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| Damascus, the city where everything's for sale but no one's buying | Damascus, the city where everything's for sale but no one's buying |
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| Damer's ice-cream shop has delighted Damascenes for decades with its exquisite lemon and chocolate flavours, French patisserie and milky puddings garnished with almonds and green Aleppo pistachio nuts. Nowadays, though, trade is sluggish and falls away sharply by mid-evening. | Damer's ice-cream shop has delighted Damascenes for decades with its exquisite lemon and chocolate flavours, French patisserie and milky puddings garnished with almonds and green Aleppo pistachio nuts. Nowadays, though, trade is sluggish and falls away sharply by mid-evening. |
| "We used to stay open till 1am," said a gloomy Faez Mutaim, whose family owns the business on Maysaloon Street in the heart of Syria's capital. "Now we finish by nine and are closed by 10. People are short of money and don't want to go out any more. It's too tense. And it's hard to get here because so many roads are closed." | "We used to stay open till 1am," said a gloomy Faez Mutaim, whose family owns the business on Maysaloon Street in the heart of Syria's capital. "Now we finish by nine and are closed by 10. People are short of money and don't want to go out any more. It's too tense. And it's hard to get here because so many roads are closed." |
| In a city that lives in fear of car bombings and to a soundtrack of artillery salvoes and air strikes against rebel positions, nightlife is a thing of the past. Damascus was once famous for its clubs, restaurants and tourist attractions. Now they are struggling to survive a crisis that is crippling the economy as well as killing and displacing Syrians. | In a city that lives in fear of car bombings and to a soundtrack of artillery salvoes and air strikes against rebel positions, nightlife is a thing of the past. Damascus was once famous for its clubs, restaurants and tourist attractions. Now they are struggling to survive a crisis that is crippling the economy as well as killing and displacing Syrians. |
| Khawali, one of the finest restaurants in town, has closed down. Naranj, where Bashar al-Assad hosted Vladimir Putin, shuts early, its morose waiters serving barely a handful of diners. The district of Jebel Qassioun, where restaurants have stunning views across the ancient city, is a closed military zone. "It's grim, but you have to find ways to survive," reflects Mina, a thirty-something professional. "Now we eat out in friends' homes at 6pm and leave early." | Khawali, one of the finest restaurants in town, has closed down. Naranj, where Bashar al-Assad hosted Vladimir Putin, shuts early, its morose waiters serving barely a handful of diners. The district of Jebel Qassioun, where restaurants have stunning views across the ancient city, is a closed military zone. "It's grim, but you have to find ways to survive," reflects Mina, a thirty-something professional. "Now we eat out in friends' homes at 6pm and leave early." |
| By dusk the streets are almost deserted. Cars speed home to get through checkpoints before nightfall. Cinemas have shut. Lavish weddings are still held in big hotels where dancing masks the sounds of war – though one faced a problem the other day when the florists' van was not allowed past the blast barrier outside. | By dusk the streets are almost deserted. Cars speed home to get through checkpoints before nightfall. Cinemas have shut. Lavish weddings are still held in big hotels where dancing masks the sounds of war – though one faced a problem the other day when the florists' van was not allowed past the blast barrier outside. |
| For all the talk of a looming battle for the city, central Damascus has not seen the kind of fighting that has ravaged Aleppo and Homs. But it is alarmingly close, and the effect is devastating. Factories in the surrounding region have been closed, damaged and looted. Shops and companies have shut and jobs have gone with them. "I know many young people who are having to live off their fathers' pensions," said Zeina, a student. "And everyone knows that worse is coming." | For all the talk of a looming battle for the city, central Damascus has not seen the kind of fighting that has ravaged Aleppo and Homs. But it is alarmingly close, and the effect is devastating. Factories in the surrounding region have been closed, damaged and looted. Shops and companies have shut and jobs have gone with them. "I know many young people who are having to live off their fathers' pensions," said Zeina, a student. "And everyone knows that worse is coming." |
