A doctor's letter from the besieged Syrian city of Homs

A Syrian surgeon describes his struggles to treat the wounded in Homs and calls on the international community to intervene.

I am a doctor working under siege in Homs, performing surgical operations in a basic hospital set up in an underground basement. The conditions in this field hospital are very bad, and it is especially hard to keep the hospital sterile. We have only basic surgical equipment and expired anaesthetic medication to treat the wounded. Patients who need blood transfusions are given blood directly from donors, and it is transfused without medical screening.

It has been five hundred days since a siege was imposed on Homs by Assad’s forces. Over 500,000 people have fled or died, but 3,000 people are still living here. Among the 400 families still here, most of the remaining family members are women, children and old people, and the injured who cannot move. These thousands of women, children, elderly and wounded survivors of this war are being denied access to the basic necessities of life.

For the past year and a half, this has been our life here: we have to drink from polluted wells and wash in sewage water. Food is restricted to lentils and bulgur wheat, and has been for months. There is no flour or milk or any kind of meat because of this siege.

We eat leaves and rotten rice. We have had no electricity for 500 days. We don't even have baby milk due to the siege. I see babies’ mothers who cannot breastfeed them due to stress and malnutrition: infants who should be healthy are starving and dying.

As for my job as a surgeon, we must transport patients through gaps in the walls across the neighbourhood because there are snipers outside. People move between neighbourhoods through underground tunnels. Many of the injured have died because it has been impossible to reach them. Our small medical facilities are frequently targeted, which has forced us to move our operations many times. 

Of the patients we see and treat, many initially improve after surgery but then die a slow death during recovery because of poor nutrition and the lack of serums to keep them hydrated. Those who do survive often experience poor wound healing as a result of medical shortages. 

Homs, my city, was one of the first places in Syria that hosted a UN delegation before the siege. The people of Homs gave them their best hospitality. My people stood in the streets risking their lives, all to get their voice heard. They are still waiting, five hundred days later.

We need to get this important message out and call upon the world’s media, the UN, NGOs and politicians to help break this slow killer, this inhuman siege. If you keep Assad in place, do not bother about withdrawing chemical weapons because at least, given the alternatives I see, it is a merciful way to die.

Please help us. Get us the deliveries of food and medicine that we need to survive, this is our basic human right. Does anyone hear the screams of women and children or feel the pain of the injured? Your brothers and sisters in the besieged neighbourhoods of Homs are right now screaming for your help. I hear them all the time. Isn't there any reply?

Dr Mosab is a surgeon in Homs. We have not used his full name to protect his identity.

 

The Syrian flag flying next to destruction in the Baba Amr neighbourhood of Homs in May 2012. Photo: Getty.
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France is changing: an army stalks the streets and Boris Johnson wanders the Tuileries

Will Self on the militarisation of France, and Boris Johnson at the Foreign Office.

At the corner of the rue D’Hauteville and the rue de Paradis in the tenth arrondissement of Paris is a retro-video-games-themed bar, Le Fantôme, which is frequented by some not-so-jeunes gens – the kind of thirtysomethings nostalgic for an era when you had to go to an actual place if you wanted to enter virtual space. They sit placidly behind the plate-glass windows zapping Pac-Men and Space Invaders, while outside another – and rather more lethal – sort of phantom stalks the sunlit streets.

I often go to Paris for work, and so have been able to register the incremental militarisation of its streets since President Hollande first declared a state of emergency after last November’s terrorist attacks. In general the French seem more comfortable about this prêt-à-porter khaki than we’d probably be; the army-nation concept is, after all, encrypted deep in their collective psyche. The army was constituted as a revolutionary instrument. France was the first modern nation to introduce universal male conscription – and it continued in one form or another right up until the mid-1990s.

