Syria's Secret Library

by Mike Thomson

  Indeed, the grape has been a source of great pride and celebration in the town, adorning websites and local literature. But, this being a Muslim country, wine has never been something that has fuelled the locals. Instead, in early 2011, for those in Daraya seeking refreshment and shade during the heat of a baking summer’s day, when temperatures often top forty degrees, there were a multitude of coffee houses, restaurants, Internet cafés and computer game shops to choose from.

  But it was in the relative coolness of the evening that the town was most alive. Older people gathered to play backgammon, chess or cards, while the young whiled away the hours in tea houses near much loved football grounds. One of the most popular of these was the Champions Café. Its walls were covered with big-screen televisions which streamed the most important football matches, many of them international. On sultry summer evenings crowds would gather around wooden tables in the café’s garden area, many dressed in the colours of Barcelona or Real Madrid, easily the most popular teams. Their exuberant, near deafening cheers and shrieks would fill the evening air, briefly masking the roar of motorbikes pelting through the dusty streets, the riders accelerating hard until their front wheel rose into the air. Similar sounds would engulf the football ground next to the café from 2 p.m. every Friday afternoon. This was when the hotly contested local league matches were played. There was no Ronaldo or Messi here, no luxury stadium with directors’ boxes and thumping pop music, but the crowds were every bit as passionate.

  Only one other kind of event in Daraya could compete with football matches when it came to decibels: weddings. Even if you were not getting married yourself, or actually attending, you would soon know if one was happening, such was the scale and pageantry of these events.

  As in many Islamic countries, traditional weddings in Syria take place in two halves, divided according to gender. The men hold one ceremony, often in public, and the women attend another, in some kind of ceremonial indoor venue. And to put it into colloquial terms, the idea was to ‘large it’ as much as possible. The man’s family would aim to stage the biggest and brashest event possible. Those attending would be regaled with mouth-watering food and luxury cakes. Ideally the event should appear to be costing a lot of money, which it probably was. Meanwhile, over at the women’s ceremony, competition was the order of the day. If your neighbour or friend looked stunning, then you needed to look even better. It was the time to roll out your most beautiful dress, stylish shoes and most opulent jewellery. And if you had a daughter, she was to do the same–for this was the ideal occasion to show her off. After all there would be other mothers there, on the look-out for prospective wives for their sons. Yet despite all the mind-blowing expense, preening and posing, everyone at these events seemed to have a thoroughly good time. No slinking off straight after the knot was tied; these boisterous occasions would often carry on into the early hours.

  For those without a wedding to go to, there was always Koushak. This gleaming, modern ice cream café was a favourite haunt for many. Walking through its doors, customers entered a dreamworld of elegantly arranged ices, sweets and desserts of every colour and flavour. Strawberry red iced lollies, chocolate brown tarts, tangerine lollies and cream cakes. Housed in the centre of town, this temple of temptation drew customers from all over the area, even from neighbouring Damascus. Those who lacked the money to buy would come to look, such was the draw of Koushak. The shop’s recipes were a tightly guarded secret–so much so, that the proud owner would often draw the curtains and lock all the doors when concocting his ice creams.

  A short walk down the road from Koushak, just past Daraya’s busy clothes market and a popular hummus and falafel store, was the Central Toaster shop, which sold all sorts of delicious-smelling toasted nuts and seeds. The aroma would drift down the road, enticing helpless people through its doors. On returning home, the shop’s customers would lay out these moreish snacks in small ornate bowls, and nibble them while watching television–this was evidently Daraya’s answer to popcorn.

  Daraya was clearly a very tightly bonded, close-knit place where many people were related and so just about everybody knew each other. It was also a town with many natural attractions. On Fridays and Saturdays Darayans often sped off to the town’s western fringes. There, among the area’s scenic orchards, they could rent attractive and inexpensive farmhouses. Young and old would enjoy relaxing in the shade, chatting, playing card games and holding barbecues. In an environment such as this, they could forget about the many irritants of daily life, like the haphazard electricity supplies. Blackouts were common, sometimes lasting for many hours at a time. The mains water supply was often unreliable too. The provision of some public services was also rather threadbare. Until shortly before the war, there was no public hospital in Daraya, so anyone needing treatment had to go to a private one. These were not so expensive, but many families on lower incomes still struggled to pay their bills. Another thing that pushed up the cost of living, not to mention everyone’s blood pressure, was corruption. If you wanted something done by the local council services, you usually had to pay; somebody, somewhere would demand a ‘facilitation’ fee.

  Though perhaps unfamiliar in its landscape and customs, Daraya in the early twenty-first century was, in its fabric and soul, little different to the average European or American town. People shared the same busy lives, families, responsibilities and preoccupations. The same often tiring and time-consuming commute into work. Rents and house prices were much cheaper than in central Damascus, so Daraya had become a bit of a commuter town for many on lower incomes. Although the national economy was growing each year and inflation stood at a fairly low 4 per cent, most local families had to work hard to get by. Whether they laboured on a farm, in a government office or in one of the town’s many furniture factories, money was tight. Not that this dented Daraya’s strong sense of community; its people took great pride in a town some had lived in for generations.

