More than a number: Benjamin argues that we can't escape the facts of ageing. Photo: Muir Vidler
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Marina Benjamin: what it means to be a woman aged 50

As she prepares for her 50th birthday, the author and journalist reflects on what it means to be “middle-aged” – and on a journey she knows never ends well.

Life’s defining moments do not always announce themselves with the fanfare of celebration (big birthdays, weddings) or trauma (puberty, divorce). Sometimes they’re like stealth bombers; they come out of nowhere and blow up things soundlessly. Two years ago I experienced just such a moment in the middle of the night. I woke up wanting to go to the bathroom and swung out of bed to stand up. I took a single step in the right direction, then fell to the floor like a plank.

There was the blunt thud of skull hitting wood and the slap of impact that split open the skin on my brow bone. My husband leapt out of bed to put the light on, alert as if the crash had been an intruder. By this time I’d managed to sit up. Blood was dripping from my eye on to my hand and I could feel the throb of nascent swellings at my ankle, hip and shoulder. I remember thinking: “This is the kind of game-changing fall that happens to old people” – bone-breaking, concussion-inducing – not to women in their late forties. I swallowed a couple of painkillers, cleaned myself up and went back to sleep. The following day my eye-socket was a reddish-purple golf ball, lids glued into a slit, and my whole body ached.

In itself, the fall was banal. A clear-cut case of somnambulism; my mind had been awake enough to formulate a conscious intention but the neural pathways of my motor system still slumbered. That day and the next I stayed home, unwilling to suffer people staring. I nursed some angry bruises; but thereafter I got on with things as if nothing had happened.

Looking back, I recognise that the fall registered much deeper. It was sloppy and uncontrolled, as if I were a marionette and someone else, someone malicious, the string-puller. I was a mere player, a pawn, a flimsy vessel bobbing on choppy seas. Worse, like some bizarre prefiguring of my future life, my fall seemed to contain within it every other fall I would henceforth suffer.

From that instant on, I’ve never regained an absolute trust that my body will automatically fall into line with my will: from now on it will falter and fail. I can no longer depend on it to function properly. This, it seems to me, is solid indication that my youth has ended and middle age begun.

These days, when we are persistently told that age is all in the mind, that 40 is the new 30, and 50 the new 40; when entire wings of the cosmetics and medical industries are dedicated to rolling back the effects of passing time; when women are giving birth to first children in their late forties and fifties; when we are all, men and women alike, living healthily for longer, working later and shunning the putting out to pasture we once happily greeted as “retirement”; why, when such things are the new norms, would anyone elect themselves to membership of that most undesirable of clubs, the middle-aged? Shouldn’t I just dismiss my fall as an accident? I still run five kilometres three or four times a week. I work and I parent. I switch and click between being a wife, daughter, mother and friend. I am nowhere near the end of my productive life, as a writer or anything else. And yet I know as surely as day is not night that one season of my life has ended and another begun.

You might ask how I know, indeed, how anyone knows when they’ve arrived at middle age. I’ll admit that it remains fuzzy as to whether middle age qualifies as a biologically distinct phase of life (one that comes with its own neurological and biochemical map) or is just a label we give to a period of mental adjustment that helps us accommodate vague feelings of loss. Then again, perhaps it is merely a socio-cultural construction, no more trustworthy than any marketing category: a shorthand way of dividing people up by their attitudes and lifestyle choices?

When the term “middle age” came into general use in the late 19th century, it was principally in a socio-economic setting. Empire and industrialisation had expanded and enriched the middle classes, and women who had finished raising children could enjoy another decade or two of vigour and relevance. Middle age was actually admired: these women were mature, worldly creatures who had, as the modern saying goes, “freedom to” as well as “freedom from”. The negative tarnish came with the mass production of the 1920s and the theories of scientific management that underpinned it, sharpening our association of youth with productivity and middle age with decreasing efficiency.

