Waiting For The Revolution To End

Front matter

Syrian displacement, time and subjectivity

Charlotte al-Khalili

“UCL

Part 3 Afterlives of defeat

5 From the political to the social: the speed and depth of revolutionary transformations

85 111 martyrdom, predestination, tragedy

References Index

195 209

CONTENTS vii

List of figures

0.1 Map showing areas of control in Syria as of January 2014 1.1 Walking towards the revolution

2.1 Road leading to the Syrian border

3.1 Gaziantep

4.1 Waiting and hoping

5.1 Women protest

6.1 Cemetery

7.1 The revolution a decade on

LIST OF FIGURES

Preface

When I started to hear about the Syrian uprising through friends and relatives, I was in Rio de Janeiro finishing a master’s dissertation in philosophy on anthropologist Eduardo Viveiros de Castro’s Deleuzianinspired theory of anthropology as a ‘practice of permanent decolonisation of thought’ (2009). What I then heard about the Arab Revolutions of 2011 and, more specifically, about Syria’s, led me to believe that what was happening there could potentially lead to the emergence of a different form of political imagination, practice, institution, and regional order. At the time, my friends and interlocutors imagined that the Syrian revolution would lead to a total reorganisation of the Levant region; they saw it as the first time Syrian people would be able to access self-determination and they dreamed that this would lead to a redrawing of the regional borders inherited from the colonial past.

The Arab revolutions in general, and the Syrian uprising in particular, have generated dreams and hopes in many (see Wedeen 2013: 873). As I began my PhD in September 2013 I had high hopes in the Syrian revolution’s transformational power and alternative politics. Having in mind the ways in which anthropology can teach us to think otherwise, I then imagined that the study of the Syrian revolution would be a project focused on doing politics differently. Inspired by Viveiros de Castro’s work (2003; 2004; 2009) and teaching in Rio de Janeiro (2011), I believed that radically different political thought and practice were coming to Syria. When I started this project I quite naively tried to locate this political practice, thought, and imaginary through an ethnography of displaced local councils and of grassroots revolutionary organisations.

In March 2014 when I first visited Gaziantep in Turkey, to which many Syrians had fled, my interlocutors were still hopeful about the revolution and sincerely believed that it would succeed in the near future. These hopes were sometimes inflated by Free Syrian Army (FSA) victories on the ground or the belief that a foreign intervention that would lead to the downfall of the Assad regime was imminent. But the situation gradually took a turn for the worse with Russia’s intervention, the internationalisation of the conflict, and the mass displacement that caused the so-called ‘refugee crisis’ in Europe. Through these events, my Syrian interlocutors were deprived of their revolution and dispossessed of their (own) political future in Syria. Rather than attaining self-determination, they saw their country being ‘occupied’ and ‘ruled’ by foreign forces.

PREFACE xi xii

The situation inside Syria, and the hopes my friends and interlocutors had in the revolution, had a dramatic impact on their spatio-temporal horizons and on pragmatic decisions about their futures. The evolving situation in Syria had led some of my friends and interlocutors to go back when revolutionary victory seemed closer, but when all hope for its success failed, they fled to Turkey en masse. The oscillation between hope and despair has also marked the writing of this book: how should an unfolding revolution that has fuelled so much hope and sacrifice be described?

When I returned to Gaziantep in March 2017 to write up my findings, I found a city totally changed: most of my interlocutors had fled to Europe; some who were still living in Syria at the time of my fieldwork were now in Gaziantep; new people had also arrived after the enforced displacement of entire populations from besieged areas. Those of my friends and interlocutors who were still in Gaziantep were defeated, disillusioned, and depressed by the ongoing situation; most of the liberated areas had now been retaken by the regime, making any hope of a revolutionary future inside Syria almost impossible.

Writing this text as the events were still unfolding and I was still living among my interlocutors has required me to accept the revolution’s defeat. This has not been an easy task, but it was a necessary one. Analysing the consequences of the 2011 revolution on my interlocutors’ and friends’ lifeworlds has only been possible once I recognised that my own and my interlocutors’ hopes had been disappointed. Throughout my fieldwork and the writing up of the thesis that led to this book, I witnessed the sacrifices of my friends and interlocutors and their investment in the revolutionary project. Moreover, it was difficult to accept that the revolutionary process, if it had not actually stopped, had reached a temporary dead end; this acceptance has, however, been key to the writing process and to anthropological analysis.