| Obtaining supplies has become harder and costlier. Damer's used to get its milk from Douma and Daraya in the Damascus countryside but many farms no longer function because of the fighting. Sugar and butter are more expensive. The price of tomatoes has doubled, rice tripled. It's the same for cooking gas and heating oil. The hardest hit are those who have to survive on government salaries, which have not gone up. | Obtaining supplies has become harder and costlier. Damer's used to get its milk from Douma and Daraya in the Damascus countryside but many farms no longer function because of the fighting. Sugar and butter are more expensive. The price of tomatoes has doubled, rice tripled. It's the same for cooking gas and heating oil. The hardest hit are those who have to survive on government salaries, which have not gone up. |
| Khaled, a pro-regime industrialist, owns a factory in Sbeineh that was hit by mortar fire. "It suffered $2m worth of damage," he said. "Who is going to compensate me?" Sami's factory in Qaddam is inaccessible, stuck in no man's land between the army and the rebels. | Khaled, a pro-regime industrialist, owns a factory in Sbeineh that was hit by mortar fire. "It suffered $2m worth of damage," he said. "Who is going to compensate me?" Sami's factory in Qaddam is inaccessible, stuck in no man's land between the army and the rebels. |
| Economic indicators are disastrous across the board – from soaring prices and unemployment to a lira that has lost half its value. Hard currency deposits and foreign investment have disappeared, as has tourism. Estimates of losses since the crisis began range from $48bn to $80bn. Sanctions have halted international financial transactions. Credit cards cannot be used. | Economic indicators are disastrous across the board – from soaring prices and unemployment to a lira that has lost half its value. Hard currency deposits and foreign investment have disappeared, as has tourism. Estimates of losses since the crisis began range from $48bn to $80bn. Sanctions have halted international financial transactions. Credit cards cannot be used. |
| Petrol is scarce, resulting in queues of ill-tempered drivers outside filling stations. Damascus airport is closed to most international flights. The only safe way in is by road from Beirut: another sign of the worsening crisis can be seen at the Lebanese border, where scores of long-distance trucks are backed up because the Gulf route via Deraa and Jordan is unsafe. | Petrol is scarce, resulting in queues of ill-tempered drivers outside filling stations. Damascus airport is closed to most international flights. The only safe way in is by road from Beirut: another sign of the worsening crisis can be seen at the Lebanese border, where scores of long-distance trucks are backed up because the Gulf route via Deraa and Jordan is unsafe. |
| The death of tourism is painfully obvious. Travel agents sit glumly in silent offices. Apart from the odd journalist, there are no foreigners in the precincts of the magnificent Umayyad mosque. On the Via Recta in the old city no one is buying; everything from tacky souvenirs and aromatic spices to gorgeous hand-crafted inlaid wood and mother-of-pearl furniture sit unsold. | The death of tourism is painfully obvious. Travel agents sit glumly in silent offices. Apart from the odd journalist, there are no foreigners in the precincts of the magnificent Umayyad mosque. On the Via Recta in the old city no one is buying; everything from tacky souvenirs and aromatic spices to gorgeous hand-crafted inlaid wood and mother-of-pearl furniture sit unsold. |
| "We are living on our savings and everything is more expensive," said shopkeeper Hassan Abu Assali. "Rents are high and raw materials are getting hard to find, some of them because of the sanctions. Twenty per cent of the shops here have already closed. If the situation continues like this until the end of the year all of them will close. And even if the crisis does end, prices are never going to go back to what they were before." | "We are living on our savings and everything is more expensive," said shopkeeper Hassan Abu Assali. "Rents are high and raw materials are getting hard to find, some of them because of the sanctions. Twenty per cent of the shops here have already closed. If the situation continues like this until the end of the year all of them will close. And even if the crisis does end, prices are never going to go back to what they were before." |
| In the store next door, Osama al-Shahaf, proud of his traditional swords of tempered Damascene steel, tells a similar story but chooses his words carefully. "I'm not saying that things were ideal before the crisis," he said. "But there is bad and worse, and this is worse." | In the store next door, Osama al-Shahaf, proud of his traditional swords of tempered Damascene steel, tells a similar story but chooses his words carefully. "I'm not saying that things were ideal before the crisis," he said. "But there is bad and worse, and this is worse." |