You could argue that middle age is thoroughly overdetermined, as Simone de Beau­voir seemed to suggest in The Coming of Age. Writing in 1970, when she was 62, de Beauvoir pushed back against a quiescent society that expected people to grow more “serene” as they grew older. With measured eloquence, she wheeled in whole bodies of literature and philosophy to swat down this idea of resigned acceptance. Instead, she argued, we should accommodate old age through a process of continual, consciously engaged modification. “Life is an unstable system in which balance is continually lost and continually recovered,” she wrote.

This chimes with my sense that we shift this way and that – sometimes literally, as with my fall – before correcting for overzealousness or caution. Though de Beauvoir was writing more about old age than middle age, her labelling of bodily decline, economic redundancy and social marginalisation as important parameters in defining how we age fits with the idea that entering middle age is a kind of subjective reckoning. I’m picturing a Venn diagram that captures the intersection of de Beauvoir’s three factors: middle age is that shady area where the circles overlap. It’s a dappled spot, where the light is fading and the chill of winter starts to set in. The specific age at which we enter this penumbra is different for each of us, but the common quality is a profound sense of alteration and a dawning understanding, dim at first, that there is no point of re-entry to the bright terrain of youth.

In the past year, Penelope Lively, Julia Twigg, Lynne Segal, Anne Karpf, Angela Neustatter and a clutch of their American peers all published books on ageing, attempting to pick up where de Beauvoir left off. These women are a generation older than I am. They’ve been through the wars – menopause, middle age – and emerged unscathed. Now they claim to be wiser, happier, bolder, calmer, more flexible, open and, in some cases, more in touch with youth than before. They offer a relentless good cheer, as if it were permissible to write about late life only by becoming your own superheroine. And they appear to have signed up, one and all, to the delusional idea that you are only as old as you feel.

And it really is delusional. My own mother, youthful in mind as she ever was, would guffaw if, in the face of her ongoing problems with mobility, memory loss and regular if episodic bereavement, I attempted to console her by announcing that 80 was the new 70. In most countries, average life expectancy continues to hover around the late-seventies mark (not far off the Psalmist’s three score and ten) but in developing countries it is much lower. At 82, my mother acknowledges that she’s into borrowed time, like those statistical outliers who live beyond 90 and 100 and skew popular perceptions of this ultimate numbers game. Yes, medicine has increased life expectancy – but not as much, or as broadly, as one might think.

As I gear up to turn 50 this summer what has lodged in my mind is this: that it is a mathematical near-certainty that, with my next birthday, I will have passed the halfway mark. That from now on growing older will be less about marking the age I’ve arrived at than about counting down what is left. At 50 I will quite literally be over the hill; ahead of me, the incline runs downwards. And it doesn’t end well.

Last autumn, some 18 months after my fall, I had a hysterectomy. To be precise, it was a sub-total hysterectomy with bilateral salpingo-oophrectomy. All that’s left is my cervix and I kept that for sentimental reasons. It took weeks to recover from the surgery, during which time I experienced a full-bodied plunge into instant menopause. Joints were popping and bones aching. It was impossible to sleep. Every hour and a half, like clockwork, I’d wake up drenched in sweat, throw off my covers and run to the bathroom window to salute the moon – at least that’s how I now think of my stripped-down attempts at rapid cooling.

A kindly friend put a book called The Wisdom of Menopause into my hands, and I gratefully scurried away to prise out its time-trawled pearls. Sadly, this bestselling book by Christiane Northrup, MD turned out to be an embittered tirade against marriage and family – as if our ties were good only for holding us back, rather than up – and, in the worst tradition of US self-help literature, it was lecturing and strident. More edifying was Jane Shilling’s melancholy and poetic memoir of midlife The Stranger in the Mirror, a book honest enough to acknowledge the effrontery of ageing.

On top of affront, of course, there is grief, bewilderment, alienation, frustration – everything you might associate with being forced to cross a border into a foreign land only to be informed that you can never go back; that your passport has been torn up and your old home ransacked. As a new arrival in this strange nation, I wish to parse the experience before its lessons evaporate or transform. To that end, I have pressed into service oestrogen, my new drug of choice.