On a more personal note, one of the things that prompted me to study the Syrian revolution and its connections to displacement is my family history. On my mother’s side, family members fled the Russian Empire and the USSR as the revolution and then civil war unfolded from 1917 onwards. As they sought refuge some relatives first fled from Odessa to Istanbul, Turkey where they spent a few years before continuing further south to Athens and later crossing western Europe before arriving in France. Some have died fighting for the ‘white’ or the ‘red’ armies in the revolutionary and civil wars. It is this biographical resonance and personal interest in the relations between revolutionary war and displacement that have also led me to try to make sense of this rich nexus in the Syrian case. This parallel became even more poignant as Syrians fled from Turkey to Europe, following similar migratory routes as my ancestors. It became very vivid when I was asked by interlocutors that had become close friends to carry their precious belongings from Turkey to Germany, which they hoped to reach by sea.

PREFACE xiii

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank from the bottom of my heart all the Syrians in (Gazi) Antep who have contributed to this research and made it possible. Their trust and generosity in sharing their stories, and the help and encouragement they offered by introducing me to their friends and relatives, allowed this text to see the light, and I hope that it is worthy of their trust. Despite being displaced and dispossessed they have continuously hosted me and made me feel at home; this generous hospitality and their way of including me in their fictive kinship network helped me carry on with fieldwork through good times and bad. I cannot thank them enough for this. I am particularly grateful to Nura and Omar for introducing me to many relatives and friends; Mariam and Zaher for always being ready to share a coffee; Lubna, Rand, Mayada and Nisrin for always offering a warm home; Thanaa and Ahmad for trusting me with their stories and taking the time to explain the situation ‘inside’ in detail; and the ones I have called Umm Yazan, Umm Khaled, Umm Ahmad, Umm Nidal and Umm Zayd, for being true friends and real mothers. Writing in Gaziantep with a small baby would have not been possible without the help of Asma and Sima; without Lina’s and Umm Yamen’s delicious food; or the generous hospitality of Nour, Bilal, Lina and Nashat.

There are also many people in London to whom I owe a great debt of gratitude: I must thank Masa, Ranya and Eyad for their introductions to their friends and relatives in Turkey; my supervisor, Martin Holbraad, for his patient reading of all my drafts during five years, for his encouragement, and for believing in my work even when I did not believe that I would be able to finish it with a newborn to take care of; Elizabeth Fox and Aeron O’Connor for their friendship, support and for reading and giving thought-provoking feedback on chapters at different stages; my fellow CARP and PhD colleagues (Narges, David, Sofia, Alice, Igor, Kaya, Myriam and Nico), who have all enriched my thinking through discussion of early drafts. The fieldwork for this book was financed through a PhD studentship from the ERC project Comparative Anthropologies of Revolutionary Politics (2013-CoG-617970). Its writing was made possible by a postdoctoral fellowship at MRU financed through Professor Elena Fiddian-Qasmiyeh’s Philip Leverhulme Prize (PLP-2015-250), a LaBex Hastec postdoctoral fellowship (2021-2) and a Leverhulme early career fellowship (2022-5).

I have received very rich feedback when I presented my work during research seminars in Cambridge University, EHESS, Goldsmiths University,

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

XV xvi

IFPO Amman, Koç University, ODTU, the University of Copenhagen and SOAS. Insightful comments on various stages of the work were also made by Farha Ghannam, Elena Fiddian-Qasmiyeh, and Charles Stewart. Maria Kastrinou and Charis Boutieri have also made generous readings at various stages of the writing. Andreas Bandak and Alice Wilson have been true mentors and have continuously encouraged me throughout the writing process. Iam also grateful to Emma Aubin-Boltanksi and Nisrine Al-Zahre, who have welcomed me into their research project, the Living Lexicon of the Syrian Revolution and War, through which my thinking matured and evolved greatly. I would also like to thank Pinar Senoguz and Birgitte Holst Stampe for discussing fieldwork challenges and research results in Gaziantep, and Janine Su for always being ready for a study date in Istanbul and for reading many parts of this book.

I also thank Farouk Mardam-Bey and Yassin al-Haj Saleh for their generous engagement with my work since our first encounter in a roundtable on the Syrian revolution in Toulouse University. For final but crucial suggestions, I thank Sherry Al-Hayek who made inspiring comments. For the pictures I wish to thank Manal Shakhashirou, Fadi Dabbas, Muhammad Shehadeh, Ali Haj Suleiman and Zouhir al-Shimale for providing pictures and facilitating communication with photographers. And for suggestions on transliteration, I am grateful to Jean-Christophe Peyssard.

