Bashar
al-Assad was a very bad boy. Well, he was very bad…period.
He and his
wife, “The Rose in the Desert, (now known as “the first lady of hell”), lived a
life of luxury and plenty. How many Hermes scarves can you wear at one time (?),
while his people lived lives of hunger, despair and desperation.
How do you
do that? How do you live with yourself
and do that? How do you go to a family pot roast on a Sunday when you’ve
tortured, exploited and starved your fellow Syrians on Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday through Saturday.
I won’t even
talk about the torture prisons and the graves where hundreds of thousands were
flung in an effort to dispose of their bodies. Apparently, these were mostly average citizens
grabbed off the streets and checkpoints never to be heard from again.
Disposing of
human beings. After a while you must become inured to it. All of it.
Then, as if
that wasn’t enough, Bashar decided to sell his people and the world, the
Captagon (a highly addictive drug) he was manufacturing just to bolster his
cash flow.
All this
from the mind of an ophthalmologist. For
that was what he was when he was plucked from school in London to fill the open
job vacancy left by his brother, Bassel, killed in a car crash. (Bashar, Bassel…they
must have been fascinated by the letter B.)
So now
Bashar and his family are holed up in a Dacha somewhere near Moscow having left
a bombed-out shell of a country. But with the marvel of the human spirit: the hopeless masses have been replaced triumphantly
by a jubilant-that-the-regime-is-gone and hopefully we can hold on to our
freedom this time! (Let us hope with them.)
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