Inside Syria's 'Republic of Fear'

A man at the summit of the security establishment loathed the party supposedly entrusted with "leading the state and society". His contempt for the party did nothing to threaten his place at the heart of the regime, so long as his loyalty rested with the man who ruled it.

Could one imagine a security chief of such standing in North Korea, the Soviet Union or another totalitarian state rejecting a symbol of the ruling party and openly declaring his hatred of it? The comparison raises a question about the party's function in Syria. How much of it remained an ideological movement, and how much had become a façade for power exercised through other relationships?

Inherent dichotomy

One could hate the Baath and still serve al-Assad. The party filled the streets with slogans, while the standing of officials was measured by their proximity to 'Mr President', who also bore the title of 'Regional Secretary'. Ideology was for public consumption; personal trust was reserved for those admitted behind closed doors. There, the comrades understood that a party membership card could never open the doors unlocked by a signal or a 'directive' from above. And Ali Duba knew precisely how much such a signal was worth.

Another account recalls that, under Hafez al-Assad, the National Security Bureau held regular meetings chaired by Abdul Raouf al-Kasm, bringing together senior officials from the intelligence services, the Baath Party and the government. At that time, Ali Duba served as head of Military Intelligence. He was not the highest-ranking official in the room, but he wielded the greatest power, thanks to the backing he enjoyed from above and his sectarian affiliation. No meeting would begin until he arrived. If he was late, everyone waited. The chairman and the other members had their allotted seats; Duba held their time hostage. He had no need to sit at the head of the table for everyone to know where the real power lay.

One day, Duba arrived late to find the meeting already underway. He knew something had changed. Nobody in that room would have dared, on his own authority, to end Duba's privilege of keeping everyone waiting. What had happened before he entered was a message intended for him. For the others, the decision to proceed in his absence was permission to recognise the new limits of his power. His title remained unchanged. What had changed was his standing with 'the Master'. He could now measure that distance in the minutes during which others had spoken without him. He took his seat, and the meeting continued with Duba in his new role.

The timing of meetings, the order in which officials enter a room, the tone of a greeting, the wait that is prolonged or abruptly dispensed with: these are details that men in high office learn to read, for what goes unwritten may matter more than anything contained in official decisions or statements. Yet for all his power, Duba himself remained under surveillance. He was expected to report on his rivals, while his fellow intelligence chiefs were instructed to send Assad reports on his movements, travels and gambling, both at home and abroad.

'The Master'

The reports flowed from different agencies and converged at the palace. Each man knew something about his colleagues, without knowing what they knew about him. When suspicion arose, 'the Master' was the man they turned to, both for answers and for protection. The deeper the divisions among his men, the greater their dependence on him.

In such a world, the boundaries of fear and the limits of loyalty were difficult to draw. Fear began in the prison cell, passed through the office, crept into the homes of the powerful, coursed through telephone lines and settled like rust upon the walls. Positions differed, as did the price each man might pay. Yet a sense of security eluded even those who deprived others of it and planted fear in their hearts.

In a care home for the elderly in Damascus lived a retired officer, a solitary man who had devoted his life to the regime. He lavished praise upon it, fearful that his professions of loyalty might not be believed. His years had passed, and his rank had faded, yet the ordeal of proving his allegiance never ended. There was always another declaration to make, greater fervour to display, some fresh proof that he remained the man he was expected to be.

Into old age he carried an inner censor, forever listening for a lapse in his voice. He had planted that censor in the hearts of others, only to find it firmly lodged in his own. Nobody needed to demand more of him. He demanded it of himself, fearful that everything he had given might still fall short of what was required. He had come to fear himself. "I am afraid they will not believe me," he told a visitor.

In George Orwell's Animal Farm, the commandments are rewritten to accommodate the privileges of the rulers. In Syria, many of the words remained on display while life beneath them changed. A republic passed down by inheritance. A ruling party despised by some of the most powerful guardians of its own regime. Institutions whose officials waited upon a man who did not even chair their meetings. A state whose resources and institutions could scarcely be disentangled from the affairs of the ruling family.

Al-Assad did not invent fear. He planted it deep in the country's soil and cultivated an immense network of it in the hearts of its people. He bestowed power upon his men while keeping the keys in his own hands. An officer could order thousands of Syrians thrown into prison, or have them put to death, yet could never be certain that the door to his own office would remain open to him.

An officer's fear of losing his position bears no comparison with a prisoner's fear for his life. Hanging up a telephone cannot be equated with extinguishing a life, nor can the fear of listening devices hidden behind colleagues' walls be compared with the terror of an innocent person cast into a cell. To expose the executioner's anxieties is no absolution of his crimes. It reveals how his brutality and submission helped sustain the regime's methods, piling up heaps of skulls and carving rivers of torment.