Fire Worshippers

Seizing on what seemed to be a unique opportunity to aggrandize his person and recover usurped “Arabistan” for its “Arab Nation", Iraq’s Ṣaddām Ḥusayn attacked Iran back in September 1980, thus inaugurating an 8-year-long conflict that was to claim hundreds of thousands of lives and untold billions of dollars with disastrous geopolitical consequences destined to haunt the hapless inhabitants of the Persian Gulf for generations.

Saddam’s gamble was predicated on two assumptions: the first was that the US would not object to his designs, and the second that Iran, an international outcast weakened by revolutionary purges and civil strife, would be a pushover. It was to be “Saddam’s Qādisīyyā,” as the Iraqi strongman aimed to duplicate the exploit of Saʿd ibn abi Qaqqāṣ.

Ḥusayn was right on the money as far as the US reaction was concerned. Indeed, not only did the US indulge the ambitions of the Iraqi leader, but the Reagan administration also, before long, extended covert as well as overt support to the embattled Iraqis. Ḥusayn’s second assumption, however, proved utterly unfounded as Iran—its isolation and internal turmoil notwithstanding—proved far more resilient than expected and would have beaten Iraq absent outside intervention. The latter possibility should have been expected—or at least considered—given Iran’s advantage in geography and demography; those factors eluded Mr. Ḥusayn at the time.

Religion has been used and abused in warfare from time immemorial, including in the Iraq-Iran War of 1980-1988. This “first” Persian Gulf War took place during my formative youth when my knowledge of differences and similarities between the numerous Islamic sects was minimal to nonexistent. Part of the earliest “religious education” I received was via Jordanian TV, so let this post acknowledge my indebtedness and serve as a tribute to Amman's media.

The plucky little Jordanian king threw his lot with Ṣaddām Ḥusayn and instructed his obsequious media to relay the Iraqi army's "victories" against the "Persians” on a daily basis. The Jordanian TV transmitted what passed for news, emphasizing the heroic deeds of the guardians of the “eastern gate of the Arab Nation.” Statistics were provided regularly, of course: “the Persian enemy lost 100 slain soldiers, while the Iraqi army lost 3 martyrs.”

Jordanian TV outdid itself by presenting a TV series entitled “Hārūn ar-Rašīd.” The legendary Abbasid despot would certainly provide a fascinating subject for any historian or movie maker, but this series focused on one particular aspect of Hārūn’s reign: his relationship with the fabulously rich Barmakids, Yaḥīā, al-Faḍl, and Jaʿfar.

The Barmakids were a wealthy Persian family that grew influential serving the early Abbasids. H̱ālid begat Yaḥīā, who begat al-Faḍl and Jaʿfar, the most illustrious of the lot. His mother nursed Hārūn, whom he served as vizier for many years, enriching himself and his ilk in the process. Eventually Hārūn quarreled with the Barmakids, seized their property, jailed some of them, and inflicted a savage death on Jaʿfar, his friend and confidant of many years. Jaʿfar was beheaded, and his corpse was split in half; his ghastly remains were publicly displayed in different parts of Baghdad.

Explanations vary as to what motivated Hārūn’s barbarous treatment of his loyal advisers. Some suggested an affair between Jaʿfar and Hārūn’s sister, al-ʿAbbāsā, while others simply justified the murder on the ground that the Barmakids were becoming too powerful and Hārūn preempted a coup that would have claimed his throne, possibly his life. A more outlandish interpretation was proffered by the history books of the Syrian Arab Republic, namely that there was a far-reaching Persian conspiracy against the Arabs and the Abbasids (in reality the Abbasid empire was practically Persian from its inception). But back to the Jordanian TV, for its narrative was the most preposterous of them all.

Not only did the TV version emphasize the Arab-Persian divide, but it also went a step further by adding a religious dimension. The Barmakids were not Muslims at all. They were Majūs and fire worshippers. They professed loyalty to Hārūn during the day and worshipped fire at night in their cave-like dwellings. Forget about Jaʿfar of the Arabian Nights and his soirées of drunkenness with his Hārūn, the Commander of the Faithful; forget the fact that it was Persian men and Persian arms that brought the Abbasids to power to begin with and maintained them on their throne for generations.

The ugly sectarian narrative lives on. Recently the “fire-worshipping Majūs Persians” earned another denigrating epithet, “Safavids.” The latter description applies more or less to the Šīʿā, perhaps more so to the Twelvers, and implies that they are heretics, wicked, and treacherous. They do not necessarily “worship fire,” but they are no less wretched and would surely earn hellfire sooner or later.

Who were the Majūs? Zoroastrianism is an old dualistic Iranian religion the adherents of which indeed worshipped in fire temples—fire serving as a symbol—and was no less developed than Abrahamic religions. As for the Safavids, they were an Iranian dynasty that ruled for 200+ years, starting with Shah Ismāʿīl in the early 16th century until they were deposed by Nādir Shah in the 18th.