Oestrogen is the soft end of age-reversing remedies. It is marketed as “natural” – even though much of it is engineered in the laboratory using horse hormone primers. More slyly, it is billed as a “replacement” therapy not a “supplement”. It replenishes depleted stores, topping up your parched system with nothing more than you already had. Like a debt repaid; you’re entitled to it.

And yet oestrogen’s effects are little short of miraculous. It strengthens nails and bones, boosts energy, lifts libido, makes your skin glow and your hair shine. After taking it for a month, I felt as though I’d been holidaying in Thailand. After two, as if I’d just passed my MOT. And I’ve been evangelising about oestrogen ever since, shamelessly pushing it on friends overcome by fatigue, hot flashes, mood swings and insomnia – friends who, like me, are aghast that instead of gently drifting into midlife, midlife has rudely flung itself at them, exploding like a bag of flour.

Using oestrogen is, however, hallucino­genic. Like taking morphine during labour, it insinuates a languorous pause into an otherwise relentless process. Oestrogen heightens my sense of being at a threshold that demands I make conscious decisions about how to tackle ageing. It is in my power now (for as long as I take the stuff) to call the shots on how rapidly I’m willing to let go of my youth. But what exactly should I do? And where should I draw the line? Choice, however illusory, has entered the equation – and with choice comes temptation.

I can see, for example, how easy it might be to do just a little something. A tiny nip and tuck here, a harmless injection there; a barely noticeable lift, suction or augmentation. These reveries of self-improvement taunt me periodically, though they are quickly checked whenever I come across monstrous images of, say, Madonna, her face distorted by prosthetics or fillers, and the fine line between surgery and butchery is brought home with the thumping finality of a cleaver hitting the block.

Although I can see through such determined resistance to ageing into the inner weakness it betrays, I don’t believe for a minute that the smugness that comes with self-denial is any better – all those go-grey campaigners getting off on feeling superior to women who faff around with hair dye. It’s such a Pyrrhic victory. Unless they ditch their granny-like pieties for the unruly witchiness championed by the likes of Germaine Greer, then I feel they’ve nothing to teach me.

Besides, when I journey down that path of imaginative projection, promising myself I will stop hurling spokes into the spinning dials of my body clock, I find that I’m still far from happy about ageing. I feel unprepared for it. Caught on the hop. Exposed. Most of the time I pretend it isn’t happening, only to be pulled up short by that terrible sense of dissonance occasioned: a) by a chance encounter with a mirror, and b) by friends I haven’t seen in a while, when the unchanging, inner me (source of identity, stability, comfort) is forced to confront a visible exterior that’s been subjected to a Dorian Gray-style makeover.

“You look exactly the same,” a friend I’d not seen in a decade told me recently. “Only fuller.” What stung most was that he did look exactly the same. He didn’t even have the graying temples that supposedly confer “dignity” on middle-aged men. Of course men, accustomed in their prime to greater social and economic power than women, often fall very hard in midlife, not least because there are fewer routes to self-reinvention open to them as they age than reveal themselves to women by way of grandmothering, voluntary work, or the Women’s Institute and its modern analogues of baking, knitting, music or gossip circles. (My mother has developed a whole new eightysomething network through playing bridge, which is a 90 per cent female pursuit, as far as I can tell.)

Lonesome or not, men still manage to remain visible as they age, while women are quietly removed from view, especially in high-visibility professions such as the stage and media. Last year the actress Kristin Scott Thomas was widely reported complaining that in midlife she is no longer seen. “Somehow, you just vanish,” she said. You talk and people affect not to hear you. Or they bump into you in the street. Her disclosure struck terror into the heart of every middle-aged woman I know: if someone as blindingly gorgeous and talented as Scott Thomas could disappear, what hope was there for the rest of us?

The serious point about being invisible is the poverty of viable alternatives. You might think, on the plus side, that if you are beneath regard there is no pressure to conform, or even behave. You can thumb your nose at convention and no one will chide you for it. Like the mischievous old woman in Jenny Joseph’s poem, who promises to rattle her stick along the railings and blow her pension on brandy and fancy gloves, you can make up in midlife for the sobriety of your youth.

