We arrived in Damascus early Monday, after passing surreal scenes on the highway leading into the city from Lebanon. Scattered across the main highway to the Syrian capital are newfound relics of the government of Bashar al-Assad whose oppressive rule has defined the country for decades.
Less than a day after rebels took Damascus in a lightning fast offensive, abandoned Syrian military tanks littered the road. A handful of posters of Mr. al-Assad remained intact on billboards over the highway, but most had been torn down and ripped to shreds.
Checkpoints typically manned by Syrian intelligence and security forces, who would question drivers and passengers for hours on end, were empty. A few miles from the border, a body of a man in military uniform lay sprawled on the ground next to an abandoned pickup truck.
Down the road from one Syrian military base, a convoy of 10 rebel vehicles sped down the highway. They drove four-wheel drive vehicles — their doors and windows caked in mud as makeshift camouflage — and Syrian military vehicles armed with rockets that once belonged to the al-Assad government.
There were also signs of the lawlessness that many fear could seize the country, the celebration over the fall of Mr. al-Assad mixed with the uncertainty of what comes next.
A duty free shop just across the border from Lebanon appeared to have been broken into — its storefront windows smashed while bottles, chocolates and bags of snacks were strewn across its floor. Windshields and windows of dozens of abandoned cars along the roads were broken and their doors flung open.
Two young men fiddled with the wires beneath one abandoned truck, in apparent attempt to jump start the vehicle.
Nearby, one young man stood in front of an abandoned tank taking a selfie. He then picked up his toddler, placed him on top of the tank and told him to hold his fingers up in a V for victory before taking a photo.
In Old Damascus, Victor Dawli, 59, stood in his apartment’s entryway, a cigarette in hand. As a truck carrying Syrian rebels passed, Mr. Dawli waved. One fighter, clutching his rifle and hunched over in the bed of the truck, nodded in response.
Mr. Dawli’s neighborhood, Babsharqi, is home to mostly Christians, many of who supported the Assad government and now fear they could face retribution from rebels and others who were part of the uprising.
As dawn broke on the second day of life in Syria without Mr. Assad, there was a sense of unease in the neighborhood, as people here walked a tightrope. Some have kept their heads down and stayed inside their homes. Others like Mr. Dawli say they have secretly supported the rebels from the start of their offensive.
When one neighbor passed by, Mr. Dawli shouted to him: “Good morning, congratulations!” The man gave him a blank stare, then hurried down a nearby alleyway.
“There are people who are scared, you tell them congratulations and they feel uneasy,” he said.
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