Iran’s history stretches for thousands of years, and its culture is as proud as any. The cities of Persepolis, Susa, Tehran, Tabriz, and Shiraz are or were no less glorious than Memphis, Alexandria, Cairo, Damascus, and Baghdad. To be a Zoroastrian (some survive as Parsees) is no vice, and Safavid heritage should be a subject of pride, as would testify the treasures of art and architecture still on display in Isfahan. As for Šīʿā Islam, it is no more or less legitimate than Sunni Islam, Christianity, or Judaism. It is about time we put all those antiquated disputes to rest.

The Fall of Andalusia

January 25, 750 C.E. The fate of the Umayyad Dynasty was sealed on the banks of the Great Zāb as the victorious Abbasids chased survivors of the hitherto invincible rulers of Damascus, exterminating them to a man but for one notable exception.

ʿAbdel-Raḥmān I (ad-Dāẖil, or Ṣaqr Qurayš) managed to escape the massacre. He ended up in the Iberian Peninsula in 755 C.E., where he proceeded to conquer a kingdom for himself and his descendants, thereby duplicating—and surpassing—the exploits of the Barcids all the way back in the 3rd century B.C.E.

Whatever their shortcomings, the Umayyads were Syrians, loved Syria, and promoted its welfare. They ruled an immense empire and were constantly combating foreign foes while suppressing "domestic" rebellions in Ḥiǧāz, Iraq, H̱urāsān, and elsewhere. They constructed the Great Mosque of Damascus and the beautiful Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, among other architectural marvels. Syria has never forgotten its caliphate and has unsurprisingly cherished the distant Spanish branch of its beloved rulers and, by extension, the entire Eldorado that was Andalusia. The Arab conquerors of Spain would have their names bestowed on Syrian schools and Damascene quarters; even the national Tobacco Company would market brands named after Alhambra and Granada.

Reality is, however, less romantic. Whatever was the origin of those “Arab Conquistadors,” it was a matter of time before they would acquire the identity of their adopted land. It took me less than eight years from my arrival to the USA in 1985 to become a US citizen in word as well as in deed, whereas my kids are literally Native Americans. One could, of course, argue that the situation was dramatically different in the Dark Ages, as the concept of “nation” was nonexistent, but I would nevertheless maintain that the accumulation of years and miles is bound to have the ultimate say on creating a new identity, all the more so in an age when the means of communication were precarious and travel was downright dangerous. Conclusion? The “Arabs” of Spain were as Spaniards as anyone else, if not in the first generation, then certainly in the numerous generations that spanned hundreds of years since the original conquest; alas, neither East nor West seems to have seriously entertained what should be as elementary as ABC.

So what should we call those 8th-century newcomers to Spain? Were they Syrians? The answer would most certainly be no, though to be sure some of them were. They were not Arabs either, for quite a few of them, including Ṭāriq ibn Zīād, were Berbers from North Africa. They were not “Saracens,” since many came from “al-Maġrib.” Closer to reality would be that they were Muslims, but one should keep in mind that when Catholicism reclaimed Spain, its adherents evicted (or exterminated)—in addition to Iberian Muslims—not only the Jews but also the Moriscos (that is, the Spanish Muslims who converted to Christianity in the vain hope of earning toleration). Very well, let’s call them—by default—the way Catholic Spain did: the Moors, a term loosely—and contemptuously—employed to describe “others” who looked darker, adopted (or were suspected to adopt) a different faith, and whose ancestors came from “somewhere else in the Southeast.”

History as taught in modern Syrian schools maintains that the Arabs presence in Andalusia lasted almost eight centuries, starting when Ṭāriq crossed Gibraltar in 711 C.E. and ending with the fall of Granada in 1492. While there is some truth in this narrative, it is so imprecise as to be misleading.

For Andalusia, for all practical purposes, did not fall towards the end of the 15th century, but rather in the middle of the 13th. Abu al-Baqāʿ ar-Randī, whose beautiful ode poignantly mourned the fall of his beloved Utopia, died in 1285, more than 200 years before the fall of Granada. The protracted conflict that pitted Europeans versus Moors began shortly after Ṭāriq brought the Visigothic Kingdom to an end and his successors raided Southern Gaul before they were repulsed at Poitiers by Charles Martel. Charlemagne, the first Holy Roman Emperor, continued the struggle, and it seems neither he nor the Abbasid Hārūn ar-Rašīd had scruples about joining efforts against their common Umayyad enemy in Spain, their religious differences notwithstanding.

