conversation, I pulled out various fabrics to admire the beautiful patterns and shades. Then I heard Dore said, “You don’t have your president in the shop.”
One could not miss the Syrian President for a moment. The photo of Bashar al-Assad was prominently displayed as soon as we crossed the border. It was in every hotel, restaurant, barbershop, etc, and the few homes that we had visited. His omnipresence was suffocating, to say the least, but somehow he was not in this little shop tonight.
The young man had nothing good to say about his President. “Are you not afraid?” I asked him. Everyone we had met so far would only praise their beloved President to the hilt. Even the nomad who treated us like friends in Palmyra steered clear from politics.
“No.” He said. “I’m young and I think differently.”
Seven years later, there are many more young men who think differently. Every day when I read the news, I can’t help but think of him, and wonder if he is among the dead and injured, or has become a leader or organizer, pushing his country toward a new dawn.
