The food is piled high. Steaming pots of seasoned tomatoes and potatoes, yogurt and cucumber, cheese and piles of tortilla-like khubz, dipped in oil. A dozen or so young Syrian men crowd around, chattering excitedly about the day's events.

These men are foot soldiers in the public relations wing of the Syrian revolution - activists whose self-appointed role is to disseminate information through online platforms like YouTube, Twitter, Facebook and Skype. They have gravitated from across Syria and the wider Middle East to this small apartment in the city of Antakya. The southern-most major city in Turkey, Antakya lies 24km west of the Syrian border, astride the Orontes River.

Ahmed was an Arabic teacher in Aleppo, Amr an electrician in Saudi Arabia. Several are defectors from the Syrian army. Huddled together, they personify an uprising whose promising beginnings have languished into uncertainty.

Their leader, in fact if not in name, is 32-year-old Mohammed Issa, a former lawyer. One night he receives notification that he has been expelled from the Syrian Bar Association as a result of his anti-regime activities.

"This does not bother me," he says. "In fact, I am proud of it. The Bar in Syria is not a civic organization. Like everything else, it is co-opted by the regime ... [It is] just a tool to keep lawyers in check."

Mohammed spends most of his time meeting other Syrians in Antakya, arranging transportation for refugees fleeing the war and speaking to Western journalists on Skype. Like everyone else in the apartment, he obsessively watches Al Jazeera and YouTube for the latest news from inside Syria.

He is realistic about the opposition's progress. "Everyone hates Assad," he says. "But the regime has been in power for 40 years. The Mukhabarat [Syrian intelligence] pervades the society. People did not trust each other. It is difficult to organize.

Many of those attempting to organize have not lived in Syria for years. There is a disconnect between those inside and the expatriates."

The men eagerly respond to questions about their faith. Some of them pray five times a day, clearing away the clutter of laptops, teacups and ashtrays to make space on the floor. Those who do not pray maintain a respectful silence.

When prayers are finished, it is right back to joking and horseplay. They have adopted a rambunctious calico kitten whose tail-chasing antics keep the house entertained.

Few seem eager to return to Syria to fight. They all have friends who have been killed and many have already experienced imprisonment - something they regard as a source of pride.

"I was imprisoned for 36 days," Mohammed mentions. "I was in prison for 47," Ahmed replies.

Ahmed says that he was arrested following a demonstration at Aleppo University and describes his initial interrogation.
"They wanted to know if I had killed any soldiers, and the names of the revolution leaders. I told them I did not know anything. They beat me."

He leans in and smiles, relishing the re-telling. "They connected wires to my toes, one on my right foot and one on my left, and put electricity through me." Suddenly he turns serious. "Then they put the wires …" He hesitates, visibly embarrassed. "You know. Down there. Under my clothes. You understand me?"

A long moment passes.

"I will tell you something. When you are interrogated, if the regime wants you to say something, you will say it."
One of the men who does intend to rejoin the armed fight is electrician Amr. A physically imposing 29-year-old.
He is slow to speak, but one morning over breakfast in a nearby cafe Amr tells his story in broken English.

He left Syria in 2004, after the Mukhabarat caught him writing an anti-regime blog. He wrote under a pseudonym and published from an internet cafe, but his precautions were insufficient. He was imprisoned and beaten so severely that he was unable to walk for two months. The experience left him with a crooked nose and an abiding sense of caution.

After his imprisonment he moved to Saudi Arabia. But when the revolution began, Amr returned to Syria and joined a small cell of sappers focused on attacking regime forces with improvised explosive devices.

He was recently elected leader of a band of nearly 120 fighters. Less than half of them have rifles. He says that due to massive inflation, equipping a single fighter with a Kalashnikov and ammunition costs more than $2,000. No logistical system exists to channel supplies from Free Syrian Army (FSA) headquarters to his unit.

"In my band," he says with unrestrained pride, "Muslim, Christian, Kurd." He interlocks his massive fingers for emphasis. "All together."

Amr explains his unit's fighting philosophy. In Amr's unit the rules are different. "Nothing in the YouTube. Working only in the dark. Working in secret. One bomb, kill three, four, five enemy. They become scared. They become afraid to sleep at night. This is good."

Amr came to Antakya to seek further training but the FSA was unable to offer him any. "Soon, I go back," he says.

PHOTO CAPTION

A Free Syrian Army (FSA) fighter takes aim at an approaching armored personnel carrier. The pro-government graffiti reads "Bashar or we will burn the country."

Source: Aljazeera.net