The way it’s raining tonight is fitting for the current situation. I’m at a bus station in Beirut, trying to find a shared taxi home, and instead find myself staring up at the bullet holes riddling the windows of a Syrian coach. We’re only 100 kilometres from the border of Lebanon’s war-torn neighbour, and the affects of the conflict could not be any clearer.
The bus station is a solemn place to be. As we walk, bus operators call out destinations at us: Aleppo, Damascus, Homs. Victoria and I are not on our way to Syria – we are on our way home from having a couple of beers with another Syrian friend who lives in Beirut. The population of Lebanon has jumped significantly since the outbreak of war in Syria almost two years ago. At current point there are more than 200,000 Syrians who moved to Lebanon since the start of the conflict began. By the summer the number is expected to reach a million.
Victoria left her native Aleppo six months ago. Her family were with her. They left their home when the fighting got two intense. Victoria herself has narrowly escaped four bombings. Their family are fortunate enough to be part of Armenia’s huge diaspora community, so – holding their Armenian passports – they left for the capital, Yerevan, where I met them. Now, we’ve all moved to Beirut – Victoria’s mother’s hometown – together. I remember when I met the family last summer. They told me that fighting was still a couple of miles from their neighbourhood. Now, that neighbourhood has almost been leveled. Aleppo, one of the worlds’ most ancient cities, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and a Capital of Culture just a few years ago is now the most destructed city in the world since World War II.
Armenia has seen it’s society affected by the war. The Syrian-Armenian diaspora has moved en masse back to their motherland. Yerevan now has a huge Syrian population. In summer 2012, some friends and I visited a Syrian-Armenian childrens’ summer camp in the Armenian countryside. It was idyllic, and backed by the beauty of the mountains. But now a lot of those children have returned to Syria to face the reality of war. In Yerevan, Syrian cafes and restaurants are springing up, bringing with them a little piece of home.
Aleppo, Syria’s largest city, was drawn into the war late. Since then the conflict has gradually smothered the old city, reducing much of it to ruins. The historic citadel which overlooks all of Aleppo, is badly damaged, and the famous souk has been burned. Many of the Mosques are also beyond repair. Amazingly, at present, Victoria’s family apartment building still stands, with nothing but desolation alongside. Water, electricity, food – they’re all difficult, if not impossible to come by. People are forced to burn diesel in their homes to stay warm. Aleppo is no longer the same place.
As we walk through the dark and damp bus depot, I can see that nearly all of the buses are bound for Syria – ferrying people back to the war. Why are they going, I ask myself. The answer is often simple: money. It’s not easy to live in a place without an income. I see one family – the wife has an blank, resigned look in her eyes. They’re all packed and are going back, to face what they fled from.
Victoria translates a conversation we overhear between a bus driver and a passenger. He’s explaining the best place to hide passports. I’m told that often guards will stop buses, take passports off passengers to use for whatever means they deem necessary, then kill the passengers. Telling militants that you are a refugee is a safer option. Safer – but not safe.
With the bullet-riddled coaches showing the fresh signs of war, and others with hastily patched repairs, I feel so sorry for the people having to go back. From the information I’ve received, buses are often pulled over, and a few passengers taken at random from them. They’ll then be lined up on the side of the road and shot. The bus will then be sent on its way.
Many of my friends back in Armenia were Syrian. From spending time with them I’ve seen harrowing images and video footage of people being brutally hacked to death. Stabbed, stoned, mutilated, shot. I’ve seen brave onlookers run out into the streets to grab bodies of civilians taken out by snipers, to save their remains. Videos of soldiers brutally killing unarmed people, while their peers watch and laugh to the camera. It’s shocking. There’s no mercy shown, no judge, no jury. Just atrocities. I grew up in peaceful England, so to have come so close to this terrible conflict, and have people I am so close to directly affected by what is happening is eye-opening, We, with our comfortable sofas and plasma TVs could not be further away as we see a 30 second report on the war in Syria, then allow it to fly from our minds as we think about what to eat for dinner, or what time the game starts.
I was told another story a little while ago. A friend of a friend’s mother was out on her balcony in Aleppo, where her grandchildren were playing. She went outside to tell them to come back inside. She was shot by a sniper. She died, after bleeding out on the balcony. She was killed at random, in front of her young grandchildren. If you walk down the street in Aleppo and look a bit suspicious, or look like you’re in too much of a hurry, you have every chance of meeting the same end. People still there know to walk calmly, and not look around as they walk. Even a simple trip to buy bread – of which there is a shortage – is now a hazardous past time.
Before the conflict, Syria was, and – I’m sure – remains a beautiful country. Aleppo particularly looked spectacular. In 2009, my brother, Tom, cycled through Syria, from Turkey, on his way to Jordan. He said it was wonderful. Others who have visited have reveled in every moment. One day, I would love to visit, especially as I have many Syrian friends now. It’s frustrating not being able to go. The capital, Damascus, is less than 100 kilometres from Beirut and a bus ride there or to Aleppo is under $20. It’s sad to see that it’s no longer possible. The United Nations estimate of 60,000 dead in just under two years is believed to be quite conservative.
Back at the bus depot we hear more chatter. One driver says if he moves in an hour he’ll be in Aleppo by 7am. It doesn’t seem real that we could get on this bus now, and be in Aleppo in just a few short hours. The fact that so many people have to return is surreal. It’s not far short of suicide.
Victoria and I eventually find a taxi. We share it with two Syrian guys. There was a third, but he got on a bus, bound for eastern Syria. He has to go and visit his family in a village there. They have no means of communication, so they have no idea if his family are alive. I’m sure by now he knows the truth. His friends, who understandably aren’t in the mood to talk about what is happening, wanted to convince him to stay in Beirut. It’s safer here. But he left anyway. We all understand why. Their luggage is small, but one bag – the largest one – is jammed full of bread. It’s a sorry situation and I feel so helpless.
