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In the two weeks since I left Damascus, preparations have hit full-stride for the upcoming referendum. It should prove to be a real nail-biter, with as many as .8% of Syrians expected to cast their nay votes, and President Assad riding the maniacal wave of popular support toward another seven years in office. As Sara explains, voters have two choices: “’Yes,’ I want Bashar to stay in power. ‘No,’ there is no one but Bashar.” Already the place has the air of a victory parade, with flags and banners strung from the street lights and Assad’s smiling mug plastered on every billboard. “You’d be smiling, too,” his face suggests. “The people love me.
“Or else.”
There’s Bashar beaming from an overpass and Bashar draped across five floors of a government ministry, his trim little moustache about the size of a Buick. There are paintings of a grave Bashar over a gently flapping Syrian flag, imploring his countrymen to “protect the home.” There’s a smiling, waving Bashar proclaiming, “I believe in Syria,” the unspoken corollary being, perhaps, “…and I’m the only one.”
There are banners strung across every avenue and storefront and drooping down from
the pedestrian bridges, lavishing their praise upon the president in an Arabic script as tall as the man himself. Such an outpouring of love on the streets of Damascus! - the Syrians, it seems, so overcome by gratitude for the gift of Bashar’s iron fist that they can’t help but rush outside and festoon everything in sight. “With all pride and dignity,” gushes a banner with typical restraint, “your people are fully proud and honored to pledge allegiance to you, the dearest ever of all the people.”
The carnival is whirling and wheeling its way toward next week’s climax, and everyone seems to be caught up in all excitement. On a Friday night, touring the Old City with a pack of
CouchSurfers, we come across a video shoot beneath the stout walls of the Umayyad Mosque. There’s a group of thirty or forty young guys crowded together, the camera lens tightly focused to give the impression that half of Damascus has taken to the streets in a fit of flag-waving spontaneity. They’re pumping their fists and waving portraits of the president and chanting “Bashar! Bashar!” while a smoke machine blows little gray wisps into the air around them.
The music is the sort of rousing, outdated anthem you’d expect from such a spectacle, as if Skorpion had reunited to play the Democratic National Convention. When it stops the crowd prop their posters against the walls and talk in small circles over their cigarettes, the mood subdued while a few party officials circle with their ears cocked.
I approach a couple of young guys in tight-fitting jeans and button-down shirts, their hair neatly combed and parted. We shake hands and smile and exchange some pleasantries. “Syria,” I say, thumbs up. “Very, very good" - as if I’ve been sitting around eating lead paint all morning. They laugh and beam and clap me on the back. “This is something else,” I say, gesturing to the crowd. “Bashar, huh?”
“Bashar,” they say, beaming.
“Are you guys getting paid for this?” I ask. They frown and cock their heads, whether at the linguistic impasse or the implications, I can’t readily say. I rub my fingers together and say, “Money? How much are you getting?”
Their foreheads furrow, and they look quizzically at my offending fingers. Then the music starts up again, and their faces
are transformed into the sort of frightened rapture familiar to election time in any one-party state. They’re pumping their fists in unison while the music - as bold and strident and merciless as Bashar himself - soars toward a crescendo. Then the director makes a few fussy hand signals behind the camera and the music stops. He barks some directions at the crowd. “You call that frenzy?” he seems to say. “Show me that you would gladly die for your president.
“Because you might before the evening’s through.”
Sara and the other CouchSurfers are getting antsy. I ask them to snap a few shots of me in the crowd, surrounded by a sea of Syrian flags. It’s the sort of photo op that would, I’m sure, meet with great humor from the guys in Langley back home. The music pumps again, and in spite of myself, I’m swept up by these rousing, well-orchestrated emotions.
“Bashar! Bashar!” I chant, my fist raised in solidarity with the people. “Seven! More! Years! Seven! More! Years!
“You! Are! Great!”
A young guy in a rumpled t-shirt leans toward me. “You are from where?” he
asks.
“New York,” I say. “America.” Then adding, “Bashaaaaaaar!”
Before long I’ve won over the crowd and attracted a couple of wary soldiers, who have suddenly taken a great deal of interest in a small patch of sidewalk about five steps beside me. No matter how many times you’ve seen these Syrian soldiers in their hip-hugging khakis and insouciant sneers, you can’t help but notice how their itchy fingers curl around the batons at their sides, eager to beat the humor from an otherwise well-intentioned, cynical skull like my own.
But now I’ve got the crowd behind me. Two guys offer to hoist me onto their shoulders. “Let’s not push it,” I say. Smoke is pumping in thick plumes and flags are flapping and little portraits of Bashar are bobbing at the ends of a couple of broomsticks. “Seven more years?” the scene suggests. “Why stop there!” The music stops and I get some anxious looks from my friends: they’ve had more than enough. I shake a few hands and wish everyone the best of luck, while the director is tugging a baby from his father’s arms so he can position him in front
of the camera.
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