Bashaar al Assad drives in his car through the rubbled streets of his country. His window down. His left elbow resting on the opened window. His right hand on the steering wheel. He feels the pleasant breeze. He is in the driver’s seat. Incredulous over what his people have done to their cities. Their lives. He is out for an afternoon drive in Syria. He thinks of his people who went mad and uprose. Their fault. Their fault — all of it — theirs. He honks at stray dogs and cats whose owners fled to refugee camps. Or drowned in boats trying to reach asylum in another country. Out of the way — Honk! Honk! How could people tear up their country, asking for bombs to keep them in line? It is a pity they can’t behave as citizens under the al Assad regime. What unexplainable uprising — why would they? Why would?
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