It has been a pleasure to work with UCL Press, in particular with my editor, Pat Gordon-Smith, to whom I am very thankful for her patience in delivering the manuscript as I was delayed in finalising it due to the earthquake in southern Turkey and northern Syria that strongly touched the cities that had been my home for many years, and the places that are still home to many of my family members, friends and interlocutors. Many of them are now living with the devastating consequences of the earthquake.

I also want to thank my family from the bottom of my heart: my parents for always supporting me without questions; my sister Olga for reminding me to take care of myself, for always introducing new critical theories and for being a lifelong comrade; my grandparents for being such an inspiration with their life choices and history; and Ediz for coming with me to Gaziantep the first time, and for his thought-provoking comments. Above all I thank Mohammad who has been a real teammate and a tremendous support throughout the entire process, and Rita for being such a beautiful motivation and distraction.

An earlier version of Chapter 1 has previously appeared in Condition Humaine/conditions politiques; of Chapter 3 in American Ethnologist; and of Chapter 6 in Social Anthropology.

Note on transliteration

I have transliterated Arabic words based on the simplified system recommended by the International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies. I do not use diacritics or long vowel markers. The ‘ayn is marked, following convention, by ‘, the hamza by’, and the ta marbuta is transliterated either as ‘a’ or ‘eh’. I have also tried to stay as close as possible to my interlocutors’ Levantine dialect in transliterating terms, except for proper nouns and words for which an alternative transcription is dominant in English. In this case I use the most commonly known form or the closest to the Syrian dialect. For instance, shaheed rather than shahid and Deraa rather than Dar‘a. All the transliterations have been done from dialectal Arabic, with variation in the vocalisation following the regional dialect of my interlocutors. I have anonymised all my interlocutors for safety and privacy reasons.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS xvii

Glossary abu father

‘adaleh justice

al sha’b the people

‘aysh life

barra outside

dayif (pl. diyuf) guest(s)

fasad corruption

haram forbidden

harb ahliyya civil war

hayat life

hurriyya freedom

juwwa inside

karama dignity

khuf fear

laje’ refugee

muhajir follower of the Prophet from Mecca to Medina, and by extension, migrant

nasheteen activists

nizam regime

qada wa qadar destiny

rif dimashq Damascus countryside

shabab youth

shabbiha pro-regime thugs

shaheed (pl. shuhada’) martyr(s)

sheghel b-l thawra revolutionary work

ta’fiyyeh sectarianism

thawra revolution

thuwwar revolutionaries

umm mother

zulm oppression/ injustice xviii WAITING FOR THE REVOLUTION TO END

Acronyms and organisations

Daesh ISIS (Islamic State in Iraq and Syria). ‘Daesh’ represents the word formed by the equivalent acronym in Arabic.

FSA Free Syrian Army.

IDP Internally displaced people.

PYD Partiya Yekitiya Demokrat. Kurdish political party, in English, Democratic Union Party.

YPG Yekineyén Parastina Gel. Kurdish armed force, in English, People’s Protection Units, associated with the PYD.

GLOSSARY xix the situation in Syria by Thomas van Linge (@arabthomness)

rebels loyalists kurds

@Free Syrian Army @ Assad regime @vyec

@yria Revolutionaries front @syrian Resistance @abhat al-Akrad

@islamic front Hezbollah © syriac union party re jalist kurdish

@authenticity a Development Front a eras SHES Couns

@avhat al-Nusra Reig aware foreign forces

@islamic state of Iraq and Sham @ Isracl

Tove hi Israeli ia | rebel 2 controlled countryside controlled countryside

E mixed rebel/Jihadi

controlled countryside Islamic State controlled countryside

Figure 0.1: Map showing areas of control in Syria as of January 2014. © Antiracista, available at https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/ File:Map_of_the_Syrian_Civil_War,_January_2014.jpg

Introduction: living in the midst of defeat

In a revolution as in a novel... the most difficult part to invent is the end’

‘Look! All the paths are closed!’ Hanan tells me, pointing at the pattern made by the grounds of the coffee we have just drunk from small white cups decorated with a blue eye. She continues to lament while turning her cup in her right hand: ‘Everything is closing down, everything is dark. There is no hope! There is nothing good coming. There isn’t even a small path!’ It is early morning in the autumn of 2015; the two children are still asleep on the floor of the living room, undisturbed by our morning coffee reading. Hanan has been obsessed with coffee reading for the past couple of weeks as she is looking for signs and answers to the conundrum of her future. Will she stay in Turkey? Will she go back to her parents’ village in Syria? Or will she cross into Europe?

