Last night I dreamt I was in Damascus. Running through the ancients streets trying to find my way to the Souk Al-Hamidiya. I was running with two other western woman and a number of Syrian rebels but as I passed the soldiers in the streets I could see the same fear and the same love in their eyes. No one was divided and yet somehow we all were. There was no trust in any person - it was a terrifying and dark place. Eventually we had to turn back because we were attracting too much attention and ended up having to make a "double decoy deal" (dreamspeak for who knows what - but it involved the exchange of large wads of cash in a black leather bag by a very sassy American army woman.) The deal took place at the BBC's reporter's table that had been set up in a square and was being coordinated by a man dressed in a shiny yellow jumpsuit whom they called 'the plastic man'. Finally we found a safe house and inside it were lots of children chasing each other around a large barn throwing beautiful colourful fireworks into the air. I woke with a lament in my heart for Damascus.
Then when I read the news today I lamented even more.