Dispatch

The Era of Apathy

After a decade of being treated like children, Russia's electorate is finally finding its voice.

MOSCOW — The scope of the protests that have followed Russia's Dec. 4 parliamentary elections, which protesters claim were rigged, have not only shocked Prime Minister Vladimir Putin and his cohort -- it has shocked the opposition as well. And Kremlin officials have no one to blame but themselves for this swelling protest movement.

The first protests kicked off that Sunday night, following the ballot, with a demonstration of approximately 5,000 to 10,000 people in the central Moscow area of Chistye Prudy. The protest turned ugly when riot police attacked protesters marching toward the Central Electoral Commission building, dispersing demonstrators, sometimes roughly, and detaining people at random. More than 200 of the detained -- including some opposition leaders, journalists, and well-known activists -- were held overnight in crowded cells with no food and no access to lawyers. Administrative trials started the next day, sentencing protesters to 15 days of incarceration, officially for resisting police orders but in fact for merely expressing their discontent with the authorities.

The following days saw more protests against Putin and the ruling United Russia party in Moscow and other large Russian cities. They culminated in a massive rally of over 50,000 people in Moscow's Bolotnaya Square on Dec. 10 (and this is a very conservative assessment, as the opposition is claiming approximately 100,000). The protesters were met with a massive police and military presence -- armored personnel carriers on the ground, roaring helicopters in the sky -- which spoke of potential trouble, but the day passed without a single provocative act by the demonstrators nor a single use of force by the police.

The demonstrators wore white ribbons on their coats, and many carried multicolored balloons and flowers, emphasizing the nonviolent and nonpartisan spirit of the protest. Smiling young women pressed white carnations and chrysanthemums on young uniformed servicemen, and some shyly accepted those gifts of peace, giggling like school kids. Democrats, communists, anarchists, radical lefties, and people with no political convictions chanted: "I'm a citizen of my state!" "We want fair elections!" "Our opinion matters!" That evening, state-owned television channels featured short reports about the massive demonstration. They simply had to.

What caused this extraordinary awakening of Russian citizens, who have previously appeared sullenly acquiescent to the erosion of democracy during the Putin era? Russia's Interior Ministry was quick to blame social networks for "threatening the foundations of the society" and "contributing to the rise in extremist views." Putin, predictably, is blaming everything on Western interference, bashing U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton for supposedly sending a "signal" to the opposition to destabilize Russia. In fact, however, two signature blunders by Putin's own regime served as the trigger for this current round of protests.

First, it all started with President Dmitry Medvedev's revelation on Sept. 24 that Putin would run for the Russian presidency next year, while he would lead United Russia in the parliamentary vote. Putin himself said, "I want to say directly: An agreement over what to do in the future was reached between us several years ago."

Western media and policymakers often explain the lack of pluralism in Russia by pointing to how Russians love Putin's strong rule, his populist machismo. That may be so, but Russians, as the elections this month have shown, have also become increasingly unhappy with more than a decade of so-called "soft" authoritarianism. When Russians heard that what they long suspected was coming true, many felt they had no option but to take to the streets. This frustration alone, though, was probably not enough to convince tens of thousands to gather in Bolotnaya Square for the first time since the stormy 1990s. It was the brazen acknowledgment by the head of government that the decision had actually been made long ago and that the public -- children that they are -- simply hadn't needed to know about it. It was this gross, infantilizing condescension that became the tipping point. The realization that the authorities are not even trying to pretend that public opinion matters, that individual choice matters, that voters have decision-making power, was just too bitter a pill to swallow.

After the parliamentary election results began coming in, the Kremlin made its second painfully obvious mistake. Exit polls for Moscow that showed United Russia's share of the vote at a meager 27 percent miraculously disappeared from the website of the Public Opinion Foundation, a leading polling agency known for its loyalty to the government. While people around the world were watching the protest movement unfold in Moscow, all that Russians could see on federal television were wildlife programs and "nothing's happening" news.

Independent journalists and the public were overwhelmed with disgust. A correspondent of Kommersant FM radio, Stanislav Kucher, addressed Russia's infamously kowtowed broadcast journalists with a stinging rebuke: "Thousands of people are pouring into the streets of both capitals of what's for now our common homeland for the first time in 10 years, to say what they think about the elections. And yet the same television stations that show the president say not a word about the protests -- that's just unprofessional." Kucher added that television people hid "information from millions of people"-- at minimum manipulating their attitude and at maximum disgracing themselves and their profession.