For more than two centuries, the Moorish presence in Spain was not just secure but prosperous and bountiful. The Umayyad Caliphate rivaled its Abbasid and Fatimid counterparts in wealth and prestige, while the European North languished in the Dark Ages throughout the 9th and 10th centuries. The end of the beginning was when the Córdoba Umayyads followed their Damascene ancestors into oblivion early in the 11th century to be replaced by the “Mulūk aṭ-Ṭawāʾf,” petty principalities warring among themselves and often enlisting the aid of their “Spanish” enemies against each other. To be sure, the Moorish cities hosted a brilliant civilization despite their political decline, bound sooner or later to translate into economic decline even were we to exclude outside predators.

Toledo fell in 1085, never to be recovered. The Andalusian Moors reacted by calling on their North African brethren, who mounted a credible counterattack, first under the Almoravids (who defeated Alfonso VI) and secondly under the Almohads (followers of Ibn Tumart). The struggle lasted about 150 years before the Moors were decisively defeated in 1212 at the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa. One great city after another fell to the Reconquista: Córdoba in 1236, Seville in 1248, etc. By 1252 only the Kingdom of Granada remained, protected by its mountainous terrain and a heavy tribute paid by its king to his Castilian overlord. Granada went so far as to help Castile conquer Seville along with other Moorish strongholds.

Granada was thus capable of enjoying a long Indian summer during which Moorish culture and architecture flowered as seldom before. Refugees from the Spanish Reconquista flocked into the tiny kingdom that thrived on the trade of the Western Mediterranean, at least till the geographic discoveries of the 15th century started to bypass that sea altogether. Insulated from reality in their gardens and palaces, the hedonistic Naṣrid rulers seemed to have forgotten that Andalusia was virtually no more. To them, ar-Randī was a distant memory, if they remembered him at all. 

Old habits die hard. Muhammad XII “Boabdil,” the last king of Granada, was incapable of comprehending—let alone facing—the imminent danger that the united Kingdoms of Aragon and Castile represented. The Naṣrids continued the Moorish tradition of internecine fighting inaugurated in the eleventh century by “Mulūk aṭ-Ṭawāʾf,” including a Faustian deal every now and then, with their covetous Northern neighbors. Granada finally succumbed to the inevitable and surrendered to the triumphant Crusaders on January 2nd, 1492. The curtain descended on this tragedy with the immortal words of Boabdil’s mother, reproaching him for weeping like a woman for a lost kingdom he could not defend as a man.

Post-mortem analysis is easy. Perhaps Andalusia was bound to fall in a fanatical age when victors offered no quarter. It also is true that the “Spaniards” quarreled among each other just as Muslims did and were no less ready to call on outside help when push came to shove. The fall of Constantinople—first to the Crusaders in 1204 and secondly to the Ottomans in 1453—clearly illustrates the universality of this phenomenon, namely seeking the help of your natural enemies for the sake of temporary gains at the expense of your kinsfolk. 

Corrupted from within and devoured from without, Andalusia imploded by the middle of the 13th century, and its surviving remnant finally crumbled in 1492. Let’s keep beloved Syria in our thoughts. 

Identity Crisis

Syria's condition is critical.

December 2010. It was business as usual when a certain Muḥammad Būʿazīzī set himself on fire and unwittingly released a hurricane that would claim the presidents of Tunis and Egypt and inaugurate a series of demonstrations in Bahrain, Libya, Syria, Yemen, and elsewhere. Būʿazīzī was the Arab World’s Gavrilo Princip, who did no more than light the fuse to initiate a chain reaction and release the immense energy of a deceptively silent volcano.

Still unfolding, the Arab Spring—an expression to be accepted with caution if at all—is not the subject of this post; Syria is. 

What is Syria? Etymologically it was the name the Greeks—and subsequently the Romans—loosely applied to the area bound to the north by Asia Minor, to the south by the Arabian Desert, and to the west by the Mediterranean Sea. It was a geographical, not a geopolitical, designation; its boundaries changed a great deal throughout the long history of the Near East. The same area would be called “Bilād aš-Šām" by the Arabs; that is, the country located to the north of Hijaz as opposed to “Yemen,” which referred to the south, and the Levant (from soleil levant, or east, as opposed to the west, or soleil couchant) by the French.

As every schoolkid in Syria knows, modern Syria was a creation of France in the aftermath of WWI. The Near East was carved by Mark Sykes and Georges Picot on behalf of the British and the French empires into mandates and spheres of influence. France was accorded the mandate for Syria, including Lebanon (a hundred years ago the Lebanese called themselves Syrians, but that’s another story), and Britain those for Iraq, Transjordan, and Palestine.

According to Syria’s official history, the French proceeded with a deliberate policy of “divide and conquer” right from the start. The country was partitioned into six different entities: the States of Aleppo, Damascus, Drūze, al-ʿAlawīyyīn, Greater Lebanon, and Alexandretta. The last one was eventually ceded to Turkey, and Lebanon (enlarged by four “Syrian” districts) was kept separate even after administrative and financial considerations convinced the French of the desirability of unifying the remaining four statelets into one “Syria.”

