A song for Bashar

Anthony Shadid has an article in The New York Times about the latest hit in Syria:

As anthems go, this one is fittingly blunt: Come on Bashar, Leave, it declares to President Bashar al-Assad. And in the weeks since it was heard in protests in this city, the song has become a symbol of the power of the protesters’ message, the confusion in their ranks and the violence of the government in stopping their dissent.
Although no one in Hama seems to agree on who wrote the song, there is near consensus on one point: A young cement layer who sang it in protests was dragged from the Orontes River this month with his throat cut and, according to residents, his vocal cords ripped out. Since his death, boys as young as six have offered their rendition in his place. Rippling through the virtual communities that the internet and revolt have inspired, the song has spread to other cities in Syria, where protesters chant it as their own.
“We’ve all memorized it,” said Ahmed, a forty-year-old trader in Hama who regularly attends protests. “What else can you do if you keep repeating it at demonstrations day after day?”
Tunisia can claim the slogan of the Arab revolts: The people want to topple the regime. Egyptians made famous street poetry that reflected their incomparable wit. Come on Bashar, Leave is Syria’s contribution to the pop culture of sedition, the raw street humor that mingles with the furor of revolt and the ferocity of crackdown.
When the government derided them as infiltrators, protesters appropriated the term with pride. After Assad warned of germs in the body politic, echoing Colonel Muammar el-Qaddafi’s dismissal of Libya’s rebels as rats, protesters came up with a new slogan: Syrian germs salute Libyan rats. Protesters in Hama fashioned a toy tank from trash containers in the streets. On the birth date of Assad’s father, Hafez, who ruled for thirty years, youths in Homs set their chants to the tune of Happy Birthday.
Come on Bashar, leave is more festive than funny, with an infectious refrain, chanted with the intoxication of doing something forbidden for so long: Hey Bashar, hey liar. Damn you and your speech, freedom is right at the door. So come on, Bashar, Leave.
“It’s started to spread all over the country,” said a former Republican Guard officer who has joined the protests in Homs, an hour or so from Hama. “It keeps getting more popular.”
The man pulled from the river was named Ibrahim Qashoush, and he was from the neighborhood of Hadir. He was relatively unknown before 4 July, when his body was found, then buried in the city’s Safa cemetery, near the highway.
Video on YouTube, impossible to verify, shows a man purported to be Qashoush with his head lolling from a deep gash in his throat. Residents say security forces shot him, too. But people in Hama dwelled on the detail that stands as a metaphor for the essence of decades of dictatorship: That the simple act of speaking is subversive. “They really cut out his vocal cords!” exclaimed a thirty-year-old pharmacist in Hama who gave his name as Wael. “Is there a greater symbol of the power of the word?” In a rebellion whose leaders remain largely nameless and faceless, Qashoush has become somewhat celebrated in death. “The nightingale of the revolution,” one activist called him.
But the revolt remains largely atomized, with protesters in cities connected first and foremost by the Internet, and rumors have proliferated about Qashoush himself. Even in Hama, where protest leaders in one neighborhood often do not know their colleagues in another, some residents have suggested that Qashoush was not the real singer, that two men had the same name, that he was really a government informer killed by residents, that he is still alive.
One resident insisted the man killed was a second-rate wedding singer. “Every day in the street, just while you’re sitting somewhere, you can hear five or six rumors, and they turn out to be wrong,” said an engineer who gave his name as Adnan.
Many here see the government’s hand in everything. Lists of informers have circulated, but some believe security forces compiled them, hoping to discredit protesters or smear the reputations of businessmen helping them. When residents hanged an informer last month, some people in Hama suggested that government agents did it to make them look bad.
“We’ve heard this,” said a 23-year-old activist who gave his name as Obada. He and others insisted that the song was actually written by a 23-year-old part-time electrician and student named Abdel-Rahman, also known as Rahmani (photo). Sitting in a basement room, Rahmani celebrated what he called “days of creativity.” As the protests in Hama grew bolder and bigger last month, he said crowds grew bored with the old chants: Peaceful, peaceful, Christians and Muslims, There is no fear after today, and God, Syria, freedom, and nothing else. Speeches were not much better. Activists soon managed to bring sound equipment, powered by generators tucked in the trunk of a car, he said, and he wrote his first song: Syria Wants Freedom.
Come on Bashar, Leave followed, though he and his brother Mohammed argued for a week over whether he should keep a marginally derogatory line, Hey Bashar, to hell with you. It stayed, and now draws the biggest applause, cheers, and laughter. “What I say, everyone feels in their hearts, but can’t find words to express,” he said, dragging on a cigarette. “We were brought up afraid to even talk about politics.” Like seemingly everyone here, he suffered a loss in 1982, when the army stormed Hama to quell an Islamist revolt, killing at least ten thousand. He said his grandfather Naasan Miqawi was shot in front of his mother. His uncle Mostafa remains missing, thirty years later. He admits he is a better writer than singer, but the very act of occasionally performing his song for the crowds seemed an act of revenge, rendered small. He consented to photographs, with a defiant shrug. Asked if he was afraid, Rahmani answered, “Of what?”Just off al-Alamein Street, Saleh, a boy of eleven named for his grandfather, killed in 1982, performed Come on Bashar, Leave for men many times his age, who grinned at him in admiration. Without missing a beat, he denounced Assad’s brother, Maher, who leads the elite Republican Guard; his cousin Rami Makhlouf, a businessman considered the family’s banker; and the Shaleesh family, relatives of the president who are notorious for corruption. “Hey Maher, you coward,” the young boy sang. “You are an American agent. Nobody can insult the people of Syria. So come on Bashar, leave.”
The men offered the refrain, their faces softly illuminated by sparse streetlights. Come on Bashar, leave, they chanted back. None of them looked over his shoulder, and none whispered. No one was afraid.
“We get new thieves regularly; Shaleesh and Maher and Rami, they ripped off my brothers and uncles,” the boy’s voice went on. “So come on Bashar, leave.” And the men’s refrain began again, in voices that felt just a little louder.

Rico says it's not exactly rock and roll, but if it helps them get rid of Bashar, who cares?