| It is the poor who suffer most. Umm Mohammad, originally from Deir al-Zor in the north, was forced by fighting to abandon her home in the southern Damascus suburb of Tadamon last July with her husband and baby son – some of the 3.8 million Syrians who have been displaced internally. Now they are renting in nearby, and relatively safe, Jaramana, its original Christian and Druze population swollen by Sunni refugees like themselves. | It is the poor who suffer most. Umm Mohammad, originally from Deir al-Zor in the north, was forced by fighting to abandon her home in the southern Damascus suburb of Tadamon last July with her husband and baby son – some of the 3.8 million Syrians who have been displaced internally. Now they are renting in nearby, and relatively safe, Jaramana, its original Christian and Druze population swollen by Sunni refugees like themselves. |
| "It's a lot harder now," she said. "My husband works in the market from morning till night and only earns 1,400 [£13] a day. The rent is 7,000 a week. Prices are terrible. Oil, fat and everything is going up. Damascus was safer than Deir al-Zor and there were more jobs – until now. All of Syria has become a war zone." | "It's a lot harder now," she said. "My husband works in the market from morning till night and only earns 1,400 [£13] a day. The rent is 7,000 a week. Prices are terrible. Oil, fat and everything is going up. Damascus was safer than Deir al-Zor and there were more jobs – until now. All of Syria has become a war zone." |
| Beggars on the streets are another sign of the deepening crisis. Rumour has it that the secret police are turning a blind eye to them in exchange for information about any suspicious activity. "Please help me," beseeched a little girl, pigtailed and grimy. "We are immigrants and we are living the park." Another child, a scrawny boy of seven, said: "Sir, sir I don't want money, but I can work." | Beggars on the streets are another sign of the deepening crisis. Rumour has it that the secret police are turning a blind eye to them in exchange for information about any suspicious activity. "Please help me," beseeched a little girl, pigtailed and grimy. "We are immigrants and we are living the park." Another child, a scrawny boy of seven, said: "Sir, sir I don't want money, but I can work." |
| Naji, a stateless Palestinian born and raised in the Yarmouk refugee camp, has been living with friends since his house was shelled in clashes between the army and rebel fighters. Every few weeks he braves the Syrian and Lebanese bureaucracy to pay an expensive visit to his wife and baby son in Beirut. Rami also left Yarmouk for an outlying town last November: his eight-year-old daughter hasn't been to school since and he has a tense and sometime dangerous two-hour commute to work in the city centre. | Naji, a stateless Palestinian born and raised in the Yarmouk refugee camp, has been living with friends since his house was shelled in clashes between the army and rebel fighters. Every few weeks he braves the Syrian and Lebanese bureaucracy to pay an expensive visit to his wife and baby son in Beirut. Rami also left Yarmouk for an outlying town last November: his eight-year-old daughter hasn't been to school since and he has a tense and sometime dangerous two-hour commute to work in the city centre. |
| Many Damascenes admit to wondering what to do: should they stay or should they go? "It's hard to decide," admits Talal, who works in a pharmacy, one of the few businesses that are still doing OK. "Things have got so much worse in the last few months." | Many Damascenes admit to wondering what to do: should they stay or should they go? "It's hard to decide," admits Talal, who works in a pharmacy, one of the few businesses that are still doing OK. "Things have got so much worse in the last few months." |
| Samir, an engineer, has abandoned Damascus for Turkey. "Some of my friends went to Beirut and thought they would be back in two or three months," he said. "That was last year and most of them have started to arrange their lives on the basis that they will be away for a long time – whether the regime stays or falls." | Samir, an engineer, has abandoned Damascus for Turkey. "Some of my friends went to Beirut and thought they would be back in two or three months," he said. "That was last year and most of them have started to arrange their lives on the basis that they will be away for a long time – whether the regime stays or falls." |
| Perched by the till as Damer's last customers disappeared into the twilight with their ice-cream, Faez Mutaim reflected on the hard choices he and so many others face: tension and danger at home, harsh conditions in the refugee camps in Jordan or impossibly high prices in Lebanon. "If we go abroad we will end up begging," he concluded. "It's better to stay put." | Perched by the till as Damer's last customers disappeared into the twilight with their ice-cream, Faez Mutaim reflected on the hard choices he and so many others face: tension and danger at home, harsh conditions in the refugee camps in Jordan or impossibly high prices in Lebanon. "If we go abroad we will end up begging," he concluded. "It's better to stay put." |
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