Static imaginations and the possibilities of radical change: reflecting on the Arab Spring

Leaving Damascus in 2007, the experience of living in the city can be crystallised in the last few hours we spent in the Jebel Qasioun district before heading to the airport. Packing at 3 am was a chore: there had been a blackout since the previous evening. Looking out over Damascus, the only spot of bright light on the urban landscape below us was the monolithic Four Seasons hotel, which has its own generators. Most evenings, when looking down on the city from the slopes of Mount Qasioun, the complex pattern of intermittent brownouts and blackouts made the sprawling urban area seem like it was engaged in a dance, except that there was no melodious tune. The lights in various neighbourhoods would fade, then regain brightness as other districts would fade in turn, and other areas of the city would disappear altogether from the urban nightscape as energy flows failed to power lights in those parts of Damascus. We packed by candlelight, and caught a cab. The taxi driver was warm and friendly, representative of our interpersonal interactions with Syrians during our stay. The rear windscreen of the taxi carried on it a frieze of Basel el-Assad’s face. He was the brother of current (at the time of writing) president Bashar el-Assad, and had died in a car crash on his way to the airport in January 1994. His face was emblazoned on car windscreens, buildings and posters. And, as we set out at 3.30 am, the only people to be seen on the streets of the slumbering city seemed to be the ever-present soldiers patrolling empty crossroads, AK-47s slung behind their backs, their glowing cigarette butts visible in the cold night air. Their presence signalled something that had become abundantly clear during our stay: power did not sleep, and it was always watching. It also underlined the resignation we had heard from individuals we talked with, encapsulated in the idea that there was too much control, and that things would never change.