We turn to look at Dina’s cup. Hanan asks me what I see in it. I see a lot of people running towards a place that is white and open. Bearing in mind her recent preoccupations and the news,’ I suggest that the space is an open road for refugees to Europe, but Hanan does not agree. She sees a lot of people standing together, which to her represents the protest we are attending later that day. ‘The white opening is the positive outcome of today’s protest’, she says, pointing to the part of the cup that is clear of coffee grounds. This references the weekly protest in which we participate, replicas of those that used to occur in the early days of the revolution in Syria. Hanan also sees two people hugging one another behind a dark shape. She reads the same shape at the bottom of the cup after pressing her thumb on it, saying that they are friends reunited after a long time apart.

Hanan, a former civil servant in her fifties, and I are living at Dina’s, a former teacher in her forties. Hanan is a Kurdish woman who comes from a small village near the Turkish border but used to live in a city in the north of Syria. Dina, although originally from eastern Syria, used to work in a city in the centre of the country. Hanan shares Dina’s room and I sublet the second room of the apartment in Gaziantep, a city near the Turkish-Syrian border. The two boys sleeping on the floor of the living room, aged 10 and 12, are Dina’s nephews, recently arrived from their war-torn city in eastern Syria, where the situation is deteriorating. Their mother sent them to stay with her sister while they wait for visas to join their father in Europe.

For a week I have been woken by Hanan’s early Skype calls with relatives and friends, either in Europe or in Syria, and daily we drink and read - literally ‘open’ (iftah) — coffee together. Since the summer of 2015, the number of Syrians fleeing to Europe has increased greatly, and every day she reports that a relative, friend, or acquaintance is on her way to, or has arrived in, Europe; this paralleled the opening of the ‘Balkan road’. For Hanan, however, leaving the border town where we live means abandoning her country and, most importantly, giving up hope that the Assad regime will eventually fall and the revolution succeed. ‘As long as I can stay here I will, but as soon as the border opens I will be on my way home’, she once told me, referring to her in-between situation. In order to be able to stay in Turkey, however, she must find a job, since she will not be able to survive for long on the modest savings she brought out of Syria when she fled.

We follow Hanan to the kitchen where she elaborates on her reading by flipping the cup in the saucer above the sink. She observes the designs again, but she cannot identify any relevant pattern so we decide to leave it there for the day. In this morning’s cup, rather than offering direction or wide openings as it does sometimes, the coffee has just shown that the future is dark and without much hope. ‘Let’s see what we have tomorrow,’ she concludes as we go back to the living room. By the time we finish our morning ritual it is already late but the boys are still asleep and will probably not wake before the early afternoon as they usually go to bed in the early morning hours.

Smuggled through the border, which had been closed for several months, they arrived with three of Dina’s siblings and now spend most of their days indoors, watching the news, archive videos of the revolution, or television series on Arabic channels. They were not admitted to school, as they do not have a kimlik, a document all Syrians in Turkey must have but which is no longer distributed in the city in which we live. Their lives have thus become little more than enforced and indeterminate waiting, as they do not know how long it will take for their visas to be delivered. Their everyday is shared between memories of the past and Skype or WhatsApp calls with their parents in Syria and Europe respectively. When Iam home, I often find them watching videos of the revolution’s first protests, one of their (and their aunt’s) favourite pastimes — along with participating in the weekly protests — or trying to find an adequate connection so they can speak with their mother and younger siblings in Syria.

This book is an ethnographic study of life in the aftermath of a thwarted revolution and in the midst of war and displacement. It explores the 2011 revolution in Syria, its roots, actors, legacies and impacts on Syrians’ lifeworlds. It simultaneously gives an emic description and analysis of the revolution’s evolution into an armed rebellion from 2012 onwards and a conflict that quickly became internationalised after 2013. It also depicts the main unexpected consequence of the revolution’s repression: mass displacement inside and outside the country since 2012, and thus analyses the rich nexus between revolution and displacement.

Ethnographic timespace

When I left Gaziantep in autumn 2019, the Syrian revolution was largely overshadowed by descriptions and analyses of what was called a ‘civil war’, a ‘never-ending conflict’ and a ‘humanitarian crisis’.° In this book I invite the reader to go back to a different timespace. This is an ethnography of a clearly bounded period of the Syrian revolution and its associated displacement: a moment that has now disappeared, a moment characterised by hope and a sense of community among Syrian revolutionaries and the displaced. The fieldwork for this research is inscribed in a context of ongoing war inside Syria and displacement of its people to neighbouring countries. It cut across different phases of the revolutionary process: from a peaceful revolution (2011) to a proxy war and mass displacement (2015), and from local victories of the FSA and the establishment of liberated areas (2012) to the regime’s taking over most liberated areas (2016). This moving landscape forms both the ethnographic and analytical background of the book.

