P U L S E
“Freedom of the press is guaranteed only to those who own one.”
Ali Farzat, the Arab world’s greatest cartoonist – in fact one of the very best and bravest creative voices in the Arab world – was bundled into a van by Syrian regime filth last night. Some hours later he was found bleeding at the side of the airport road. First reports suggest that his hands have been broken.
I’ve often used Ali’s cartoons to illustrate online pieces. His work has been the perfect choice – its tone is tragicomic; he never minimises the pain of the contemporary Arab situation even as he laughs at it. His pen, and his blessed hand, draw the catastrophes of dictatorship and occupation, of misogyny and class oppression, of bureacracy, hypocrisy and ignorance. Ali is a valuable friend of the Palestinian people: I hope those fools who still believe the Syrian thug regime is a ‘reistance regime’ will note this well.
I discovered Ali Ferzat when I lived in Damascus in the late 1990s. His work was published in state newspapers. He seemed to be one of the rare few – poet Muhammad al-Maghut and actor Yasser al-Azmeh were others – who were permitted to transgress the state’s taboos. When Bashaar inherited power in 2000, Ali was granted permission to start up his own satirical newspaper, ad-Domari (‘the Lamplighter’). A couple of years later the initiative fizzled out under the pressure of mounting censorship and intimidation. The episode was symptomatic of the deceptions of Bashaar’s early years.
A few months ago the body of Ibrahim al-Qashoush, a native of Hama who wrote a popular anti-regime song, was found in the Orontes river. Ibrahim’s vocal chords had been ripped from his throat. Now the shabeeha regime has broken Ali’s hands. But it won’t break the creativity or the will of the Syrian people.
[youtube http://youtu.be/i5Mko4Yzmls?]
Ali Ferzat, Syria’s most loved cartoonist was beaten by mukhabarat and thrown out of a car. His most recent cartoon was of Qaddafi stopping in his Jeed to pick up Bashar al-Assad, who was hitching a ride. The cartoon and Ali’s site is no longer available on the internet….
Two opposing views of Syria’s economy. One claims Syria can tough out the economic hit for quite a bit longer. The other, by Carnegie, says no. Master Card in Syria is down. More top Syrians are sanctioned by the EU. Gulf Sands, the oil company partly owned by Rami Makhlouf is hit with more troubles and the West is chiseling away at the Syrian economy.
Gulf countries, in an apparent reversal of position, seem to be distancing themselves from the US effort to strangle Assad’s regime. Saudi arrested anti-Assad demonstrators and Qatar has backed away from its anti-Syria diplomacy as its leader heads for a visit to Iran.
Syria’s Opposition woes are cataloged by Reuters. Here is a photo of Ali Ferzat.
source
| Ali Qureshi | 19 août 04:21 |
With the deepest sorrow, we regret to tell you that activist, Diaa Daghmas, the second interviewee in this remarkable documentary has been killed by the Assad gangs. (Shabeeha). On his behalf, we ask that you widely share and distribute this inside story of the Syrian Revolution.
Bassem al-Dimashki
guardian.co.uk, Thursday 11 August 2011 17.46 BST
Article history
Karim, a 23-year-old student and one of my closest friends, has been arrested. On 4 August he was one of almost 30 people who decided to wear white and walk in one of the main streets of Damascus. It wasn’t a demonstration as such – there were no placards or slogans, just white clothes and a silent walk. White was a colour with no political connotations, and walking in the same clothes helped them express their shared sadness at the turn of events in Syria. Despite that, Karim and couple of other friends disappeared.
I was at home when John, a mutual friend, called to inform me of Karim’s arrest. “You shouldn’t try calling him,” he told me whisperingly on the phone, as if lowering his voice would hide it from the tapping devices rumoured to be placed on all mobile phones in Syria. “Let’s try to see if we can get him out tonight.”
My father, eavesdropping on the conversation, asked me what was wrong. When I told him what had happened he announced in his matter-of-fact tone that my friend “deserves it” for joining the criminal forces attacking “peaceful and beautiful Syria”. He continued that my friend should have been concentrating on his studies or his work rather than bothering his brain with politics.
My father is a fan of the national Syrian TV channels and their reports about “criminal gangs” disturbing the cities of Syria. He sees nothing wrong with the army taking over the cities; his logic is that the army would never attack the honest people of Syria but is simply bringing peace to cities disturbed by the conspiracies surrounding our country.
Our group of friends, regardless of their political affiliations, went into crisis mode after Karim’s arrest; contacts were called and people started working to get him out. But with the first Friday of Ramadan just a few hours away, all the people in power were busy preparing for the awaited day and no one was interested in working to get our friend out.
Many of our contacts thought it was some kind of sick joke. “He was arrested for what exactly?” a well-connected relative of mine asked. There was a moment of silence when I told him it was for wearing white and walking the streets, before he pulled himself together and continued the conversation.
On Friday evening I meet Karim’s mother for the first time. She is seated behind her laptop wearing her reading glasses and her phone doesn’t stop ringing. She keeps a brave face for a while, welcoming us to her house and presenting us with sweets while calling her son a batal (hero).
She jokes with us about extra sweets when her son gets out, but suddenly, her voice breaks and her eyes filled with tears.
Saturday morning comes and still Karim is missing. John is tired after a sleepless night getting phone calls from the mother of Mohamed, another friend who got arrested for the same reason in the same street. Mohamed’s mother knows nobody and has no contacts; she cries every time she hears John’s voice. John can find no words to make her feel better; he listens to her, telling her that there is no news, she cries, he listens, she hangs up then calls again 15 minutes later.
Karim’s mother is roaming her house silently, tired from hearing one lie after the other. Everyone is spreading rumours. Some say our arrested friends are being treated well, others speak of blindfolded eyes and violence.
“He is not getting out today,” John tells me and I agree. We have a quiet hope that maybe Karim will be out by Sunday – but Sunday comes and goes and our friend is not out.
Karim’s mother tells me she might be able to send clothes and food to her son through a contact. We wait for the contact to call and the hours linger.
The phone rings but it’s only a relative. As Karim’s mother speaks, I see the tears slowly sliding down her face and I think of my own mother: how would react she if she was in the same position, who would she call?
I excuse myself and lock myself in the shower, crying for her and for my friend that I miss so much, for my city that is turning grey and for my feeling that I can’t do a thing to help him.
Locked inside my own thoughts, I find myself overwhelmed and I excuse myself. I leave the house and walk out into the streets of Damascus, empty like a ghost city, put a song on my iPod and sing along to it.
I did not notice how high my voice was getting singing a silly sad song until some security informant stopped me and asked me, in his deep voice, while putting a heavy hand on my shoulder, what I’m singing about. I explain that I lost the love of my life and I’m singing my sorrows. Thinking that I’m hopelessly romantic, the security guy makes fun of me then lets me go.
On Monday, Karim’s mother is roaming her house screaming and chanting slogans asking for the regime to fall; she wants her son back and she wants her revenge.
We wait for a phone call telling us that Karim is soon to be released, but all of our phones are silent and all our hopes are crashing. As I leave her house after hours waiting for news, I pass a clothes shop and stare at a white T-shirt for a while. Then I go inside and buy it.
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