In their political and administrative divisions, the French emphasized Syria's religious differences. I say "emphasized," for certainly they did not create those differences. The Maronite Christians were given Lebanon (enlarged by the aforementioned “Syrian” districts to make it economically viable); the Alawites were made “independent,” and so were the Drūze; and the rival cities of Aleppo and Damascus were each granted its own realm. The partition, to be sure, had many flaws, as was bound to happen in an ethnically, linguistically, and religiously diverse country the way Syria was and still is. There was an important Kurdish concentration in al-Jazīrā, to name but one example. As for Syria’s Christians, they were too scattered across the emerging country to be granted their own dominion. The French probably debated those issues and more but could not come up with a definitive remedy. They realized, and so did their embittered Syrian subjects, that the division was artificial but reckoned that it would be impossible to come up with a solution that satisfies everyone and did not suspect at the time that they would soon be evicted from the Levant and lose control over the subsequent development of their creatures.

Syria became fully independent in 1946. Alexandretta and Lebanon were lost, it is true, but the rest of the country remained united and was now a full-fledged state, a member of the United Nations, and governed by its own people. Its borders, with the exception of the Golan Heights lost to Israel in 1967, have seemingly stabilized and acquired permanence through the recognition of its neighbors as well as the international community. Those borders, however, have always been denounced by Syrian patriots of different political orientations as artificially imposed by foreigners. For better or for worse, Syrians kept looking beyond their borders in search of a Greater Syria, a Fertile Crescent, an Arab Nation, etc. Generations of Syrians were sustained on an imaginary diet of a Syria that never was.

Fast forward to March 2011, when the fever of the so-called “Arab Spring” reached Syria. It is not my intention to elaborate on Syria’s simmering civil war, as the final chapter in that sad narrative is yet to be written, and I fear we’re in for a long ride. Suffice it to point out the increasingly ethnic-sectarian nature of the current strife. Whereas our parents and grandparents incessantly raised the banner of Arab or Syrian union, a sizable part—some think a majority—of the current generation appears hopelessly divided along sectarian lines and utterly bent on settling scores and pursuing vendettas. Some have even gone to the extent of asking help from the same “colonial” powers that our grandparents denounced and “evicted.”

Is this surprising? Well, it shouldn’t be. One only needs to look next door at the Lebanese and Iraqi models. Of course, in both cases outside intervention played a crucial—in Iraq’s case a decisive—role, but there is no denying that the soil was fertile with sectarian hatred that was bound to explode with outright war when a timely stimulus came. More to the point, if tiny Lebanon can plunge into a bloody civil war for almost a generation, why wouldn’t Syria, several times Lebanon’s size area-wise as well as population-wise and just as complex from ethnic and religious standpoints?

Are Syria’s borders artificial? Absolutely! But this can be interpreted in two diametrically opposite manners, and an inescapable conclusion would be that the French may have created a Syria that is too large for its own good after all. Why not re-partition Syria, give the Kurds the Northeast, the Druze the Southwest, and the Alawites the coast? It may not sound pretty, but it definitely is better than endless fighting and bloodshed, and it sure as hell beats any “humanitarian” military intervention by the cynical western powers and a NATO that has all but outlived its usefulness. If, and that’s a big if, it could be done peacefully.

I don’t know what the solution is. I don’t know if a reasonably accepted one even exists. Anyone who practiced medicine long enough knows that not all diseases are curable, “miracles” of modern science and technology notwithstanding. Can Syria be kept united with no recourse to violence? Would a day dawn on this tormented land when Syrians love their country, however artificially created, more than they distrust and resent each other?

There has never been a shortage of dreamers singing Syria’s praises and professing an everlasting love for their fatherland, but what is desperately needed are responsible leaders and enlightened citizenry willing and capable of making difficult decisions and living with their consequences, however painful in the short run. Syria needs less poetry and more action.

　
　

ʾAsad Crosses the Rubicon

Syria was in turmoil as I arrived in Damascus shortly after the Ides of March 2011. Demonstrators in Darʿā spearheaded a movement demanding nothing less than comprehensive reforms, including—but not limited to—removal of emergency laws, releasing political prisoners, clamping down on corruption, and dismissing venal officials. Some even raised sectarian banners and questioned the very legitimacy of the president. Within days, various regions in the country joined the upheaval, and the regime appeared more than ever on the defensive, fighting for its very survival.

Ḥāfiẓ al-ʾAsad faced a similar uprising starting in the late 1970s that culminated in the Ḥamā Massacre in February 1982, when he unleashed his armed forces on the city, killing thousands of people and leveling the center of the old town. Back then such wholesale repression was facilitated by a multiplicity of factors: Syria then enjoyed the protection of the still mighty Soviet Empire, her armed forces were in much better shape, and there was no Facebook, Internet, cell phones, or satellite TV. No photographs, let alone video clips, leaked out to tell the gruesome tale. ʾAsad Senior was brutal but efficient. The Ḥamā tragedy guaranteed his reign till the closure of the 20th century and provided for a smooth transmission of power to his son in the year 2000.

