Damascus, Presidential Palace. Night.
Assad stood by the window, watching the fire outside.
Thousands of candles lit up the streets of Damascus like a glowing river.
Those holding the photographs had not dispersed; they held the photos of the dead, standing on the streets, on the roads, at the doors of government buildings. The faces on the photos flickered in the candlelight, every pair of eyes fixed on his window.
The Minister of Defense stood behind him, his voice already hoarse. "Mr. President, the Third Division has stopped. The entire division is blocked at the intersection, unable to advance or retreat. Civilians are standing in front of the tanks, holding photos, shouting those names."
Assad did not turn around. "What about the Big Bear people?"
"Withdrawn. They ran north. Their commander said this is not their war. Their task was to help us eliminate terrorists, but those holding the photos are not terrorists; they are civilians. They do not wish to fire at civilians."