  But this apparently peaceful life was about to change.

  Daraya is a town with a proud and fascinating history of protest and a strong will to survive. From around AD 730 the town was already acquiring a rebellious reputation. Its inhabitants had developed strong grievances against the Umayyad authorities, who they believed favoured a rival tribe.4 Daraya also played a prominent role during the Crusades. Following a clash between two Muslim armies there in 1139, a large number of local fighters, who were on the losing side, were put to the sword.5

  By 2011, the vast majority of the town’s population were Sunni but Daraya was also an important place for Shi’ites. In 2003, a holy Shi’ite shrine was established there and the town was then added to pilgrimage routes. Until recently, there was also a Greek Orthodox Church in Daraya and a strong Christian presence, church bells ringing out in solidarity with the anti-regime protesters in March 2011.

  In recent times, Daraya had become best known for its non-violent protests. When, for example, in 1998 a group of twenty-three young men and women were thrown out of a local mosque for studying the Quran with a progressive cleric, instead of giving up and going home they simply sat on the ground outside and carried on with their meeting.6 Within a short period of time, the Majmu‘at Shabab Daraya (Youth Group of Daraya) grew to around fifty members. They held open debates, screened films and called on people to take responsibility for their own destiny. Obviously intent on practising what they preached, the group decided that it was up to them to clean the streets of Daraya and with brooms in hand, they set about sprucing up the town. They decided that it was also their responsibility to clean up corruption too, and each month their members published charts revealing their next targets.

  Daraya Youth Group believed that reading and learning were essential if they were to truly change society for the better, yet getting hold of the right books had not been easy. Most young people could not afford to buy from bookshops so their main source of literature was their local mosque where the choice of reading material was limited. There were several sma
ll libraries in the town but these were often not accessible to the general public. In response the young radicals collected hundreds of books donated by people all over Daraya and created the town’s first free public library. A placard outside proudly labelled it the ‘Paths of Peace Library’. Keen to do things properly, they knocked on the doors of various government offices, asking for a licence for their new endeavour. They were told to go ahead with their plans while the relevant authorities considered their request. Yet almost as soon as the Paths of Peace Library opened, the police closed it down and confiscated all its books.7

  On a wider scale, one of the group’s political campaigns involved demonstrating in solidarity with the Palestinians who, at the time, were being attacked in the Jenin refugee camp in the West Bank. Their biggest demonstration took place in 2003, against the US invasion of Iraq, when the group’s young members marched, one hundred strong, through the centre of Daraya in silent protest. Given that Syria’s government also opposed the invasion they might have thought that such an action would have been applauded by the authorities. Instead, many were jailed for failing to seek official permission for the march.8

  Discontent with the ruling regime simmered on in Daraya, but it was to be another eight years before local passions were ignited again by the extraordinary Arab Spring.

  Chapter Two

  Shortly after the demonstrations in Daraa and Damascus in 2011, pro-democracy protesters took to the streets of Daraya. Despite growing tensions caused by the deaths of the four demonstrators in Daraa, activists in Daraya were, as befitting the town’s long history of non-violent protest, committed to keeping their rally peaceful. They called for widespread reforms, respect for human rights and democracy.

  As was often the case in Daraya, and elsewhere in Syria, protesters had gathered first at a central mosque before pouring onto the streets after prayers. Given the large numbers, the protesters had initially wanted to meet at two much bigger mosques nearby, but were told that those were being watched by the security forces. Among the crowd that day was, Anas Habib, a twenty-eight-year-old former civil engineering student. Tall and slim, and dressed, when I first spoke to him, in a sober-looking khaki jacket and jumper, it was hard to picture him in the thick of the protests. But this seemingly reserved figure, who came across as being older than his years, evidently was in the thick of things. He told me how determined those around him were, despite the very real possibility that the security forces might react violently. ‘When we left Al Abbas mosque,’ he told me, ‘my heart was beating like a drum and my hands were shaking. Other young people soon joined us and before long we had a group of around fifty protesters, all shouting the words: “Syria is free. Freedom only!”’

  Anas and his fellow protesters began to take comfort from their numbers and shared sense of purpose. Their chanting grew louder and louder, as they called for democratic reforms, their confidence growing. Before long a rival crowd of government supporters began massing in front of the protesters, yelling pro-Assad slogans. Some of these people were possibly plain-clothed security officials but many others would have been from religious minorities, be it Alawite Muslims like President Bashar al-Assad, or Shia Muslims, Christians and secularists. Many of these groups might have had little intrinsic love for Assad himself, or for many of his policies, but they believed that he did at least allow them to continue practising their faiths in peace. They feared that if he was toppled, rebel Sunni Muslim extremists might take control, and bring religious freedom to an end. Many of the young protesters at that time were not initially calling for the president to step down, however. They were demanding major reforms, such as fully democratic elections, as well as freedom of speech and other civil rights.

