The revolution turned one on Thursday. We spent it like we spend our Fridays, sitting around flicking through the news and eating a never ending breakfast, but I remember where I was on the 15th of March last year.
It must have been about 4 am that the Fixer and a friend of his phoned me from the alley underneath my old city house. While you could argue that the Fixer had drunk enough you wouldn’t have convinced him, he knew I had a bottle of wine in my room and he wanted to help me drink it. I dropped my keys out the window and he let himself, his crisps and his friend in. His friend, a poet, an artist and an academic with an unfortunate haircut I’d met a few times and got on well with, was pretty embarrassed when he realised he’d got a women out of bed. But as the Fixer said, the was no point him going home now I’d been woken up, I assured Haircut that I knew the Fixer was responsible and we settled down for a surprisingly civilized night. We talked about Haircut’s relationship with a British woman and being Western or Westernised in Syria, about drinking beer in pavement cafés and electricity in Jermaana. We rubbished Huntingdon’s ‘Clash of Civilizations,’ but Libya was in an inspiring phase, and we agreed to go to the poetry night at Al Fardous every week. I remember being happy.
When he woke up Haircut phoned the Fixer. He said the government had shot his cousin and four other men in Durra. Some kids had been arrested for writing slogans on a wall and no one knew what was happening to them. Haircut, who hated corruption and loved Syria, was going home.
A year on and I don’t know where Haircut is. He returned to Damascus in the summer, but when the Fixer tried to restart their friendship where they’d left it Haircut said he didn’t know the Fixer, or anyone of his name or nationality. I haven’t seen him at any poetry nights recently.
The 15th was also teacher’s day, but apparently it was easier for teachers and students alike to attend demos if the public holiday was shifted to the following week. The rallies dominated Arabic language news across the spectrum. Al Jazeera’s ‘happenings of the revolution’ the BBC’s Greek potato revolution and the Assad emails didn’t cheer us up. Helicopters took to the sky, but the streets were pretty empty. A year on and the government could still control the country.
The next day Sabina were out in force on the streets of Mohajareen, but Syria was on fire. It was just as depressing, but in a different way. We all agreed the revolution seemed more intense in its second year.
None of changed our minds this morning, when we were woken by a loud noise. We watch a lot of news and all reacted, alone, in the same way. We first thought it was an explosion, then remembered it was snowing when we went to bed and wondered if it could be thunder, before thinking maybe we’d dreamed it. Then there was a second explosion that blew our doubts up along with Bramkea. Thunder doesn’t rattle houses.
We eventually kicked our guests for the night off the sofa and assembled in front of the TV. Our Iraqi flatmate, who didn’t wake up, was unimpressed by Syria’s reaction – what’s the point of cancelling class after a bomb? We were rather taken aback by his explanation of bullet trajectories, the mathematical impossibility of being shot in my room or the kitchen and how we can get between them. Apparently if you grow up in Baghdad working out this stuff is instinctive. We’re all sad that Syrians are developing these skills.
My friends and family need to know that the bombs were both a long way from my house, we’re on the slopes of the mountain above the school so it’s not surprising that we could hear the explosions. Neither were anywhere I go and like most Shammies I’m still at home at 7.30. Today was a day of heightened awareness, this bombing wasn’t random. It coincided with the arrival of another UN delegation. I am always evaluating whether its time to leave. It remains to be seen weather the second year of rebellion marks a new phase of the revolution.