JULY / AUGUST 2019 | MOTHER JONES 55The United States did not ratify the
incendiary weapons protocol until 2009,
and even then it reserved the right to use
white phosphorus against human targets
when it’s determined that it would cause
fewer casualties than another weapon.
The government also specified that any
commander who decides to use white
phosphorus “shall not be judged on the
basis of information that comes to light
after the action under review was taken.”
The coalition would not confirm to me
whether it used white phosphorous in
Syria. However, its American spokesper-
son told me that “every weapons system
in the US inventory undergoes a legal
review to ensure the weapon complies
with the Law of Armed Conflict.”
Hamed shows us around the bombed-
out streets of his neighborhood. During
the coalition attack, he says, white phos-
phorus “would fall on us like rain.” The
remaining walls on the ground level of
his apartment building are blackened
from what he says were white phos-
phorus fires. When he and his neighbors
rushed to pour water on the munitions,
the flames would reignite. “It was suffo-
cating. You felt like you were going to
choke.” He remembers people who were
burned to the bone.
His apartment is upstairs. All that’s
left is the floor, some cement columns,
mounds of rubble, and an unexploded
three-foot-long missile. “It was my
dream to have a family and kids here,”
he says. A small, shy boy who looks to be
four years old is following us. The front
of his shirt is black with grease. “This is
my nephew,” Hamed says. “He works as
a car mechanic.” We stand quietly, look-
ing over the charred wreckage and the
nearby homes. “Our city was destroyed
so that America could sleep soundly.”
when i leave Raqqa, I go back to
Qam ishli. The de facto Kurdish capital,
where I began my journey, now feels like
a refuge. There is a loud nightclub across
from my hotel. On a nearby rooftop, there
is a hookah bar, where I read and write in
the warm evenings. I walk through the
alleys of a bustling market and eat fresh
bread with water buffalo cream and
honey. As long as I avoid the tiny part
of the city still controlled by the Syrian
regime, I feel safe, even when I’m alone.
I’m often with my fixer, a thirtysome-
thing Kurd I’ll call Ibrahim. Under his ir-
reverent, disarming facade and easy smile,
Ibrahim is burdened. I rarely see him eat,
and when he puts anything in his stom-
ach, he says it hurts badly.
The war has been pressing on him
for years. He watched as the fsa and
the ypg fought over his hometown.
isis nearly captured his parents’ vil-
lage. Ibrahim made repeat trips to the
front in Raqqa when he was working
as a TV cameraman. He tells me about
the traumatic images burned into his
mind. Even when there are no bodies
around, the smell of the dead follows
him. Sometimes, the phantom stench
prevents him from eating.
Ibrahim takes me around to inter-
view Kurdish officials, journalists, and
thinkers. Many worry that with the war
against isis coming to an end, Trump
will make good on his recent prom-
ise to bring American troops home
“very soon.” The Syrian government
has vowed to take back every inch of
its former territory. Turkish President
Erdoğan has threatened to enter north-
eastern Syria to fight ypg “terrorists” in
the event of an American withdrawal.
The Turkish invasion of Afrin in 2018
displaced 150,000 people. An attack on
the rest of Rojava would certainly be
far costlier. Some analysts speculate
that the Kurds may defend themselves
against Turkey by negotiating the Assad
regime’s return to eastern Syria.
There is also the question of what to do
with the remnants of isis. The de facto for-
eign minister of the Democratic Federa-
tion of Northern Syria, Abdulkarim Omar,
tells me one of its “major burdens” is the
hundreds of captured isis fighters from
over 40 countries. The dfns, he says, does
not allow the death penalty. If Turkey in-
vades, what would prevent these prisoners
from escaping in the chaos? “We need all
of their governments to take them and try
them in their countries,” Omar says. And
even without its would-be caliphate, isis
still inspires extremists around the globe.
The war is by no means over, but Assad
has undoubtedly won. In eight years, an
inspired revolt against a dictator has given
way to grudging acceptance that he’s not
going anywhere. Syrians are just starting
to come to terms with what it means tomove forward. Even as the United Nations
expects at least 1.2 million people to return
home this year, it anticipates that as many
as 1.2 million will be displaced. (This
spring, a government offensive in Idlib
displaced 180,000 people in three weeks;
the UN warned that intensified violence
in the area would trigger a “humanitarian
catastrophe.”) Many who fled will never
be able to return. The Assad regime con-
tinues to terrorize the population with
forced conscription, arrests, and torture.
Nearly 128,000 people who entered its
prisons are still missing.
As Trump slow-walks withdrawal, it’s
not clear what the lasting impact of Amer-
ican involvement in Syria will be. As the
war enters its next phase, the commit-
ments made by the many Americans who
joined the conflict—the officials and dip-
lomats, the cia agents and special forces,
the ideologues and adventure seekers—
may prove fleeting.
As my three-week trip to Syria nears
its end, Ibrahim says he will take me to
another interview outside town. When
he comes to pick me up, he tells me he
needs more money than we’d agreed
on. His car has broken down. He’s been
driving on the home-refined gas that
most cars in this area run on. It’s ter-
rible for the engine, and all the driving
we’ve been doing has been hard on it.
Also, a doctor recently put Ibrahim on
psych meds and told him he needs an
endoscopy. He tells me the stomach pain
got worse after Trump started talking
about withdrawal. If Turkey invades,
Ibrahim doesn’t know what he will do, or
where he and his family will go. And how
will they get anywhere without a car?
I tell him I have no way of getting extra
cash right now. Can we get to our meet-
ing and discuss it later? No, he says. No
money, no ride.
I call a cab and tell Ibrahim we’ll talk
when I’m back. Suddenly, he becomes
enraged and tries to block my way into
the taxi. He grabs my camera bag. A
crowd gathers.
“Criminal!” he shouts. “Thief!” I strug-
gle to take my camera from his grip. He
punches me in the face. Some men hold
him back. “Is this America?” he shouts. “If
this is America, you can keep it!” I jump
into the taxi and drive off.
Two days later, I leave Syria. n