In July 2012, the gates of hell opened up in Damascus, and I learned something about what it means to be a revolutionary. It was not the heroic experience one might expect, but something smaller, sadder, and more human. Living in fear drove lovers and friends apart. It did not free us from our flaws. That summer was about a year into Syria's democratic uprising and its violent suppression. Armed militias had begun to battle the national army. I was staying in the studio of my friend Amer, a Christian painter who had quietly resisted the government since long before the uprising. Every night we heard bombs in the distance and gunshots that sounded like firecrackers. The mountain that overlooks the city'where we used to go for coffee shops, hookah bars, and panoramic views'became a military no'go zone. Protests, once daily, skidded to a halt. People were disappearing. Some left the country intentionally; others simply vanished. Security forces began arresting people en masse and...
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