“You must keep the door locked and the blinds down at all times,” I was told as they led me into a bare, one-roomed apartment in a Damascus suburb.
“You must stay here until we send a message for you to come to us,” they said, and left me.
Hungry, I opened the fridge. There was nothing in it. “Welcome to the Syrian Revolution”, I told myself and settled down on the lumpy mattress to try to sleep.
I soon found I was not alone in my predicament. During the next few days I was transported between the sprawling suburbs of the Syrian capital to meet activists and opposition politicians, and discovered that most of them are in hiding.