But although this – what to call it . . . freedom by omission? – holds out the promise of gay abandon, I’m not convinced that the solution to the painfulness of moving forward is a simple flip into reverse gear. Jenny Joseph’s idealisations of a second childhood (who else but children can be so irresponsible?) are ultimately infantilising. Yet the Loose Women nudge-and-wink alternative of turbocharging sexuality on the other side of fertility feels too much like parody.

The trouble with such attempts to reset the clock is that they play directly into societal pressures that keep women perpetually on the back foot. In our post-industrial society, which demands that we keep redundancy at bay by working ever longer hours for a greater number of years, it becomes imperative to prove that you’re still in the game. That you can keep up with younger colleagues, work nights and weekends. That you can innovate and adapt – else those new brooms will sweep you aside faster than you can say Rip Van Winkle.

I’m not sure how, in this brave new world, where economic efficiency is the true driver behind age-appropriate expectations of how to behave, middle-aged women are supposed to find their way. But I do know that falling is out of the question.

Marina Benjamin is the author of “Rocket Dreams” and “Last Days in Babylon” and is a senior editor on Aeon Magazine. She tweets as @marinab52

This article first appeared in the 08 May 2014 issue of the New Statesman, India's worst nightmare?

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Brothers in blood: how Putin has helped Assad tear Syria apart

The Syrian catastrophe has created the worst humanitarian crisis since the end of the Second World War. And the world watches helplessly as Putin and Assad commit war crimes.

Sometimes we know the names. We know Omran Daqneesh, the five-year-old boy who, covered in mud and dust, was pictured on the back seat of an ambulance in the aftermath of an air attack. We know his name because pictures and a video of him were released on social media and travelled around the world. The outrage that followed was widespread and sincere, the image of the dazed little boy seeming to symbolise the greater plight of the beleaguered residents of Aleppo. But then the moment passed. Few will know that a few days later doctors announced that Omran’s elder brother Ali, who was injured in the same air strike, had died from his injuries. He was ten.

Sometimes we know the names of the babies pulled from the rubble of collapsed buildings – occasionally alive, but often dead; or the names of the children weeping over lost parents; or the women grieving over lost husbands and children; or the elderly simply waiting (and sometimes wanting) to die.

We know Bana Alabed, the seven-year-old girl trapped inside Aleppo whose Twitter account has gone viral in recent weeks. “Hi I’m Bana I’m 7 years old girl in Aleppo [sic],” reads the on-page description. “I & my mom want to tell about the bombing here. Thank you.”

A series of pictures depicts Alabed and her mother, Fatemah, struggling to live as normal a life as possible, one showing the little girl sitting at an MDF desk with a book. Behind her, in the corner, is a doll. “Good afternoon from #Aleppo,” says the caption in English. “I’m reading to forget the war.”

The conflict, however, is never far away. Alabed, whose mother taught her English, has repeatedly tweeted her own fears about dying, followed by stoic messages of defiance whenever the immediate threat of an impending air strike passes. On the morning of 3 October, her words were simply: “Hello world we are still alive.” On 17 October, Fatemah tweeted: “The airstrikes ended in the morning, all the last night was raining bombs.”

But in most cases we never know the names of the victims of air assaults led by Presidents Bashar al-Assad and Vladimir Putin. One of the most haunting images to emerge in recent weeks was that of a mother and child, killed while sleeping in the same bed. The scene had an eerily preserved-in-amber feel to it: a snapshot of snatched lives, frozen in the act of dying. Pictures of ruined buildings and distraught civilians have become routine now, holding our attention briefly – if at all.

As many as 500,000 people are believed to have been killed since the beginning of the Syrian uprising in early 2011. According to a report released in February this year by the Syrian Centre for Policy Research, a further 1.9 million have been wounded. Taken together, those figures alone account for 11.5 per cent of Syria’s pre-revolutionary population. Combine that with the number of Syrians who have been displaced – more than ten million (almost 50 per cent of the population) – and the sheer scale of the disaster becomes apparent.

