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When Revolution Bloomed and Died in Damascus
Nothing prepares you for what it’s really like to live at the extreme.
In July 2012, the gates of hell opened up in Damascus, and I learned something about what it means to be a revolutionary. It was not the heroic experience one might expect, but something smaller, sadder, and more human. Living in fear drove lovers and friends apart. It did not free us from our flaws.
That summer was about a year into Syria’s democratic uprising and its violent suppression. Armed militias had begun to battle the national army. I was staying in the studio of my friend Amer, a Christian painter who had quietly resisted the government since long before the uprising.
I Was in Damascus. I Left with Respect
The atmosphere in Damascus has shifted, even if material conditions have not. I moved through a city marked by energy, anxiety and moments of hope.
I was just in Damascus and found myself unexpectedly struck by the energy of the streets. Not the sort of energy that translates as full recovery, nor the kind that pretends the last 15 years did not happen. But a practical energy.
Of course, the damage is still visible. The buildings are tired, the infrastructure worn down, the economy clearly strained after civil war, sanctions and foreign intervention. But the streets were alive in a way I had not expected.
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