Yesterday there was a carnival atmosphere in Damascus. It had been building along the autostrad for several nights, but come the weekend and day off, the people had time. At midday on Friday the shouts and horns of the shabab (youth) and taxis had become audible at even our out-of-the-way suburb on a hill, and by 11pm at night it seemed not a family in Damascus wanted to be left out of the proceedings. These were to find a car or bike or bus, tape flags and posters/paintings/t-shirts of the President/his father to it, put any lights on (hazard especially good) and drive around with your hand pressed to the horn, with your little girl, hijab tight, leaning as far into the sky as possible waving a Syrian flag. Red lights, always seen as guidelines in Damascus rather than authoratitive rules, became purely another party decoration with no significance. I expected them to flash like the lights in the trees. People walked on the main roads and did 50 km/hr on the tiny little pedestrian ones. Hands were raised in waves and “take a picture” symbols and everyone smiled and young men cheered for their country and leader in between taking draughts of the cigarette they’d lit up on top of the pick-up or coca-cola delivery vehicle. Whole streets were blocked by thousands of Syrians with capacity for endless flag-waving and hours of going nowhere in particular. (Not much change there then!)
Perhaps one of the more memorable sights are the minibus “service taxis” with the Pres taped to both side windows and slap bang in the middle of the windscreen, a flag draped over the back window, leaving just a foot of blinkered vision as they go at breakneck speed. “Oh! That dreadful noise is coming from OUR taxi!”. The flag stores had their heyday.