The conflict has become the worst humanitarian crisis since the Second World War. Today it centres on Aleppo, in north-west Syria, one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world, and a cradle of human civilisation. Various conquerors from the Mongols to the French have fought battles there but none, so it would seem, has been quite as ruthless or committed to the city’s annihilation as Bashar al-Assad.

Aleppo remains the most significant urban centre to have been captured by the anti-Assad rebels, most of whom will (by now) be strongly influenced by an Islamist world-view. Indeed, the most prominent fighting groups on the rebel side are overwhelmingly Islamist in their troop composition and beliefs, a sad marker of Western failures to support secular forces that led the anti-regime resistance in the incipient phases of the uprising.

Yet Aleppo remains too important to fail. Although rebel forces succeeded in capturing only half of the city – the western side remained firmly in the control of the regime – the symbolism of anti-Assad forces holding ground in Syria’s second city (which also served as the country’s economic hub) has buoyed the rebel movement.

Assad is more brazen and bullish than at any other point since eastern Aleppo fell into rebel hands in July 2012. That optimism is born of a strategy that has already worked in other parts of the country where the regime’s troops have slowly encircled rebel-held areas and then sealed them off. Nothing can leave, and nothing can enter. Once the ground forces seal off an area, an aerial campaign of barrel bombs and missile attacks from both Syrian and Russian fighter jets inevitably follows.

To get a sense of just how terrible the aerial campaign has been, consider that the United States accused the Russian air force of potential war crimes when a UN aid convoy was bombed just west of Aleppo last month. It was carrying food and medicines when it was hit. Since then, the UK and France have said that Russia’s bombardment of Aleppo amounts to a war crime.

Putin’s support has come as a boon to Assad ever since Russia formally entered the conflict in September 2015. Despite his administration already using Iranian forces and aligned groups such as the Lebanese Shia militia Hezbollah, rebels had continued to make significant gains throughout the early months of 2015. The most important of these was the capture of Idlib city, 40 miles from Aleppo, which presented Assad with two problems. The first was that it dented the official narrative of revanchist military successes by his forces. The ­second was that it handed the rebels power in a province adjoining Latakia Governorate in the west, where Syria’s Alawites are largely concentrated (Russia has an airbase in an area south-east of the city of Latakia). The Alawites are a heterodox Shia sect to which the Assad family belongs, and which forms the core of their support base.

Keen to reverse these gains – and others made elsewhere – Assad enlisted Putin, given Russia’s long-standing interests in, and ties to, Syria. The Kremlin has long regarded Syria as an important ally, and has served as the country’s main arms supplier for the past decade. There are important assets to preserve, too, such as the Russian naval base in the port city of Tartus on the Mediterranean, which was first established during the Soviet era.

For his part, Putin has felt emboldened by events. The world is changing – not just in the Middle East and North Africa, where the
contours of power continue to be recast, but also closer to home in Ukraine, where the pro-Russian president Viktor Yanukovych was overthrown in 2014.

The West is still haunted by the 2003 invasion of Iraq and has been reluctant to be drawn too deeply into the Syrian War. In 2013, the Assad regime used chemical weapons against its own people. This was a violation of President Barack Obama’s so-called red line against the use of chemical weapons, but no retaliatory action came and there was nothing to prevent the Kremlin from using force to shape events in Syria – as it had done in Ukraine.

All of this has marked a new phase of brutality in a conflict already noted for its barbarism. Civilians who avoid death from combined Russo-Syrian air assaults suffer under Assad’s strategy of “starve or submit”, in which supplies are withheld from besieged areas, slowly choking off those ­inside. It has been used to devastating effect against civilians in towns such as Madaya and in Daraya, on the outskirts of Damascus, both of which fell to government control after being sealed off from the outside world for several years. Such a strategy is not designed to deliver quick victories, however. Consider how the residents of Daraya defied Assad’s forces for four years before capitulating in August 2016.

Assad and his allies (Putin, Iran, Hezbollah) have decided to punish and brutalise, deliberately, civilian populations in rebel-held areas. To invert the famous aphorism attributed to Chairman Mao, they hope to dredge the sea in which the revolutionaries swim. And so, it is the 300,000 residents of eastern Aleppo who must suffer now.




