Daily Times

“The true theatre of a workable faith is the holocaust, the cancer ward of Alexander Solzhenitsyn, the soup kitchen of Thomas Merton, the slum of William Booth, the abortion clinic, the Sudanese famine, the child prostitute, the murder victim, the tortured, the exploited, the wretched of the earth. It is one thing to reverence the palm, the pristine beach, the crisping surf streaked with sunset, and another to reverence the human bodies left to rot on the killing fields of Cambodia. Yet we live in a world where the killing fields abound and the pristine beaches grow scarce.” — Dr Ben M Carter.

Dr Benjamin Michael Carter died on June 5, 2005. It was as he would have wanted it. His wife found him on that warm Sunday morning with his coffee cup beside him and a book and pen on his lap. Four hours later, I was seated in the recliner where his wife had found him reposed in silence. His wife insisted that I take “Mike’s favourite chair”.

If Mike were alive today, we would actively discuss Syria and agree about one thing: the tumult in Syria is worsening. But within a modern workable theatre of faith, the average Syrian is standing his ground in what presents as a daguerreotype of hell.

Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International are two organisations that document the excessive cruelty of the Syrian regime towards dissident citizens. Governance by fear is a well-established fact.

Bashar al-Assad was an impressionable young man when the military tanks began to enter the city of Hama in February of 1982. Rifaat al-Assad, the younger brother of President Hafez al-Assad, had tactical and operational control of what later became known as the Hama massacre. Historians speculate a body count of 10,000 to 40,000. The outcome provides a lesson on the use of crushing and overwhelming force for the maintenance of political power.

President Bashar al-Assad firmly grasps the limitations and allowances for international intervention in the internal affairs of a government. Taking small slices of life in a barely noticeable manner is allowed. And the butchers’ knives may even take a bigger slice in a one-time event if the bloated bodies do not float down into Lake Victoria. Thus far, Syria still looks tame compared to the human stockyard of Rwanda.

I have viewed in mortified silence the images coming out of Syria that are posted by citizen journalists. Men have been shot in the head by snipers taking aim from the rooftops. They have died whilst dressed in their best suits. It is good to leave the house with hair combed and tie perfectly knotted for what may be your last day on earth.

When security forces assault a hospital and the wounded are snatched from their beds to be carted off to prison, it is time to lift up a shout. But today is a time to fall on collapsed knees and say a prayer for the dying.

President Bashar al-Assad is facing down the citizen on the street and the provocateurs in the background who like nothing better than a chaotic political kettle. Unfortunately, the chopped meat for the broth is being collected by the security forces that have been given a license to commit extra-judicial killings in the name of restoring the peace. The responsibility for government-on-citizen violence lies in the lap of the president. The world now sees his metallic political nakedness. It was always there. Only now, the governance of the cruel is on full display. Why are we surprised when the poor are oppressed and justice and rights are denied?

August 10 recently passed. A matted mane shakes and a leathery tongue moves across old gums to consider what is happening in the pride of nations. The tail moves lazily and matted eyes gaze at the Syrian landscape. Rising up on weakened knees the incontinent lion gives a half-hearted roar of resolution.

Glancing through my office window, the towering trees show a darkened pattern of leaves against a blue sky receiving the first yawn of sunlight. My thoughts are pulled away from the diplomatic mechanics of an impotent United Nations to consider the omnipresence of God. It is a comfort to know that the One who puts light in the eyes and implants the ears on the sides of the head also sees and hears the cry being lifted up in Syria. President Bashar al-Assad may politically survive this current power play and continue along. Just as his father, he may rule until his date with death. But I hope the accounting for his actions comes by the hands of his own people. I look at the sky again. One fact remains. There is no such thing as irrevocable immunity.

When the keeper of hell comes to collect on a debt, he is impeccably groomed. At the base of a neatly folded white handkerchief sticking out of the pocket of a double-breasted suit is a simple design. From a distance it looks like small flames of fire, equally spaced. At close range, the flames become a line of camels travelling in perfect symmetry across the desert sand.

The Keeper is also a perfect gentleman. His business card is made of quality paper stock with an elegant and embossed letter “M”. It is inscribed by the hand of God. There is no need for him to worry about his distasteful task. He has come with a legal writ.

The writer is a freelance columnist. She can be reached at tammyswof@msn.com