For most of my interlocutors, the war was however part of the revolutionary process, and displacement was perceived as an unforeseen consequence of the revolution’s repression. Hence, in speaking of al-thawra (revolution) I stick to my interlocutors’ use of this term to describe the unfolding events. This book does not therefore attempt to speak about all Syrians but rather focuses on Syrian revolutionaries who fled to the city of Gaziantep in southern Turkey when the peaceful protests that broke out in March 2011 were violently repressed by the Assad regime, and who were later forced to flee the country as the revolution became armed and its actors were targeted not only by the regime and later by Daesh (also known in the West as ISIS), other Islamist factions, and the Kurdish Democratic Union Party, or PYD (along with its armed wing, the People’s Defense Units, or YPG).

This book’s main argument is that despite the revolution’s overall defeat — that is, the Assad regime was not overthrown at the scale of the state — revolution survives its defeat in the present in exile. Throughout its ethnographic exploration, the Syrian revolution appears as a process that has a powerful and lasting impact on all aspects of Syrians’ lifeworld: it is an ongoing and unfinished process that has deep roots in the local and regional histories and that is conceptualised as espousing a cyclical rather than a linear temporality. In this sense, al-thawra does not fit classic definitions of revolution that are inherited from the European Enlightenment philosophy and historiography (see Ghamari-Tabrizi 2015; Trouillot 1995)*.

Revolutions have indeed been classically defined, according to a model of before-and-after, as a historical rupture that leads to a new political order and temporal cycle because of a change in political regime -the ancient regime is replaced by a new one (see Arendt 1965; Koselleck 1985). Such a definition therefore glosses over the transformative potential of apparently defeated and failed revolutions. Because of such definitions, failed or defeated revolutions end up in history’s dustbin. The ethnographic enquiry of the Syrian revolution thus calls to an expanding of our conceptual framework and methodological tools? to fully grasp what revolution, and in particular a defeated one, is and can be.°

Arguing that revolutionary transformations outlast revolution’s defeat, this book maps out the ruptures (intended changes) and disruptions (unexpected shifts) that the revolution engendered beyond what is usually defined as the political field: within the self, in the intimate sphere of the home, in Syrians’ everyday lives, social relations, and sense of time, and in their experience of Islamic cosmology, thereby shifting the analytical focus to the revolution’s long-lasting and in-depth consequences.’ Revolution becomes a multi-layered and multidimensional entity: it affects Syrian lifeworlds in all domains and scales. These very transformations are themselves being interpreted in ways that evolve as Syrians’ theorisations, experiences, and imaginations of al-thawra (the revolution) are themselves being transformed. This book has thus two overall aims: the location of the traces of the early stage of the 2011 revolution through my interlocutors’ narratives, memories, activities and artefacts; and the mapping of the transformations that revolutionary moment, space and experience create in exile.

Bashar’s Syria: a reign of terror, atrocity and abjection

Syria has been under the rule of the Assad family since 1970, when Hafez al-Assad led a successful putsch within the Baath ruling party. It was initially a pan-Arabic socialist party that was founded in 1947 with the goal of overthrowing European-backed governments in the Middle East. The ‘Baathist revolution’ (1963) led to important reforms such as the democratisation of education, the development of modern media, the wave of nationalisations (banks, industrial companies, natural resources and so on), and agrarian reforms (such as the limitation of land property) that privileged the impoverished peasantry and working class over big landowners and the merchant bourgeoisie. The rural and urban proletariat soon became disappointed, however, as Baathist politics largely benefited the new state bourgeoisie composed of civil servants (Picard 1980).

After his coup, Hafez’s ‘corrective movement’, Syria was built as a Baathist populist state dominated by Alawi officers (members of the Alawite minority, a sect that is usually considered to be an offshoot of Shi’ism) in a country predominantly Sunni: the regime was a ‘presidential monarchy’ supported by Alawi clients who were in charge of key military and intelligence machinery (Picard 1980). The political system, based on the control of one man, created an authoritarian regime that ruled the country with a strong secret service. Moreover, with the state of emergency, in place since Hafez’s accession to power, an authoritarian rule based on the three branches of the security services, the army and the Baath party (Ziadeh 2014), the Assads managed to build a regime structured to prevent military coups (Munif 2020: 14). The state of emergency allowed the Assad regime to act outside the legal framework and to incarcerate thousands of opponents and dissidents throughout its reign.

