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.
Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Danila Tkachenko
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Ruin porn: the art world’s awkward obsession with abandoned Soviet architecture

Deserted fairgrounds, disused factories and forgotten military bases may look cool, but are we fetishising the remnants of such a cruel history?

Armenia, where one side of my family is from, was one of the first members of the USSR, annexed by Russia in 1922. A few years ago, when I visited this little country that perches precariously in the south of the Caucasus, I was struck most by its Soviet architecture.

Although its landscape is a hotchpotch of medieval Orthodox churches, a smattering of Persian-era domes, and brutalist concrete, it was the latter that particularly stuck out. From unfelled statues of Stalin to giant tower blocks spelling out the letters “CCCP” from a bird’s-eye view (well, half spelt-out – construction stopped partway through, with the fall of the Soviet Union), I’ve never forgotten it.

Perhaps it was so compelling because such stark physical symbols make recent history all the more tangible. A history still profoundly affecting the country of my ancestors (and all post-Soviet and communist states). But also, it just looked really cool.


Mixed air corps, Mongolia. Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Eric Losito

It’s a bit passé now to mock the hipster obsession with reclaimed industrial detritus, exposed pipes and bare concrete. An aesthetic – that of a post-industrial wasteland, but a chic one – which has gripped western cities for years, and crept worldwide.

But it could be this tendency to find disused stuff visually intriguing, and a morbid fascination with cruel regimes, which has led to the art world’s obsession with abandoned Soviet architecture. A whole wave of artists and photographers have been poking around the eastern bloc’s architectural graveyard in recent years.

Late last year, we saw the hugely popular disused Soviet bus stop series by photographer Christopher Herwig, echoing photographer Sergey Novikov’s equally absorbing collection of abandoned Soviet cinemas from 2013.

Following Russian filmmaker and photographer Maria Morina’s “Atomic Cities” project four years ago, London-based artist Nadav Kander explored the “aesthetics of destruction” in his exhibition, Dust, in 2014, snapping “radioactive ruins” of secret cities on the border between Kazakhstan and Russia. The same year, Moscow photographers Sasha Mademuaselle and Sergey Kostromin travelled to the disputed region of Abkhazia, capturing fragments of its deserted infrastructure.


Fighter aviation regiment, Mongolia. Photo: Eric Losito
 

And photojournalist Anton Petrus’ now iconic pictures of Chernobyl’s abandoned amusement park have long been an internet favourite, as have numerous haunting images of Pripyet – the city famous for lying deserted following the nuclear disaster.

Jamie Rann, a lecturer in Russian at Oxford University, has written that the quality and technical accomplishment of most of this photography make the style more “ruin erotica” than “ruin porn” (the tag being used by some critics), but argues: “The enormous online popularity of this genre . . . combined with their voyeuristic, almost exploitative feel, certainly has something porny about it.”

The latest exploration of Soviet society’s skeletons can be found at the Power & Architecture season at London’s Calvert 22 Foundation. In an exhibition called Dead Space and Ruins, we see abandoned military bases and formerly mighty monuments, forgotten space ports freezing in the tundra, the ghost of an entire unused, unfinished city in Armenia lying derelict.



The unfinished "ghost city" built in Armenia to house earthquake survivors (water added by artist). Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Vahram Aghasyan

The works are beautiful, but do they feed in to this zeitgeisty lust for Soviet ruins?

One of its curators, Will Strong, laments this trend. “I was keen that this didn’t become like a kind of ‘ruin lust’, ‘ruin porn’ thing; this slightly buzzwordy term that there is at the moment, this kind of fetishisation of dead space,” he tells me.

“This history is incredibly loaded, and it did not end in 1991. To sort of fetishise it in the very bourgeois western way of, ‘oh yeah, look at all this wonderful Soviet architecture, isn’t it fantastic?’ Obviously a lot of people who lived in that time hated it . . . a lot of people were very miserable under these regimes, so it’s important not to forget that.”


Gym at the Independent Radar Centre of Early Detection, Latvia. Photo: Eric Losito

He adds: “It’s more a point of reflection on how buildings were designed, what their legacy is, what their narrative is, and who the people are who live with that story. This show looks at the aftermaths of when utopia hasn’t been delivered.”

This view is echoed by the Moscow artist, Danila Tkachenko, whose work is featured in the exhibition. “It is rather a metaphor for the future, not the past,” he says. “It represents an image of a possible future. When there is a visualisation of this issue [utopia], it evokes a response in people; they see this utopia in their lives . . . There is disappointment in all utopias.”


The world's largest diesel submarine, in Russia's Samara region. Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Danila Tkachenko

His Restricted Areas series explores great behemoths of European communism left to lie forgotten in the tundra of remote regions in and around Russia and Kazakhstan: the world’s largest diesel submarine, like a beached whale in the snow; a giant satellite, thatched with antennae, built to communicate with Soviet bases on other planets some day; the deserted flying saucer-like communist headquarters in a region of Bulgaria. The structures hover in blank, white space, making the photos appear black-and-white.


Deserted observatory, Kazakhstan's Almaty region. Photo: Danila Tkachenko
 

Anton Ginzburg is an artist who grew up in St Petersburg in the Eighties as the Soviet Union was disintegrating. He believes studies like his film, Turo, of disused modernist constructions in the post-Soviet bloc, appeal to people’s connection to history. After all, picking through the architectural carcasses of former societies isn’t exactly a new thing:

“Russian culture is still haunted by its Communist past, and constructivist architecture is a decaying shell for its ghosts. It is an active reminder of the recent history,” he reflects. “Perhaps [its appeal] is a mixture of memento mori, with its thrill of beauty and destruction, along with a Romantic tradition of contemplation of Greek and Roman ruins.”

(Anton Ginzburg Turo teaser from Visionaireworld on Vimeo.)

The Power & Architecture season is on at the Calvert 22 Foundation, London, from 10 June-9 October 2016. Entry is free.

Anoosh Chakelian is deputy web editor at the New Statesman.