Baššār al-ʾAsad possessed none of the above advantages. The Syria of 2011 was surrounded by enemies. To the south loomed Israel and Jordan, to the east US-occupied Iraq, and to the west a Lebanon that no longer hosted the Syrian armed forces. Regionally Saudi Arabia pursued a hostile policy vis-à-vis the Syria-Iran axis, and globally the USA targeted ʾAsad with sanctions. The Soviet Union was a distant memory. Economically Syria suffered from poverty, a widening gap between rich and poor, dilapidated infrastructure, depleted oil reserves, water shortages, and overpopulation.

ʾAsad Junior could no longer let loose the army against the opposition without risking the wrath of the USA and NATO, as the case in Libya amply demonstrated; at the same time, he had to be proactive and shun the half-hearted incremental measures that sealed the fate of Tunisia’s president and Egypt’s despot. Bahrain’s monarch was luckier, but he enjoyed the favor and protection of the USA and Saudi Arabia. Syria's crisis called for tact and discretion so as to avoid repeating the mistakes that doomed Arab dictators elsewhere. Could Damascus pull a rabbit out of the president's worn-out hat?

To be sure, ʾAsad possessed some advantages. Contrary to his Egyptian erstwhile colleague, he still had the army as well as the security apparatuses firmly lined up behind him. Most Alawites and many Sunnis still supported him. The former to preserve their acquired advantages and the latter to avoid chaos and sectarian strife Iraqi-style that would likely follow reversal of fortunes. Christians certainly were in no mood to have Muslim extremists topple a relatively secular Alawite rule, and neither were probably Druze and Ismailis. Apart from the Kurds, minorities would by and large support ʾAsad, each for its own reasons.

Left to his own devices, ʾAsad surely has more assets than liabilities and would probably not have much more difficulty suppressing the uprisings than his old man did 30 years prior; his dilemma was that he could no longer count on outsiders leaving him in “peace,” especially after witnessing the USAF pounding Libya in the company of the British and the French. His options were sharply reduced to finding the magic formula of sufficient repression to intimidate the rebels without reaching a threshold that would invite outside intervention.

For more than a week, ʾAsad dealt with the opposition with relative restraint, avoiding large-scale bloodshed and leaving the task of keeping order to the police and security forces. The army surrounded Darʿā, to be sure, but stopped short of deploying its guns. He moreover delegated his spokesperson, Dr. Buṯaynā Šaʿbān, to announce imminent reforms, including the promise to increase the salaries of government employees. ʾAsad even released some political prisoners and let it be known that he would be addressing the nation soon. He was biding his time and prudently avoided commitment to a course of action with unforeseen consequences.

The proverbial light at the end of the tunnel appeared on March 27th as US Secretary of State Clinton called ʾAsad “a reformer,“ essentially ruling out military intervention against Syria. To be sure there was no shortage of condemnation of using violence against civilians by different influential figures in the US administration and Congress, but ʾAsad could safely ignore verbal attacks stripped of military force or the threat of its use. Secretary Clinton delivered precisely what he was asking for, and he could, at least for the time being, afford to talk and act with far more confidence than would be the case for someone under an American Sword of Damocles. Instructions were given to the powers that be to organize huge demonstrations in support of the regime, with tens of thousands filling the streets of major Syrian cities waving and repeating resurrected, worn-out slogans of undying loyalty to the president.

Thus emboldened, ʾAsad delivered on March 30th his long-awaited address to the obsequious People’s Assembly in Damascus. The speech blamed the disturbances on outside conspiracies and made no real concessions to the people’s demands, a few vague promises notwithstanding. It was a triumphant speech received by a standing ovation from a dependable audience and interrupted here and there by deputies outdoing each other in flattery and brown-nosing as ʾAsad appeared and sounded more relaxed than ever. It was veni, vidi, vici as Syria's president donned the mantle of Julius Caesar.　
　

The Ultimate Sacrifice

Somewhere in the 1990s, my dad and I had a discussion about his pension. Dad, bless his memory, worked as an engineer in Syria for about 40 years and, like many of his colleagues, regularly contributed money towards his retirement pension administered by the syndicate. I remember him telling me that the funds' managers had to cap the engineers' benefits at a certain level lest they exceed those of a general in the Syrian Armed Forces; after all, he rhetorically asked, an engineer is not better than a general, or is he!? I still remember myself answering him with not the least amount of hesitation: “But of course an engineer is better than a general!”

My dad never served in the Syrian Army; I have. Like countless young Syrians before and since, I joined the army to "serve the flag" right after graduating from Damascus University back in 1983. This national duty—in reality a tax—was, and still is, universally imposed on Syrian men with few exceptions. Unlike professional military men, those subject to this “national duty” receive no compensation worthy of the name. Instead, many have to pay in cash or kind to survive what practically amounts to two years (often more) of thinly disguised slavery.

For a professional school graduate like myself, life in the army was bearable, though not pretty. I got to meet interesting people from different religious, cultural, educational, and economic backgrounds. We all spoke the same language, of course, with wildly varied accents. The best way to classify those men, however, was simply on the basis of their military career, or the lack of it: were they professional soldiers or, like myself, serving their two years and counting the days and hours to put it all behind their back? Secondly, if they were professional soldiers, what was their rank?

Needless to say, rank was of utmost importance. At the very top, we had the colonel commanding the armored brigade where I served. Everyone feared and respected him. He was the ultimate bogeyman. No other person in the entire brigade had such an aura surrounding his person. For his subordinates, he was authority incarnate, and his word would send just about anyone to jail, where torture was not uncommon. Under this colonel came his deputy, also a colonel but with far less extensive powers; another colonel in charge of logistics; and several majors, captains, and lieutenants in charge of the different battalions and other departments. Quite a few of the professional officers, the very same ones brown-nosing to the colonel, were arrogant, condescending, and quite brutal in dealing with their subordinates, but what I found most interesting by far was that even the lowliest soldier somehow considered himself worthier than civilians. How could that be?

The colonel in charge of logistics was a kindly man in his fifties and about to retire. He once shared a dinner with a few young college graduates serving in the army, myself included. He was in a good mood and dealt with us almost as equals, referring to himself by his nickname, Abu Raymond. He told us about the many years he spent in the army and how he studied to upgrade his status from that of an NCO to an officer. He then proceeded, with no solicitation on our part whatsoever, to tell us that “absolutely no one” who could manage a trade or profession would opt for a military career. Those who join the army, he emphatically stressed, do so as a last resort when all other doors are practically shut.

Abu Raymond’s honesty was admirable, of course, but he did no more than say loud and clear what everybody knew. The army in Syria facilitates social mobility for poor young men. Some of those young men are very intelligent and genuinely want a military career—I happen to personally know one or two exceptions to Abu Raymond’s rule—but those are few and far between. The vast majority were average and below average and could therefore not realistically hope to apply for medical or engineering schools, traditionally the turf of the best and brightest. Add to that that they were economically disadvantaged, so they had no means with which to start a business.

The army offered an opportunity for formerly disenfranchised young Syrians. Is there anything wrong with this? one might reasonably ask. Who would decline a venture that promised money, prestige, a secure job, and other benefits well-nigh impossible to get elsewhere? The answer is, of course, not many. Who knows? I might have done the same thing if I were in their shoes. The issue here is not what made those young men join the military; it is rather what makes them feel superior to other mortals and where their mentality of entitlement came from. Do they really believe that a general is better than an engineer? Do they really believe that a military man is better than a civilian?

For, you see, their narrative is quite different than the one I outlined above. After all, how could one look at himself in the mirror knowing that he joined the military out of despair of other and likely brighter alternatives? No. The reason one chooses to soldier on has to do with totally altruistic, lofty, and noble motives. He is making THE ULTIMATE SACRIFICE. He is risking life and limb for the sake of his country. It is thanks to him, and only to him, that the rest of us civilians can sleep soundly at night. Without him, predators would devour the fatherland, kill its men, rape its women, and terrorize the helpless populace. He dies that we may live and prosper. We owe him our freedom, prosperity, and existence.

This refrain has been repeated so often and for so long that it convinced many people and, quite likely, even those who invented this twisted logic. The army has, after all, dominated Syrian politics since 1949, more often directly than indirectly. Armored vehicles roam Syrian cities driven by reckless drivers never held accountable for the accidents they provoke. The army sucks the economy dry and has lost a few major battles with tragic consequences (magically peddled as victories), and no one batted an eye. Power resides with the army and its minions. The civilians in Syria would simply have to put up or shut up.

But what does the army really do that is so praiseworthy? I guess one might argue that its sheer presence might dissuades potentially aggressive neighbors, though this is highly questionable. Another role would be to keep law and order, but shouldn’t that be the job of the police? The truth is perhaps less romantic. The army exists mainly to protect the regime, period. It is another version of Caesar’s Praetorian Guard, Napoleon’s Old Guard, or Saddam Hussein’s Republican Guard.