  Anas remembered: ‘We wanted to encourage more people to take part in the demonstration and break the wall of silence and fear that had kept us quiet for so long. This barrier of oppression had been built up over half a century, and we were determined to knock it down.’

  Like many others in the anti-regime crowd, Anas relished the chance to protest–not just against the current injustices in Syria but past ones too. Back in February 1982, President Bashar al-Assad’s father, Hafez, had used extreme violence to put down an uprising by the Muslim Brotherhood in Hama, which had left hundreds of his loyal troops dead. In retribution, Hafez al-Assad’s soldiers had gone on an orgy of blood-letting, levelling entire neighbourhoods of the city. As many as 20,000 people were thought to have been slaughtered. Nobody is sure of the exact total because few, if any, independent journalists were able to witness what had happened. But over the following years the scale of the massacre began to emerge. Although protests now focused on the deeds of the son, those of his father had not been forgotten. This memory had left a festering wound in the minds of many across the country that had been passed down from one generation to the next.

  It soon became clear that the anti-Assad protesters were winning the shouting match. The more they yelled, the more bystanders joined their fast-swelling ranks. At one point, Anas told me, more than 1500 protesters, most of them young men and women, marched together, dwarfing the two hundred or so Assad loyalists before them. But, although heavily outnumbered, the pro-regime crowd maintained their defiance. Some, sensing they were losing the war of words, tried to start a physical fight. Missiles and fists began to fly, all in an attempt to goad the chanting protesters into fighting back. It was around this point that Anas’s father arrived at the scene. He insisted that his son come home immediately, and reluctantly Anas did what he was told. ‘When I got home, my mother was crying. She had seen my face among the crowds on television. My dad said this was very dangerous because the regime’s people would recognise me. I would be arrested, maybe jailed for life.’ Indeed, Anas’s father had good reason to fear for his son; he had only narrowly avoided arrest himself during the Hama massacre of 1982 and knew that this regime was just as savage. Torture was common and some who went to jail were never seen again.

  Later that evening, as Anas’s adrenalin began to subside, his feelings of euphoria morphed into dread. Maybe his father was right, he thought. ‘I started fearing for my life. I wondered about all the awful things that might happen to me in jail and what this would do to my parents. But at the same time this had been some day, one of the most important of my life. I knew I had to act, that I had to be true to my principles and in the end I decided there was no going back. I had chosen my path and would have to continue, whatever the price.’

  The protests in Daraya were being led by Yahya Shurbaji, a thirty-two-year-old political activist and admirer of India’s pacifist former leader, Mahatma Ghandi. Shurbaji had been campaigning for non-violent change with the Daraya Youth Group since 1998, and he practised what he preached. When pro-Assad soldiers were sent in to suppress the marches using increasingly violent methods, he and his brother Maan called on protesters in Daraya not to retaliate. Instead he brought bottles of water and flowers for them to give to the soldiers. This led Shurbaji to be nicknamed ‘the man with the roses’. He insisted that the regime’s security forces should be treated as human beings, even in a police state such as Syria.

  Among the many in Daraya to be impressed by Shurbaji and his methods was fellow activist, Ghiath Matar, a twenty-six-year-old tailor. Sceptical at first, Matar had been won over after he noticed that following the gifts of water and flowers, pro-Assad soldiers behaved differently, making eye contact with the demonstrators and treating them better. He believed that this could truly change things and Matar soon became closely associated with Shurbaji, acquiring the nickname ‘Little Ghandi’. His dreams, however, were not to be fulfilled and over the next couple of months, the violence meted out by government troops got worse rather than better. Several activists were reported to have been killed in Daraya and many more died elsewhere in Syria.

  This did not deter a group of local women from setting up a civil grassroots movement which they named ‘Daraya’s Free Women’. Their first act was to stage a sit
-in, demanding the release of prisoners of conscience. But any notions the women had of peacefully persuading the regime to co-operate were soon dashed. Instead of listening to them, the security services opened fire, leaving many of the women in fear of their lives. Still, as the weeks went on, in the spirit of the town’s history and philosophy, demonstrators in Daraya continued to express themselves peacefully.

  But the regime responded with increasing oppression, and it wasn’t long before they came for the rebels’ peaceful leader. On 6 September 2011, Ghiath Matar, Yahya Shurbaji and his brother, Maan, were arrested. Four days later, Ghiath’s mutilated body was returned to his mother and pregnant wife. The man whose last words to his friends were, ‘Remember me when you celebrate the fall of the regime and… that I gave my soul and blood for that moment’, had paid with his life.

  The reverberations following Ghiath Matar’s death and the disappearance of Yahya and Maan Shurbaji, were felt across Syria and around the world. As a mark of the esteem in which ‘Little Ghandi’ was held, his funeral was attended by the ambassadors of the United States, Japan, Germany, France and Denmark. The UN called on the Syrian government either to release Yahya and Maan or explain their fate. Neither request was, or ever has been, granted. In one of his last posts on Facebook, Ghiath Matar had written: ‘We chose non-violence not from cowardice or weakness, but out of moral conviction; we don’t want to reach victory by having destroyed the country.’