Even so, it was surprising to witness the sang-froid with which Parisians regarded the camouflaged phantoms wandering among them: a patrol numbering eight ­infantrymen and women moved up the roadway, scoping out doorways, nosing into passages – but when one peered into Le Fantôme, his assault rifle levelled, none of the boozing gamers paid the least attention. I witnessed this scene the Saturday after Mohamed Lahouaiej-Bouhlel ran amok on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice – it was a little preview of the new state of emergency.

On Monday 18 July the French premier, Manuel Valls, was booed at a memorial service for the victims of the Nice attacks – while Marine Le Pen has been making all the populist running, whipping up anxieties about the enemy within. For many French, the events of the past week – including the failed Turkish coup – are steps along the way limned by Michel Houellebecq in his bestselling novel Submission; a via dolorosa that ends with La Marianne wearing the hijab and France itself annexed by a new caliphate.

Into this febrile drama comes a new player: Boris Johnson, the British Foreign Secretary. What can we expect from this freshly minted statesman when it comes to our relations with our closest neighbour? There is no doubt that Johnson is a Francophile – I’ve run into him and his family at the Tuileries, and he made much of his own francophone status during the referendum campaign. In Paris last winter to launch the French edition of his Churchill biography, Johnson wowed a publication dinner by speaking French for the entire evening. He was sufficiently fluent to bumble, waffle and generally avoid saying anything serious at all.

Last Sunday I attended the Lambeth Country Show, an oxymoronic event for which the diverse inhabitants of my home borough gather in Brockwell Park, south London, for jerked and halal chicken, funfair rides, Quidditch-watching, and “country-style” activities, such as looking at farm animals and buying their products. Wandering among ancient Rastafarians with huge shocks of dreadlocks, British Muslims wearing immaculate white kurtas blazoned with “ASK ME ABOUT ISLAM” and crusty old Brixton punks, I found it quite impossible to rid my mind of the Nice carnage – or stop wondering how they would react if armed soldiers were patrolling, instead of tit-helmeted, emphatically unarmed police.

I stepped into the Royal Horticultural Society marquee, and there they were: the entire cast of our end-of-the-pier-show politics, in vegetable-sculpture form and arrayed for judging. There was Jeremy Corbyn (or “Cornbin”) made out of corncobs – and Boris Johnson in the form of a beetroot, being stabbed in the back by a beetroot Michael Gove. And over there was Johnson again, this time rendered in cabbage. The veggie politicians were the big draw, Brixtonians standing six-deep around them, iPhones aloft.

The animal (as opposed to the vegetable) Johnson has begun his diplomatic rounds this week, his first démarches as tasteless and anodyne as cucumber. No British abandonment of friends after Brexit . . . Coordinated response to terror threat . . . Call for Erdogan to be restrained in response to failed coup . . . Blah-blah, whiff-whaff-waffle . . . Even someone as gaffe-prone as he can manage these simple lines, but I very much doubt he will be able to produce rhetorical flourishes as powerful as his hero’s. In The Churchill Factor: How One Man Made History, Johnson writes of Winnie overcoming “his stammer and his depression and his ­appalling father to become the greatest living Englishman”. Well, I’ve no idea if Bojo suffers from depression now but he soon will if he cleaves to this role model. His Churchill-worship (like so many others’) hinges on his belief that, without Churchill as war leader, Britain would have been ground beneath the Nazi jackboot. It may well be that, with his contribution to the Brexit campaign, Johnson now feels he, too, has wrested our national destiny from the slavering jaws of contingency.

Of course the differences between the two politicians are far more significant: Johnson’s genius – such as it is – lies in his intuitive understanding that politics, in our intensely mediatised and entirely commoditised era, is best conceived of as a series of spectacles or stunts: nowadays you can fool most of the people, most of the time. This is not a view you can imagine associating with Churchill, who, when his Gallipoli stratagem went disastrously wrong, exiled himself, rifle in hand, to the trenches. No, the French people Johnson both resembles and has an affinity for are the ones caught up in the virtual reality of Le Fantôme – rather than those patrolling the real and increasingly mean streets without. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt