The body of activist Mazen al-Hamada is taken in a procession around downtown Damascus, Syria, before his funeral, December 13, 2024.
The director of the Syrian Observatory for Human Rights makes a harsh yet entirely apt observation while commenting on the massacres along the Syrian coast in March of this year: “The massacres on the Syrian coast are documented with audio and video, unlike the Hama massacres.” The harshness of this statement lies in the fact that the Hama massacres were far more extensive and devastating. Yet, the absence of documentation renders accountability elusive, allowing the perpetrators—those celebrated as heroes of their time—to evade justice. This observation underscores a painful truth: the act of documenting atrocities offers victims and their families a glimmer of hope for justice, even if delayed.
However, a more troubling question looms: Who are the individuals documenting these massacres? How can killers record their crimes with such pride? Some might argue that this is evidence of fabrication or that the perpetrators disguised themselves as the accused to frame them. Yet, it is undeniable that some killers have filmed their atrocities. This fact alone should alarm people everywhere. Such recorded violence, coupled with the rhetoric of the perpetrators justifying their actions, often relies on other images and documents of past killings. These, in turn, are used to claim vengeance for previous victims.
The problem is that images and videos do not fade with time, especially when the crimes occur in countries like Middle East countries. The video of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi beheading Nicholas Berg remains accessible, and any zealot can use it as justification to harm those they perceive as connected to the killer. This perpetuates a cycle of pain and violence, even beyond the grave.
Our shared misery, need, and destitution bind the people of our region. If a crime were committed in a globalized space like Trump Tower in New York, every detail would be meticulously recorded—down to the minute, hour, and day. Such places, constantly evolving, leave no room for ambiguity. A victim in such a setting might carry a watch or phone that proves the impossibility of their death before a specific date. Their clothing might reflect trends unavailable a month prior. These globalized spaces claim contemporaneity, while our villages and hamlets remain trapped in a bygone era. Crimes committed in our lands often lack time stamps, unless the victims themselves belonged to the globalized world. This disparity highlights the blatant racism of globalization, though this racism is perhaps the least of our concerns.
We live in a globalized age where journalists and documentarians wield modern tools of reporting. Yet, those documenting their deaths seem to exist in a time long past, as if they are surplus to the needs of the present. This disconnect explains our eagerness to celebrate distant events, as if to escape the weight of our own tragedies. We wish to forget our dead, believing they belong to an era of excess. Their lives, to us, are little more than shadows, waiting for nature or God to claim them.
Zarka Syahia, the woman who guarded the bodies of her two sons and grandson in her backyard at Qabou Alawammia, located in a suburb on the Syrian coast, would have remained invisible to history had it not been for the crime. This is not an indictment of journalism or writing but rather of the feverish pace of globalization and modernity. The tools of globalization elevated her from obscurity to relevance. Yet, because she lived in a time before ours, her defenders must belong to the present. Otherwise, the murder of her family would have been reduced to a mere call for revenge, nothing more.
Had these crimes not occurred, no one would have chronicled the daily lives of the people in this deeply rural area. Do they receive adequate healthcare? Can they secure their daily sustenance? Do they dream of a brighter future? These questions likely never cross the minds of those who witness the crime and sympathize with its victims. Her children, had they the chance, might have emigrated, leaving her alone in a time we no longer understand how to inhabit.
All this injustice befalls them at once. They are condemned to mourning, death, abandonment, and oblivion. The world remembers them only when they die before the cameras.
And then what?
The most pressing question concerns the murdered woman’s children. Why didn’t the killers take her life as well? Perhaps they wanted her to endure the weight of mourning. As for the men, they are marked for extermination—either as killers or as victims. In this land, the primary role of men seems to be killing or being killed. What remains for them to achieve? A few more massacres or the inevitability of revenge killings?
This grim reality stretches from Syria to Lebanon, Palestine to Yemen, and beyond—to every corner of the world where the lights fail to dazzle the eyes of tourists. Yet, this does not encapsulate the full dilemma.
The true dilemma lies in the images of massacres broadcast on social media and television. These images narrow our perspectives, reducing us to creatures of bias. Every faction clings to images of their dead, fueling cycles of vengeance. Those who defend Assad have their images, as do those who support the opposition. Massacres are poised to erupt at any moment, whenever the opportunity for revenge arises. This is a form of contemporary Bedouinism imposed by the intoxication of globalization. Yet, unlike traditional Bedouinism, it lacks the virtues of reconciliation, blood money, and the avoidance of violence whenever possible. Instead, it draws from the darkest chapters of human history, erecting them as pillars of belief and ideology.
After all this, can we truly be surprised that someone like Donald Trump rose to the presidency of a nation that dominates our tastes, economy, future, and security? We should not be. Trump is a product of the same globalization that fosters categorical biases. Every Alawite is seen as a potential criminal by their adversaries. Every Sunni is viewed as a potential terrorist by their opponents. Every Mexican is perceived as a drug dealer by Trump’s supporters. Every white person is labeled a hateful racist by those who oppose them. This world, at its core, is devolving into tribalism, where factions seek to annihilate the “other.”