It’s easy to lose track of precisely what is happening in the Syrian War as parcels of land swap hands between rebels and the regime. Assad’s forces first began encircling Aleppo at the start of July this year and succeeded in imposing a siege by the middle of that month, after cutting off the last of two rebel-controlled supply routes into the city. The first was the Castello Road, which leads from the town of Handarat into the north-western part of ­rebel-controlled territory. The second route, via the Ramouseh district (which led into the south-western end of the city), had already been sealed off.

The closure lasted for roughly four to five weeks before the rebels re-established access. Aleppo is too important for them, and the siege has forced various groups to work together in breaking it. The effort was led by Jaish al-Fateh (JaF, the “Army of Conquest”), an umbrella group and command structure for several of the most prominent jihadist and Islamist groups operating in northern Syria. JaF also co-ordinated the Idlib military campaigns. One of its key members is Jabhat Fateh al-Sham (JFS, “the Syrian Conquest Front”), which was previously known as Jabhat al-Nusra (JaN or “the Supporters’ Front”) and was recognised as al-Qaeda’s official chapter in Syria.

Several months before the regime began its assault on Aleppo, rebel groups in the north recognised the deteriorating situation there, stemming principally from Russian air strikes. As a result, al-Qaeda urged the various factions to merge and work together to counteract not just Assad, but also Putin. Even the global leader of al-Qaeda, Ayman al-Zawahiri, issued a speech last May titled “Go Forth to Syria”, in which he called on all fighting groups to unite in order to consolidate their control across the north. This opened the way at the end of July for Jabhat al-Nusra to declare that it was formally severing its links with al-Qaeda. It “rebranded” as Jabhat Fateh al-Sham.

There are two reasons for doing this. The first is to erode partisanship among the Islamist groups, forcing them to set aside differences and narrow their ambitions in favour of the greater goal – in this case, the breaking of the siege of Aleppo, while also deepening rebel control across the north. The second aim of rebranding is to win popular support by portraying themselves as fighting in the service of ordinary civilians.

Groups such as JFS and others are succeeding in both of these goals. Responding to the abandoned and assaulted residents of Aleppo, they have repeatedly demonstrated their commitment to alleviating the humanitarian crisis. Much of their messaging echoes this theme. The group’s English-language spokesman is Mostafa Mahamed, an Egyptian who previously lived in Australia. “[JFS] is deeply embedded in society, made up from the average Syrian people,” he explained on Twitter, after the group decoupled from al-Qaeda. “We will gladly lay down our lives before being forced into a situation that does not serve the people we are fighting for . . . jihad today is bigger than us, bigger than our differences.”

It is indisputable that this ethos of “fighting for the people” has endeared the group to civilians living in besieged areas – even when those civilians don’t necessarily agree with the full spectrum of its religious beliefs or political positions. That goodwill was only reinforced when the group helped break the siege of Aleppo (in which approximately 500 rebels were killed) in August, if only for a few days. Assad reasserted control within a week, and entrapped the residents again in the middle of that month. The rebels are now planning how to break the siege decisively, but have not yet launched a major counteroffensive.




A freelance American journalist and film-maker, Bilal Abdul Kareem, who has reported on rebel movements inside Syria more intimately than most, has found himself among those trapped inside eastern Aleppo since the siege was restored seven weeks ago. “We came here expecting a two- or three-day trip,” he told me during an interview over Skype.

Life inside is becoming insufferable for civilians, Abdul Kareem said; every building is potted and scarred by shrapnel damage. Those whose homes remain standing are the lucky ones. “Your day consists of nothing,” he said. “There’s no work, there’s no fuel, no industrial zone, no food to sell. ­People sit around and chit-chat, drink tea, and that’s all they do.”

Food supplies are already running low, with most people limiting themselves to basics of chickpeas and groats – crushed grains such as oats or wheat. Sealed off from the rest of the world, those inside preoccupy themselves with survival and wait for the next wave of attacks.