This applies to many armies, perhaps most armies, not just to those of banana republics. There exist many variations, of course, depending on when and where, but the general rule still applies. In most countries that have large standing forces, the army is to a lesser or greater extent a parasite. The larger the army, the more resources it usurps. Often for meager return. This is not the worst part, to be sure. Large and powerful armies have throughout history led their countries to disaster. The major dilemma remains that armies, like the rest of us, have to show that they’re worth the huge investment in treasure and sweat. In other words, they have to show that they work hard for their money, harder than anyone else since they are willing to immolate themselves in an ultimate sacrifice. Since the only “work” that they know how to do is warring and killing, one need not be a diviner to imagine the consequences. Mighty empires were brought to their knees following the reckless adventures of their generals. Modern warfare has, if anything, made the enterprise costlier than ever. Even when the military “wins,” average men almost always lose. Make no mistake about it: large militaries would fight ferociously to defend their privileges. When they run out of real foes, they invent imaginary ones. When they lose to external opponents, they often make up for this setback by oppressing their own people. Rather than defending the freedom of their countrymen, they become its worst enemy.

The ultimate sacrifice is an illusion and a fraud. The real heroes are not the ones with military garb. They are loving mothers, schoolteachers, factory workers, entertainers, lawmakers, health care providers, scientists, and many other “unknown soldiers.” The real glory lies not in bombing, invading, and killing. It lies in constructing, inventing, maintaining, and upbringing. Crafty Odysseus was a thug; mighty Achilles and his Myrmidons were cold-blooded murderers.

The great Victor Hugo loved France but was no fan of Bonaparte. Here is the introduction of his L'expiation (la retraite de Russie):

Il neigeait. On était vaincu par sa conquête.
Pour la première fois l'aigle baissait la tête.
Sombres jours ! l'empereur revenait lentement,
Laissant derrière lui brûler Moscou fumant.

　
　
　

On Human Inertia

The Cause was lost. The Imperial Guard was surrounded, outnumbered, and outgunned. The victorious British magnanimously offered to accept the surrender of the surviving remains of the elite French troops when General Cambronne famously retorted, “Merde”! La Garde meurt, elle ne se rend pas!” Only then did the British cannons deliver the coup de grâce.

What made the French sacrifice so many young lives so gratuitously? What makes many men and women persist in a course of action long after its foolishness has amply been demonstrated?
Countless other examples could be cited; for the sake of brevity, I will restrict myself to two.

Winston Churchill made a sagacious observation in his WWI memoirs entitled "The World’s Crisis" when he marveled at the short-sightedness of the German leaders in the aftermath of their victory in the East. Russia was knocked out of the war and lay prostrate as Germany, early in 1918, forced its politicians to cede vast territories in Eastern Europe, eclipsing any potential gain on the Western Front. Wouldn’t the best course for Germany be to negotiate a peace settlement with the Western Allies, even at the cost of some territorial concessions to Belgium and France? Would the Allies, bled white in four long and murderous years of ruthless warfare, have rejected such an offer? We all know what happened next. Ludendorff opted instead for a last throw of the dice and launched his ultimate attack in the West in the spring of 1918. It ended in disaster and Germany’s unconditional surrender.

More mundane, though not any less relevant, is a dilemma created by modern medical technology, which has made it possible to fight terminal illnesses ever more tenaciously, though at a tremendous financial, physical, and psychological cost. Time and again you see or hear about a hopelessly ill patient fighting the complications of metastatic cancer for months in a row, shuttling back and forth between a regular hospital ward and the intensive care unit when everyone knows that he or she is dying. The stated goal is, of course, to prolong life. Towards achieving that objective, the medical team tries to keep the patient’s oxygen level within range, his heart pumping, his lungs ventilating (or ventilated), his kidneys (or a dialysis machine) operating, etc. The patient becomes a “heart,” “lung,” kidney,” magnesium,” “potassium”… The larger picture, the patient himself, is lost to sight. Doctors brief the family about “winning battles” against bacterial infections and internal hemorrhage when everyone knows, deep down, that the war is irremediably lost. Rather than prolonging life, the process becomes, in reality, prolonging death. It’s almost as if some people actually believe in the possibility of deflecting Death forever. An anecdote attributed to Ǧuḥā comes to mind. He borrowed a pot from his neighbor and returned it the next day with a smaller one, adding, to his neighbor’s delight, that it “gave birth.” The next time he told the same person that the pot “died,” the neighbor was beside himself with rage, as if, all of a sudden, it dawned on him that Ǧuḥā was lying.

That brings me back to the theme of this post. What makes individuals, peoples, states, and empires persist in a demonstrably bankrupt course time and again? How could Homo sapiens be so conceited, blind, and downright stupid? Wouldn’t it make much more sense to invest the resources spent on weapons and conflicts in the welfare of our planet? What about devoting a fraction of the sums spent on prolonging death to promote education and child welfare? I think the answer is best sought in the principle of inertia. Inertia in physics — Newton's First Law of Motion — is defined, according to Dictionary.com, as

“the property of matter by which it retains its state of rest or its velocity along a straight line so long as it is not acted upon by an external force.”

