Crisis in Syria Daqaqa Journal Mourning Syrian Soldier, but Not Doubting a War By ANNE BARNARD Published: October 8, 2013 DAQAQA, Syria — Under a silvery canopy of olive trees, men and women crowded around the grave of a 24-year-old lieutenant in the Syrian Army. As a commander handed the dead man’s mother a Syrian flag folded into a neat triangle, the scrape of branches shifting in the wind could be heard over quiet sobs and prayers. A rifle barrage erupted as the dead man’s friends and relatives fired into the air, sending scores of empty shells clinking to the pebbly ground. “God give victory to our president, Bashar al-Assad, heal our wounded, set our prisoners free and let our words be one word,” a sheik in a white robe and skullcap intoned. “Don’t think those who die for the sake of God are dead. The martyr is precious for all eternity.” Killed in an ambush at the other end of the country, the lieutenant — whose family asked that he be called by his nickname, Abu Layth — was the first soldier to fall from this village of 125 people in Syria’s coastal foothills, two years into a war that has only recently come close enough for the sounds of shelling to be heard. Such funeral scenes have been repeated tens of thousands of times across the country. They resonate deeply for many in Syria, where army service is required, but especially here in the coastal province of Latakia, where support for the government is strong. Even some critics of the president or government still profess loyalty to the army as a symbol of the country, one regularly honored on national holidays and heroically portrayed in classic movies about past wars with Israel. The Syrian government has given no official figures for the toll the civil war has taken on the Syrian Arab Army, as it is known officially in a nod to the state’s Arab nationalist history. But the Syrian Observatory for Human Rights, an antigovernment monitoring group that tracks the conflict, says that of the 110,000 deaths it has tallied, nearly 29,000 are from the army and more than 18,000 are from pro-government militias. The funeral last week — and the stately, flag-bearing convoy that brought the body from the provincial capital, the city of Latakia — gave a glimpse of the confidence of loyalists in the coastal region, where many men pursue military careers, and of the nationalistic way they frame the conflict. The fallen lieutenant and his family are Alawites, members of the sect to which Mr. Assad belongs, which is disproportionately represented in the security forces and whose members have faced sectarian threats from rebels. Yet no mention was made of that identity at the funeral. Whether in speeches or emotional outbursts, people spoke of defending the Syrian state. Only when asked if they believed the insurgents were bent on driving out Syria’s religious minorities did family members even refer to themselves as Alawites — or mention that part of their fight is to defend their community, especially after rebels were accused of massacring scores of Alawites in nearby villages in August. “Because the regime is Alawite,” one relative said of the opposing fighters, including some from nearby villages, “they think every Alawite should be killed.” Conflicting emotions were on display throughout. In her crowded living room, Abu Layth’s mother, Jamila, said, “God willing, there will be a compromise,” just as another mourner declared, “We want to drink their blood.” Much was said about protecting the country’s resources, yet at the entrance to the village, a concrete barrier was spray-painted, “Assad or we burn the country.” Military funerals take place virtually daily across Syria, but it is almost impossible to gain access to one in Damascus, the capital. Pro-government Syrian journalists said that was in part because the dead are disproportionately from the villages of the coastal region, and even urban families tend to hold funerals in ancestral villages. Others just fear holding processions for pro-government fighters so near to rebel-held territory in the suburbs. But here along the Mediterranean coast, where the family of Mr. Assad has its roots, there was no such hesitation. From the military hospital in the city of Latakia, the corpse traveled in an ambulance with flashing lights, followed by mourners hanging out the windows and sunroofs of taxis and cars with Syrian flags. In the city, which witnesses such processions daily, some people barely looked up. But as the convoy drove slowly into the northern outskirts — swelling from one to two to three lanes wide — entire families and work crews paused to watch. At a military checkpoint, men in camouflage dispensed with the usual security checks and saluted as the convoy rolled through. Men in the procession fired hundreds of rounds in the air. Grinning, one declared, “He’s a martyr, but the most important thing is that Syria is O.K.” Farther on, the convoy passed orchards bearing green lemons and work sheds draped with electric-blue morning glories. At the turnoff from the main road, schoolchildren wearing the insignia of the youth club of the governing Baath Party held posters of Mr. Assad and chanted, “Martyr after martyr!” The road wound up hills of pomegranate and olive trees, with views of the sea. The hamlet of Daqaqa, part of the village of Shabatliya, was decorated with posters of Abu Layth, broad-shouldered and muscular. His coffin was carried into the family house, with its ancient, splintery wooden doors. People threw rice, which stuck to the face of Abu Layth’s aunt, wet with sweat and tears. His father doubled over in grief, slapping his thighs. Many people in the village have been jobless for years, residents said. Army service of 18 months has been extended, for many to more than three years. Abu Layth’s mother, whose three surviving sons are all in military or security jobs, said she had seen him only for a few days in the past three years. On the phone, she said, when she asked how he was, he would say simply, “I’m here.” “How handsome he was,” one mourner told her, sitting in a formal mourning tent behind the house. “My God, burn them as they burn our hearts,” another said. A third added: “We don’t like to hurt anyone. But someone is killing us, and it’s very painful.” When a camera from Syrian state television appeared, a man in the crowd complained, “Why aren’t you ululating?” — referring to the trill performed by women at weddings and, sometimes, funerals. A few people did so. But it was hard to conceal sadness. “We’re just losing men,” one woman said. Andrea Bruce and Hwaida Saad contributed reporting.
Posted on: Wed, 09 Oct 2013 04:37:20 +0000
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