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Syrian Regime Hunts Down Men Dodging Mandatory Army Service

Young would-be soldiers duck Syria's military service mandate
Young would-be soldiers duck Syria's military service mandate
Syria Deeply
Gayath Abd Alaziz and Karen Leigh

DAMASCUS — Across the country, an increasing number of would-be soldiers are ducking Syria's mandatory 18-month military service requirement.

In most cases, the young men are either hiding out — or taking up arms for the opposition.

Hossam, a 26-year-old from Hama, has been summoned by the Syrian army to fulfill the compulsory 18-month service required of all young men here. But three years into a conflict that has killed more than 62,800 fighters from all sides, he is refusing to comply.

"The Syrian army is no longer the nation's army, and nothing motivates me to join it," he says.

But despite large swaths of Syria having shifted from government to rebel control, it's still illegal to dodge military service. So for nearly a year, Hossam has been hiding out from government authorities who patrol large areas of Hama.

Thousands of young Syrian men are following suit. Since the conflict began in 2011, a steady stream of young men have elected to dodge their compulsory service. The numbers are particularly pronounced in rebel-held areas, where army officials — desperately in need of additional manpower — constantly hunt for truants.

Many choose to leave Syria, escaping to neighboring Lebanon or Turkey. Others, like Hossam, hide in their towns and villages, or escape to areas controlled by the Syrian opposition. And some are fighting, but with rebel brigades.

Military service has been compulsory in Syria since 1955, before the days of Assad family rule. Every man who reaches 18 and has no male siblings is required by law to serve 18 months in the Syrian army. The requirement used to be 21 months, but seeking to deflect public anger in the early days of the revolution, President Bashar al-Assad decreased it in spring 2011.

In December of that year, a statement from army defector Colonel Riad al-Asaad said the number of defectors had reached 40,000. Since then, the government has been widely accused of refusing to allow many soldiers to leave at the end of their mandated tours of duty.

The last group to be released from compulsory service was on Jan. 1, 2012. Since then, new conscripts often find themselves serving open-ended terms. Many say they have served three years or more, without being allowed days off.

Soldier defections

Mohammed, in his 20s, is from rural Idlib province and joined the Syrian army in 2010, less than a year before the start of the conflict. After serving on the mountainous southern front of Qalamoun, he defected in 2012 and now lives in Ghazi Eintab, Turkey.

He says the soldiers were the first to be sent to dangerous front-line fighting, while army officials stayed behind in barracks. "We didn't feel the situation was equal," he says. "This is why my friends and I defected."

The vast majority of men who volunteer to serve in the Syrian army are from the Alawite strongholds of Latakia and Tartous on the Syrian coast, where Assad is still largely popular and where his army maintains control.

Maher, a 30-year-old army sergeant from rural Latakia, came to the army through mandatory backup service — the government's call to civilian men over age 40. Having already served their mandatory stints, thousands of Alawites have now returned for a second round, providing the regime with desperately needed manpower.

Then there are men like Wasim. When he was summoned for backup service, the 29-year-old volunteered not for the Syrian army itself, but for the National Defense Forces, a civilian militia that supports Assad's forces and whose demands on the ranks can be lax.

"I get paid 15,000 Syrian pounds ($100) per month in salary from the militia," he says. "I give it to the officer in charge as a bribe, and in turn he is OK with me not showing up. Instead, I work as a house painter."

But Wasim's double duty could soon come to an end because the government has initiated a campaign to ensure that those called for backup service are fulfilling their obligation.

The government has also begun to crack down on draft dodgers, threatening families in order to pressure their sons to don the uniform of the Syrian army.

Last summer, in the Tartous town of Qadmous, residents say security forces detained 11 children so that their older brothers would surrender themselves as conscripts in exchange for their release.

Once enlisted, defection has become close to impossible. "They took our cell phones, and we are not allowed to make any calls," says one sergeant from Deir Ezzor. "This makes coordinating a defection impossible. I have not had any days off for the past 18 months. My father and my brother passed away when the air force shelled our neighborhood. I could not even attend their funeral."

Fawaz, a soldier from Idlib, did manage to defect from his mandatory 18-month service a year ago. He expected to have to hide out from government forces. But when he arrived home to his rebel-controlled village, he discovered it was the opposition that wanted to arrest him, because he had served with the military.

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Shame On The García Márquez Heirs — Cashing In On The "Scraps" Of A Legend

A decision to publish a sketchy manuscript as a posthumous novel by the late Gabriel García Márquez would have horrified Colombia's Nobel laureate, given his painstaking devotion to the precision of the written word.

Photo of a window with a sticker of the face of Gabriel Garcia Marquez with butterfly notes at Guadalajara's International Book Fair.

Poster of Gabriel Garcia Marquez at Guadalajara's International Book Fair.

Juan David Torres Duarte


BOGOTÁ — When a writer dies, there are several ways of administering the literary estate, depending on the ambitions of the heirs. One is to exercise a millimetric check on any use or edition of the author's works, in the manner of James Joyce's nephew, Stephen, who inherited his literary rights. He refused to let even academic papers quote from Joyce's landmark novel, Ulysses.

Or, you continue to publish the works, making small additions to their corpus, as with Italo Calvino, Samuel Beckett and Clarice Lispector, or none at all, which will probably happen with Milan Kundera and Cormac McCarthy.

Another way is to seek out every scrap of paper the author left and every little word that was jotted down — on a piece of cloth, say — and drip-feed them to publishers every two to three years with great pomp and publicity, to revive the writer's renown.

This has happened with the Argentine Julio Cortázar (who seems to have sold more books dead than alive), the French author Albert Camus (now with 200 volumes of personal and unfinished works) and with the Chilean author Roberto Bolaño. The latter's posthumous oeuvre is so abundant I am starting to wonder if his heirs haven't hired a ghost writer — typing and smoking away in some bedsit in Barcelona — to churn out "newly discovered" works.

Which group, I wonder, will our late, great novelist Gabriel García Márquez fit into?

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