In Syria, an oasis from the war

By Austin Tice,July 15, 2012
(Page 2 of 2)

The government, meanwhile, gets a safety valve for its growing humanitarian crisis. Yabrud’s estimated pre-rebellion population of 50,000 is thought to have nearly doubled as a result of displaced Syrians who have fled from violence in Homs, Qusair and other flash points. Three of the town’s public schools serve as ad hoc refugee camps. Many Yabrudis shelter refugees in their homes or allow them to use the town’s outlying farms.

The government derives another advantage from ignoring Yabrud. The town lies near the main highway running from Damascus through Homs and on to Aleppo in the country’s north. The road is a vital government supply line. By staying out of Yabrud, the army has avoided the emergence here of a dedicated and competent rebel fighting force, such as the well-organized and well-funded Farouq Brigade that operates in Homs and increasingly in Damascus.

Most of the FSA in Yabrud consists of untrained civilians rather than defected Syrian soldiers. And although they occasionally attempt to ambush government convoys traveling the highway, such attacks are limited, rare and deliberately staged at least 12 miles farther south.

The government’s treatment of Yabrud may also be the result of a careful political calculation. The town is home to an estimated 3,000 Christians, or 6 percent of the pre-rebellion population. Its main church, the Church of Constantine and Helen, was built as a Roman temple to Jupiter. Christians and Muslims intermingle freely, and relations between followers of the two religions are warm.

Nationwide, the government has attempted to exploit apprehensions among Christians about their minority status in a Muslim-dominated post-Assad Syria. Residents speculate that Yabrud has been bypassed by the government to bolster that narrative and discourage more Christian involvement in the rebellion.

“The regime wants us to fear Muslims, but I don’t fear my brothers,” said one Christian resident who gave his name as Justin.

On the outskirts of the town one recent evening, the music of mandolins and drums wafted through the cool air. In a small farmhouse, a band of musicians lingered well into the morning hours, playing and drinking arak, the Arab version of sambuca.

A mandolin player volunteered his hope for the future. “Right now, the regime makes the people poor, so they work only for money. So art does not flourish now,” he said. “But after the revolution, our minds will free everything that is inside of us.”

But driving home later in the darkness, Abu Mohammad seemed troubled.

“I have this feeling, like the army will come here in the next few days. I have not felt this way before.” He drove on for a long, silent moment. “I hope it is nothing.”

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