To return to the two examples quoted above, the Imperial Guard—an extreme example, to be sure, but nonetheless a valid model for many fanatics—knows how to fight but not much else. It obeys orders even if those no longer make sense. It abdicated logic to mob frenzy and paid the ultimate price. The panic-stricken bulk of the French troops were perhaps less valiant but more human when they clamored, "La Garde recule. Sauve qui peut!" Cowardly perhaps, but much more sensible.

As for the WWI vignette, it certainly was possible, hypothetically at least, for Germany to return Alsace and Lorraine, along with the other conquered territory, to France in return for an honorable peace and a free hand in the East—an offer almost impossible for the Allies to resist, again at least in theory, especially since we know, with the wisdom of hindsight, that, in the end, Germany gave up all this territory and much more after hundreds of thousands more of young men on both sides were needlessly immolated to Ares.

But was it psychologically possible for the German leadership to even privately consider returning lands to France and Belgium, let alone dare submit such a suggestion to their public, for years subsisting on a diet of militaristic patriotism, especially in light of their recent brilliant victories in the East? Here the Principle of Inertia could be seen at full force: absent a force majeure, that is, “an external force,” the Kaiser and his generals were fated to continue “along a straight line” towards their doom. The Allies provided this “external force." What was unthinkable for Germany became inevitable. 

As far as our hypothetical patient is concerned, at what point do we give up? Where should the line be drawn? Isn’t death just as predictable as birth? Does anyone really presume the ability to interrupt the life cycle? In general terms, the “external force” here is more than just cancer, heart attack, respiratory failure, or infection. Thanatos has been lurking behind a corner near the end of the human journey from time immemorial.

　
　

　
　
　

Hath not an Arab Eyes?

Back in 1974, at the then prestigious school “al-Ḥurrīyā,” founded by the Mission Laïque Française and rebaptized as the Institute of the Martyr Bāsil al-ʾAsad in the mid-1990s. The school is a relic of the French sojourn in Syria in the first half of the twentieth century and a testimony to an often overlooked benevolent aspect of colonialism.

I was 15 years old at the time and had just started high school. We were attending an Arabic language class, and that day’s assignment was Shakespeare’s “Merchant of Venice.” The teacher, Mr. ʾAnṭūn Nuʿayyim, assigned me the role of Shylock, and I had to perform in front of an audience almost evenly divided between Christians and Muslims with one notable exception: there was one Jewish student in the mix (yes, there were few Jews left in Damascus at the time). Luckily, he was spared the embarrassment of participating in the play.

The inclusion of a translated Shakespearean play under the rubric “Arabic Language” was, of course, a pathetic and misguided attempt by the Syrian government to recruit whatever elements deemed useful to its strategy vis-à-vis the Arab-Israeli Conflict, including religious hatred. Officially, Syria repeatedly stated that its struggle was aimed at Israel and Zionism; practically, its approach was quite schizophrenic, as it allowed, if not encouraged, all sorts of anti-Semitic literature to flood the country. Unsurprisingly, the main source of this literature was European, and it would be superfluous to name examples.
  
Here is some of what I had to read aloud, in translation of course, in front of my classmates, including the lonesome and hapless young Jew:

He hath disgrac'd me and hind'red me half a
million; laugh'd at my losses, mock'd at my gains, scorned my
nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine
enemies.
And what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes?
Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections,
passions, fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons,
subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed
and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is?
If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh?
If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we
not revenge?“

I know not how this play affected the young students’ assembly as a whole, but you need not be Nostradamus to predict the effect on the young Jew, whose ancestry had probably resided in Damascus for generations. I remember that one Muslim student was kind enough to say something nice to him after the class. Something about universal brotherhood and tolerance. I’m not sure the Jew believed him, but it was a nice gesture nonetheless.

What Shakespeare intended when he wrote this play is beyond my grasp. The aim of Syria’s Ministry of Education, however, was unmistakable: indoctrinating the students against Israel in particular and Jews in general. Lest anyone have a doubt about it, not long ago Syria’s Minister of Defense authored a ridiculous book about the Damascus Affair in 1840. Sadly, there exists no shortage of gullible consumers of this trash.

Something inside me hesitated at accepting Shylock as the villain Shakespeare possibly intended him to be, the infamous “pound of flesh” notwithstanding. I felt his anger against Antonio was understandable and justified. I also felt that the punishment he was to endure at the conclusion of the play was tendentious, unwarranted, and vindictive. There clearly were two different standards for justice, one for Christians and another for Jews, likely for all “others”.

 But the title I chose for this essay was not about a Jew; it was about an Arab. Actually, you can insert whatever denomination you want, and it would still be valid, provided we are talking about either a minority member or an underdog. What applies to a Jew would, mutatis mutandis, apply to an Arab. You can’t legitimately complain about the mistreatment of Arabs and Muslims (terms often confused in the West) in America and Europe when you tolerate the abuse of minorities at your own place. Stereotyping Jews is the mirror image of stereotyping Arabs, hence my choice for this title.