Wednesday 25 july 2012
Its surreal reporters say about Syria. A woman takes a ride through the empty streets in an open red car, while a battle rages in the background. She shrugs, ‘it is nothing; life goes on just a
few bullets, I do not mind being killed, what is there to live for as long as Bashar is inside Syria. ‘She shows me her Kalashnikov, ‘Fully loaded, will fight to the end.’ She gives me a thumbs
up and moves away leaving a thick cloud of dust.
It is hard to accept this iron in the soul of the rebels. They think nothing of death. Bashar has to go. The rebels are sick of living in fear of Bashar’s goons. They want a free Islamic republic
right now. I run for cover behind a pillar as bullets trace towards me sending pebbles into the air like bouncing raindrops.
It is a dream I am sure. I have wandered in through an unmanned border post from Turkey. I have to see for myself the cruelty of the Assad family that I have been writing about. A fluttering
Syrian flag welcomes me. People are driving across into Turkey in big SUVs leaving a dusty trail.
I drive through Medan on my old Gahiba motorbike. I have surely walked into a Hollywood set making a movie about a raid in Afghanistan. But the people are dressed different. They wear westernized
clothes. A rebel Army checkpost allows me through after nearly shooting me dead with machine gun fire. I get the V sign at many places followed by ‘Allah ho Akbar’ meaning God is great.
I am tired and hungry. I keep driving through villages and small towns. Some are unharmed and look as if the war has passed them by. I see a thick cloud ahead of me. I get off the road quickly
and hide behind a broken wall. A convoy passes me by. Four tanks and an armored car. The snout of one tank swings and points toward where I am hiding and lets loose a shell. It is a dud it hits
the wall and sticks in it like a fat arrow. I kick my motorbike into power and zoom off scared out of my wits.
Nearly a kilometer away I halt and look back in curiosity. It is as if it were ordained. A helicopter descends. A tall drunken man gets out and begins to piddle against the wall. It is Bashar. He
has taken to excessive drinking and circles Syria in a helicopter fearing for his life on the ground. He only comes down for refueling, food and going to the toilet. I take out my super-powered
laser bullet gun and aim through the telescope. I hit the base of the shell stuck in the wall and it explodes. A big cloud of dust rises into the sky and out of it I see a strange object launches
itself and loops in a big arc in the sky and falls at my feet. It is Bashar’s head.
I have killed Bashar. I jumped up in glee and hit my head on the roof of the train. I was travelling to my next post as a travelling salesman.
That really was sure real surreal.
Posted in: Syria--Bashar the Butcher