The UN monitors came twice. The first time they came, the Free Syrian Army took them around the town, showed them where the Syrian army positions were. The second time they came, all they did was apologize: "Our security's at risk, they can't guarantee our safety, we get shot at." As near as I can tell, all they did in the end was list the cities where massacres took place.
I knew so many people who died. I'd do a story on someone and he'd end up dead. I did a piece on this artist, and then he died. Another guy who worked at the media center was killed. The cameraman was killed. All in just a few days. That's how small the village is. So much grief. The cameraman was killed, and I go to their house to pay my respects. Then a few days later his brother gets hit. He was standing in the doorway and he caught shrapnel in the leg. The mortar hit thirty, forty yards away. I've never seen such a continuity of horror on such a large scale. I wasn't there that long. Even the guy who sings for the martyrs buried his own brother.
"When I die, who's going to sing for me?" That's how close it is, that's how small it is.
All the people have to eat is canned food, from Lebanon. Sometimes bread. We drank water from the tap. But the fruit trees were in bloom: cherries, apricots. You can see snow on the mountains in Lebanon.
When I left they were bombing the heck out of Al Qusayr. The army was shelling the town, rocketing it. The helicopters were around, outside. The field hospital filled up way past capacity. Some wounded people had to get out. So when we came out, we brought a lot of wounded with us, carrying the wounded on stretchers. There was heavy fighting on the border, but this one road was calm for some reason. The two sides made a deal apparently, and it held. It was crazy.