The official information blockade only contributed to the protest mood. More than 35,000 people signed up for the Dec. 10 rally via Facebook, and after the initial hard-line reaction and threats of using brutal force against the protesters, the authorities had to relent. The opposition not only received an official sanction for the demonstration, but the authorities also agreed to provide a "corridor" for those choosing to gather closer to Red Square, so that those protesters could march across the bridge to the other bank of the Moscow River and join the bigger crowd.

So what comes next?

Moscow is no Tahrir, and what's happening in Russia at the moment is not yet a revolution. But Dec. 10 was indeed a historic moment: Thousands of Russians made it clear that they would no longer be ignored. The authorities also realized that hard-line measures and broadcast blockades would only worsen their position and that they must take their critics into account.

The period until the March 4 presidential election is now of paramount importance. Even if Putin does return to the presidency at that time, the powerful voice of discontent played out in the streets and through social media will prove impossible for him to ignore. The era of apathy is officially over.

Andrey Rudakov/Bloomberg

Dispatch

On the Front Line with Syria's Free Army

Along the Turkish border, a ragtag rebel group of Syrian defectors, believers, and volunteers fights for their survival and the future of their country.

AIN AL-BAIDA, SYRIA – The Turkish flag flies next to the green, white, and black standard of the Syrian revolution at a Free Syrian Army (FSA) position above the village of Ain al-Baida. Here, about 150 rebel fighters -- mostly defectors from the Syrian Army -- are situated in concrete and cinderblock houses pockmarked by bullet holes, their weapons pointed across the valley at the Syrian military below.

Ain al-Baida is just across the border from Turkey, in Syria's Idlib governorate. The village is not much more than a small cluster of buildings in a wide valley surrounded by wooded hills. The FSA has spread out across the north of Syria, making it difficult for Syrian security forces to control areas outside the major cities, such as Aleppo.

Syrian President Bashar al-Assad's brutal crackdown on protesters -- over 4,000 Syrians have been killed, according to the United Nations -- has provoked a growing armed resistance to his rule. These insurgents, comprised of defected army soldiers and outraged citizens, are building their military strength from a sliver of territory within Syria. They also rely on an impressive network of supporters inside Turkey to ferry supplies into Syria, deliver messages for senior FSA commanders, and transport wounded fighters and fleeing refugees out of the country.

On Dec. 7, Turkey announced additional sanctions on Syria, including a 30 percent tax on goods arriving from the country. For the past several days, Syria has blocked Turkish trucks from entering, forcing Turkey to look for alternative routes for trade with the Middle East.

The poorly armed fighters challenging Assad's army believe that only an armed uprising stands a chance of toppling the Syrian regime. "We cannot accept our families and friends being killed," said a burly fighter wearing camouflage fatigues and grasping an assault rifle. "We will fight Assad by any weapon, by knife, by gun. We will fight."

Though the FSA claims to be composed of defectors from the Syrian military, this man said he was a civilian volunteer from the town of Jisr al-Shughour, which had been demolished this summer by the Syrian army's infamous Fourth Armored Division, under the control of the president's brother, Maher.

"I have not seen my children and wife for months," he said. "I think they are in Damascus, but I cannot reach them anywhere."

The fighters hold less than half a mile of ground down the hill towards Ain al-Baida, and the Syrian military regularly fires upon them from across the valley. Just last week, one fighter was shot in the shoulder. In September, a 24-year-old refugee named Adelsalam Hassoun was shot in the head by a sniper just after he crossed into Turkey from Ain al-Baida. Yet spirits remain high.

Why does the Syrian military not rocket their position or launch a large-scale assault? The FSA fighters are positioned about a mile from the Turkish border, near enough to escape across if the situation turned dire. They appeared confident that the Syrian military would not risk provoking the Turks by trying to displace them. The Turkish government, which had previously been one of Assad's closest allies, initially gave the Syrian regime several chances to halt its brutal crackdown. After Turkey was rebuffed, its leaders became some of the most prominent international critics of Assad's rule.

But these fighters' confidence in the relative security of their position was shaken on Dec. 5, when the Syrian military opened fire on what the state news agency later claimed was a group of 35 armed men crossing the border from Turkey. The clash, one of the most sustained thus far, began late at night and lasted several hours, according to Abu Nassr, a Syrian smuggler living on the Turkish side of the border who had guided me back into Turkey only hours before.

Another smuggler, Mohammad Ashik, who was on the hill above Ain al-Baida when the clash took place, said the Syrian military had been firing on a group of smugglers who were trying to steal cows to sell in Turkey, presumably mistaking them for FSA fighters. Four of the smugglers were wounded after venturing into the valley too close to the military's positions, he said. The FSA fighters on the hill opened fire on the military, some even venturing from their outpost to carry the wounded smugglers to safety.  No FSA fighters were injured, both smugglers agreed.

Nassr and Ashik are among tens of smugglers who cross the border several times a week, carrying food, medical supplies, clothes, satellite phones, and computer equipment. They also serve as guides for refugees and carry the wounded on their backs. Once they are near the Turkish border, they call ambulances or Turkish gendarmes to transport the wounded to a hospital, disappearing back into the trees as the Turks arrive.

"They know I am doing something human," said Ashik, when asked why Turkish authorities did not pursue him. "There is someone wounded or someone that needs food, so they accept the situation."

The Turkish government has strenuously denied that it provides the rebels with material support, a claim echoed by the FSA. But there is no doubt that the insurgents receive assistance from those living within Turkish territory. The smugglers are aided by small groups of Syrians living in Antakya, a Turkish city near the border, who arrange for the supplies to be delivered into Syria.

In a small flat in Antakya, a 26-year-old man from Damascus, who gives his name as Udai Sayeed, sits in a room full of laptops connected to the Internet by USB modems and talks to contacts on Skype. He and his band of opposition activists -- which include a defected soldier, a former businessman from Jisr al-Shughour, and his nephew -- purchase and transport supplies for the FSA and also civilians who lack food and medical supplies, such as bags for blood to be used in make-shift hospitals.

"Every group [in Turkey] has its own job," Sayeed said. "[The Turks] gave us our freedom to move."

"Dictators believe until the last minute of life that there are a lot of people behind them," he added. "In the end, they finish. Like Qaddafi, Bashar will finish, his end will be the same."

Nazir, another Antakya-based activist, agreed that Assad would only be overthrown through force. "We believe there is only one solution, the Free Army," he said. "It's clear after eight, nine months of peaceful protest, when they kill so many people. What's the solution?"

Sometimes he has moved as much as $8,000 worth of supplies to the border at a time, Nazir claimed. "When you organize yourself, you will win," he said.

He claimed to prefer fighting on the front lines with the FSA, "as a soldier with a new ID." (When soldiers defect they show their Syrian military IDs as proof.) Nazir said that the FSA aimed to keep the fighting at a "professional" level, preventing it from disintegrating from the anarchy seen in Libya or Iraq. "Yes, if I die you need to give my family money and the ID, like a hero," he said, claiming that many Syrians living around the border area and in refugees camps are waiting for Asaad, the FSA commander, to call them to fight.

Asheik, the smuggler, echoed the claim. "All young men want to go to the Free Army," he said. "There is no [international] support for the FSA now so the battle has not started yet. We are waiting for something, but don't know when it will come."

In Ain al-Baida, though the Syrian military fires upon the FSA position with ever greater frequency, defectors continued to arrive to take up arms against their former comrades. Abo Mohammad, an FSA commander and another civilian volunteer who had spent two months living in the Turkish refugee camps, estimated that, on average, two or three defectors arrived per week.

Few of the fighters agreed to be photographed without scarves covering their faces. This was not out of concern for their security, Mohammad explained. Rather, in the past months of rough living, many of the fighters had grown beards. Indeed, Mohammad's beard was much fuller than the whiskers I'd seen on his face when we first met in Guvecci, a Turkish village along the border he had initially fled to in June.

The fighters were concerned that the photographs would be used by the Assad regime as "proof" that it was fighting Islamic extremists. "There is no barber," said one fighter. "When we were in the Army we were prevented from growing our beards long. So to distinguish us from the military, we make our beards long."

After a long discussion about the photos and their possible implications, the fighters seemed relieved to hear that I understood having a beard in the Middle East did not necessarily mean someone was a fundamentalist. The raised their arms and shouted "Allahu Akbar!" when one of them spoke of overthrowing Assad, but hardly came across as Islamists.

Again denying all reports of arms smuggling from Turkey, Mohammad said the FSA had a gun for every man, some taken from the Syrian military. They wanted to be supplied with arms, but were not receiving any from abroad, he claimed. "God will help us fight Bashar Assad if no one helps us," he said.

What Mohammad seemed to want, even more than weapons, was an internationally established buffer zone and no-fly zone inside Syria. "Many people from other cities can come to stay [there], or wounded can go to Turkey," he said.

Abdul Satar Yunsu, the FSA commander of the Hamza Khatib Brigade, laid out three possible locations for a buffer zone: In Deraa, near the Jordanian border; in Deir al-Zour, near the Iraqi border; and in Idlib, along the border with Turkey. Of all these options, however, the buffer zone along the Turkish border seems the most plausible.

Turkey is not yet leading the international charge into Syria. But the FSA might just carry its flag further south in the coming months.

Justin Vela