Bashar al-Assad came to power on his father’s death in the summer of 2000, raising hopes that he would implement economic and political reforms that would bring more freedom. He instigated liberalising reforms of the country’s economy, destabilising its traditional social base of the working and lower-middle classes (farmers, industrial workers and civil servants) as the state abandoned its protective role, disinvested in public services, and stopped its support for development. This simultaneously led to the emergence of a growing upper-middle class made up of businessmen and entrepreneurs who supported the regime; on the political level, the regime’s reforms led to an ‘authoritarian upgrading’ (Hinnebusch and Imady 2018b). The violence and the arbitrariness of the Assad carceral system, already visible since the 1980s, continued to spread through the 1990s and 2000s (Ziadeh 2014; see also Al-Khalili 2021).

The memory of the 1982 Hama massacre was omnipresent in most of my interlocutors’ recalling of the uprising, and so were the memories of arbitrary arrest, detention and killing since then (see Chapter 1). Virtually all of my interlocutors had either been arbitrarily arrested and subjected to state violence, or had relatives who were. Aleppo and Hama were the two main scenes of the revolt that started with targeted assassinations of Alawi soldiers, officers, and university professors, among others. In 1979, a member of the Muslim Brotherhood killed 32 Alawi students of the Aleppo artillery school; in 1981 there was an assassination attempt against Hafez al-Assad (Saouli 2018). The army was sent to Aleppo and Hama in order to stop the insurgency.

This resulted in the death of over 20,000 people as the army besieged the city of Hama and almost erased it from the map, using heavy weaponry against the population (Al-Sarraj 2011; Chatty 2018; Coquio et al. 2022). Thereafter, a crackdown on Syria’s opposition — mainly the Muslim Brotherhood and other dissident political parties: the Nasserist, non-aligned Baath and later the Communist Party Political Bureau (al-maktab al-syassi), among others — led to hundreds of arrests and to the massacre of hundreds of unarmed political prisoners, detained in the infamous Tadmor prison, by special forces sent in to kill them.®

Revolution in/and displacement

It is in this history of mass political violence and repression of any political dissent that the 2011 revolution and its aftermaths have to be seized. There are many ways in which the Syrian revolution’s beginning is recounted. In this introduction, I present one of its most widespread versions while I discuss the variations in this story —its historicisation and contextualisation — by my interlocutors in Chapter 1.

The Syrian revolution is said to have started when protests erupted in the southern city of Deraa on 18 March 2011? after children were arrested and tortured by security forces in the city for having written on their school’s walls: ‘The people want the fall of the regime’, and, ‘It’s your turn next doctor’, echoing Tunisian and Egyptian slogans (see for instance

Chatty 2018; Ruiz de Elvira Carrascal 2014). The protests were immediately met with high levels of violence as the regime deployed security forces and soldiers in Deraa and other Syrian cities where protests were taking place. They were soon to be joined by snipers and tanks, locking down cities and districts that were rebelling and shelling them from the first months of the uprising leading to the killing of at least eight thousand civilians in the first year.

The protests quickly grew in size, reaching four hundred thousand protestors in Hama in July 2011, and started to move from peripheral to central cities. The militarisation of the uprising marked a turn in July 2011 when the Free Syrian Army (FSA) was created by regime army defectors joined by armed protestors. From November 2012, the armed conflict was no longer limited to rebels vs the regime as the rebels and YPG were fighting over the border city of Ras al-Ayn. In the winter of 2013, the rebels were successful in Damascus’s suburbs and seized Raqqa in March. In April 2013 Daesh (ISIS) was created in Syria as the al-Nusra Front split between it and the organisation now pledging allegiance to al-Qaeda. From January 2014 the rebels and Daesh started an open war with each other, and the latter took Raqqa. The armed conflict turned into a proxy war with the US making its first airstrike against Daesh in September 2014. Foreign states also armed the opposition: the US trained and armed Syrian rebel groups from January 2015 onwards, while Jaysh al-Fatah was backed by Turkey, Qatar, and Saudi Arabia. In December 2015 France and the UK formed a coalition with the US and started bombing Daesh in Syria. The Russian army began its intervention in Syria in September 2015, allegedly shelling Daesh but in fact targeting ‘moderate’ rebel forces in opposition-held areas.