It is tempting to ask why the inhabitants of Aleppo did not flee when they had the chance. Indeed, the Assad regime routinely accuses the rebels of preventing civilians from leaving besieged areas, though there is no evidence to support this view. On 17 October Russia and the Syrian regime said they would halt their bombardment for eight hours on 20 October to allow rebels and civilians to evacuate the city.

In truth, what choice do the civilians have? Most do not trust Assad and they are therefore unwilling to move into regime-administered areas. The alternative is to become refugees, with all the uncertainties and trials associated with that. For instance, refugees have found themselves subject to sectarian violence in Lebanon, and they have few opportunities to find employment in Lebanon, Turkey or Jordan, the three countries where most of the fleeing Syrians have found shelter.

For them, merely to exist in rebel territory is an act of defiance, which is precisely why Assad’s forces make no effort to distinguish between combatants and civilians in rebel areas. To be present is a crime.

The effects of this have been devastating. A spokesman for the Syrian American Medical Society told Middle East Eye, an online news portal, that in July, Syrian and Russian jets had hit medical facilities in rebel-held territory every 17 hours.

Only a few hospitals and medical staff remain. The physical conditions are primitive and perilous. Doctors work in makeshift facilities – a former flat, a commercial garage – which makes them unable to provide anything beyond basic emergency care. In-patient facilities are non-existent, not just because of high demand from those newly injured in fresh attacks, but also from fear that the facility itself will be targeted. “People are literally shuffled out of the hospital with IV [intravenous drips] in their arms,” Abdul Kareem says.

The West’s indifference to all this – coupled with its occasional pious pronouncements and diplomatic dithering – has squandered any goodwill Washington might once have had among Syria’s beleaguered civilians. When Sergey Lavrov, Russia’s foreign minister, and John Kerry, the US secretary of state, agreed a ceasefire in September it lasted barely two days because they overlooked the fears of those trapped inside eastern Aleppo.

The deal had stated that no party would try to capture any new territory. That might seem reasonable enough but given that the ceasefire came into effect just days after Assad re-established the siege of Aleppo, those on the inside were being asked, in effect, to acquiesce to their own starvation.

Deprived of food and medication, no one trusted Assad to negotiate access in good faith, especially after he thwarted UN efforts to deliver aid. “People saw it as a conspiracy,” Abdul Kareem told me. Moreover, there were no significant groups inside eastern Aleppo that claimed to have accepted the terms of the ceasefire in the first place. Kerry had negotiated on their behalf without approval and without securing any humanitarian concessions.

“What planet are these people on?” Abdul Kareem asked. “[Do] they think people will turn on their protectors, for people who didn’t do them any good? They look to JFS and Ahrar [Ahrar al-Sham is one of the Islamist groups fighting in JAF]. Western intervention is pie in the sky.”

The rise of these reactionary rebels is a direct result of liberal elements not being strongly supported at any stage in the conflict. Left to fend for themselves, many have deserted their cause. Those who have persisted not only risk the constant threat of being killed by Russo-Syrian bombs, but are also at threat from jihadist elements operating in rebel areas. That much was clear when remnants of the secular opposition protested against the leader of JFS, Abu Mohammed al-Golani, in the southern Idlib town of Maarat al-Nouman earlier this year. Many of those who did were arrested by jihadists and intimidated into silence.

Whereas liberals are fragmented and frayed, the Islamist rebels continue to coalesce into an ever more coherent unit. The overwhelming might of Russian airpower has convinced them of the need to form a united front in order to pool their resources and co-ordinate their efforts. That is one of the reasons why a jihadist group called Jund al-Aqsa (“Soldiers of al-Aqsa”) announced early this month that it was disbanding and being absorbed into JFS.

Herein lies the real story of how Aleppo – and, indeed, Syria itself – has been delivered to the jihadists. A conspiracy of all the external parties has forged a menacing millenarian movement that is embedded in civil society and communities across the north. Whether Aleppo falls or not, the jihadists will endure.

Shiraz Maher is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and a member of the war studies department at King’s College London

Shiraz Maher is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and a senior research fellow at King’s College London’s International Centre for the Study of Radicalisation.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood