bros of gun

bros of gun.png

by Marwan Hisham (@marwanhishampen) and Molly Crabapple




they have guns. we have nothing. in nothing, there lies power.


it was not a subject of which we could talk openly, but i could divine it from their eyes.. even those who mouthed the slogans did  so w/o feeling..  to us students, the slogans were acts of aggression against our pious stronghold, born of the macho, cultic nationalism that their enforcer – the military instructor embodied w his every strut and shout.. in our heads, we mocked the bastard, but for our own good we concealed our detestation from his view and practiced instead my father’s quiet methods of defiance


in arabic it is said: ‘whatever is banned is desired’.. but instructors inverted the proverb: whatever was desired was banned


i first leaned the values of democracy and socialism from these textbooks, every word of which the teachers demanded we memorize and regurgitate, ..

yeah.. that’s our democracy too


w some english book spread open in front of him even as i failed to read the words, i knew they contained the secret to the man’s mysterious contentment – his vast, foreign elegance that had nothing to do w money and everything to do w the singular ornament of those words. i wanted to be that man, w that same force inside me. english seemed the only way to get there


when i was 15 and finally tall enough to kick the ass of that one teacher who beat me, our instructors announced the american invasion of iraq

iraq fell, but the fact was that he (god) retained 1.5 bn worshipers.. who formed the majority in dozens of countries.. he repelled (that was prayer to him) nothing and the world kept turning, prayers flying across the glob..


nael grew up resentful, a fellow mutineer. how had our fathers expected us to be contained

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we were both idealists – we wanted a modern country of clean buildings and respectful educated people dressed in neat clothing who never raised their voices, who were sensitive to others, who bothered to sweep the streets outside their homes.. we looked at raqqa and saw a society sunk deeply into its own ignorance and tastelessness.. nael loathed our people’s superstitions.. he hated the money they wasted on frauds who promised to heal sick kids.. they lacked all desire to change


worship meant more to our people than earthly achievement, and conformity became an instrument to numb our brains.. to us, life here on earth was a trivial, ephemeral pleasure.. only the next world mattered


i hated that i had no voice..i hated that i was unseen. i wanted to shout in the face of every corrupt motherfucker who thought he is better than me because his father was richer than mine and better connected. my gen had to do what was done. and so i joined a ruthless stream

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each time i marched each time my eyes burned from tear gas, each time i shouted curses at the snitch filled baathis student union, each time i heard the crack of bullets, i killed the fear and the stagnation that my jailers had imposed on me.. ladies and gentlemen .. in the mae of ‘fuck it’ i was unleashed..

maté trauma law


while our govt slaughtered us, propaganda networks claimed that we faked our murders..


by then thousands of syrian had been killed cross the country – al-babinsi died a death that came to seem normal in the light of later events. yet for reason i still can’t guess, he alone would rouse the city. no one can see, in the moment, which of the thousand hidden preconditions have combined to turn a slain protester into a catalyst. you never know which murder will be the one too many. you never know which pebble will start the avalanche


no one cared if you survived.. this trauma robbed soldiers of their emotions – they become bitter automatons, casting aside all mercy, glorying in their contempt for anyone outside themselves..

maté trauma law


when the people were the rulers, noone could tnd against them. they oculd kick out the polic, the security services, the etnrie regime. they could mak eht only revolution tha tmattered.. i saw th efear on the soldiers’ faces. well be afraid you senseless machine.. this is raqqa


the cafe was the greatest painting my uncle had ever made, but even on opening night, its audience consisted only of superficially curious viewers

he had built a tribute to the beauty of his land, but the cafe only reflected one thing in our community: our inability to appreciate refinement..


we might fight each other for a sack of bread, but before the men w guns we were meek and humble, in a compliance that was its own species of humiliation.. oh, how politely the powerless must behave..t 

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raqqa stood at a fork between two potential futures – prison vs anarchy


then there were the groups formed by the islamists who assad had released from sednaya prison after the first months of protests.. ideology networks cohesion.. these guys had everything in place

saydnaya prison


i never wanted the revolution to be armed, and i never fired a gun at another human. every blown off leg, every burned off face filled me w anguish. war disgusted me. yet there i stood, just steps outside the same home i’d lived in for years, enthralled, obsessive. you won’t hate me for confessing my enchantment on this narrow ledge where violence met banal normality, i could feel life as pure upon me as the first warm rains of spring..


i was full of everything except fear. i imagined the bombs falling on me. i would be gone in a second. death was not worth thinking about or hiding from in a basement. there was nowhere else i wanted to be..


haqquna was one of raqqa’s many new activist groups. i’d seen its logo – a cartoon hand, its two fingers raised in victory, the index stamped w ink, as if marked after casting ballot – .. haqquna was arabic for ‘our right’ ..our right to vote..


people grew up loathing the word’ democracy’ w/o knowing its actual meaning.

ideas associated w the west have carried the air of hypocrisy since the partition of our countries by the civilized imperial powers – not to mention the invasion of iraq. always, the west comes here, posturing about the protection of minorities, freedom, democracy, fair play, always, they carve up our countries, steal our resources, bomb our cities  – and then wonder why the sweet words they muttered while doing so don’t sound the same in our ears..t

superficially, islamism appeared more genuine and intimate to most raqqans’ lives.


nael left anyway, heedless of the pleas of his friends, his mother, and his girlfriend, determined not to look back..  ‘do you want me to continue my studies as if nothing is happening? as if people are not being massacred daily‘ he would ask

oh.. how to keep on with the day to day.. when all this is happening.. begs a pause.. a reset.. for all of us..


an ahrar fighter cocked his gun in my direction when i snapped pictures of one of the group’s buildings and, fearing being geo located, cried out that by taking the photos, i had ‘just fucked their mothers’


was he supposed to die for the others? were they appreciative? nael for me was worth more than any idea


the planes killed everything beautiful in this country.. he was the master – as long as he kept to the sky.. how do pilots brag in their diaries?

losing nael had left a grave and indelible mark on him.. it was the bomb that finally landed on him, drastically changing the course of his life..tareq was lost in the aftermath, pulled in. over his soul, he had no one, nothing, no justice or consequence could compensate for the loss of nael..t


in july 2013, after two years spent studying arabic lit and waiting tales at beirut’s cafes, tareq came back to raqqa resolved. form the moment he passed the last checkpoint into the city, he was a soldier of revenge..

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how often i told him that these men descended from an org notorious for chaos and violence – just as often as he, w all the stubborn ignorance of a convert, refused to hear it..


nael was gone from their ranks, but tareq by now had replaced him

war is a team sport, inimical to personal credit


highly inaccurate mortars were nonetheless ‘the best weapon in largely trench warfare.. tareq said.. clean words for such a mess.

his brother had died in this base, near this spot, and now he was firing at his brother’s killers..t

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i remember the sounds of the explosion resounding in my ears, just like tareq’s enemies’ allahu akbars resonated in his… in such chaotic times, one can only imagine god’s hesitation

the old tareq w whom nael and i had marched only a year earlier was another person now.. i feared he was slipping into a jihad’s ideology..



a soldier who was often clueless about his own fight.. taleq repeated more than once.. ‘when you work, you are more prone to error. if you just sit around and look for the mistakes of others, you’ll have the cleanest record


whenever people alerted rebels to isis’s dangers, they argued that confrontation between them would benefit no one but assad, the primary enemy..

during these months i turned to twitter, where i translated activists’ reports about isis violations and posted them on my timeline. was it a way to appease my anger? or an exercise for my dying english? perhaps it just satisfied me to imitate professional journalists..

isis was clear and honest about its war. other islamists had grown their beards and preached salafism, but isis outdid them, executing all who crossed them and intimidating civil society out of existence..


in my attempts to imagine scenes of violence, i invariably had trouble visualizing the individual fighter’s behavior on a battlefield or inhabiting his consciousness, but whenever i managed the feat, it unnerved my profoundly.. how could you recognize the silhouette that popped up in front of your eyes as an enemy.. oh tareq. you wouldn’t have time to think..


when he (tareq) spoke, his keen eyes held the firmness of a believer. he’d just been searching for something to believe in..


i still remember the moment w students when we heard the bullets or the planes.. the kids feared the noises i pretended to ignore.. i asked my students to finish their assignments and then over assigned them some more while the distractions persisted.. i ended up yelling at the kids for not delivering their classwork, even though i myself was having trouble remembering the exercises. kids are less vulnerable to trauma, it might seem at first, but who can claim to know how a child’s inerasable memory might return and distort his or her adult life..t

maté trauma law


islamists didn’t have to exert much effort to hijack the revolution – it was easily given up by the politically uneducated crowds who had started it.. more and more syrians were excluded from the speaking parts. foreigners directed the scene


islamist revolutionaries in syria, who called themselves brothers, studied previous jihads and raced to emulate them.. none however had the clarity of isis


raqqa became the syrian hub of isis.. sunnis, oppressed or imagining that they were, flocked to join, from australia, canada, brussels..  w/in seven months the islamic state would sprawl out on a map larger tha that of great britain.. .. isis would capture swaths fo land that extended from the iraq iran border to the outskirts of syria’s capital damascus – from aleppo to baghdad.. cities like samarra, tikrit and mosul (populations nearly 3 mn made it second largest in iraq) would become its havens..

the jihad market boomed sky high.. jihads the jihadist launched against each other .. to soothe the herds of rival brothers, killing and killed by brothers in a season of emotional and sincere brotherhood..t


a new authority translated into a new reality, and w isis in power, it meant that i needed to rethink every detail of life..  the plants grew and the edicts blossomed..  (no cigarettes, close shop for prayers, women cover faces)


yes isis’s edicts were extreme, some conceded, but then weren’t democracy and human rights fig leaves meant to cover up western perfidy..t..  (deceitfulness; untrustworthiness)


(on being ok w it because the bombing stopped) we became believers just when we most needed skepticism.. we squabbled when we needed solidarity..  in the words of the hadith: ‘as we were, we were governed’

(on women) they ruled women had to wear not only the face concealing niqab (hard to see in market) but also gloves and floor length back abaya.. in june’s heat , these new covering smothered women like tombs of nylon.. isis set up workshops to meet the demand, and traders grew rich selling the cheap fabric at a markup..  on the streets, they stumbled by, the invisible, too-visible women who constituted half of humanity.. their individuality gone, replaced by the overwhelming awareness of their sex.. t


al-hisbah, the enforcers of the faith, lashed raqqans bloody for.. skipping prayer, letting wives out in too sheer veils.. porn on phone.. sex outside marriage.. eating a bite of food during the day on ramadan.. it gave each of us two choices. subservience – if in appearance only .. the other ..humiliation, torture, and death..


(after offering bandwidth in cafe and getting tons of people) i continued my habit of tweeting life in raqqa, though now, under the present occupiers, i did it i greater secrecy and at far greater risk

in those days, i and those around me knew that the nightmare of isis would come to an end, but not before killing our dreams..  we knew that somehow if the rebels were not able to put down these jihadis, then when their danger expanded beyond the borers of iraq and syria, the world would lash out w wrath. but alas the world had no interest in putting an end to isis as long as people like us were the only victims.. we knew that we would eventually be misjudged – presumed to be not isis’s victims but, perversely, its base of support..t


at midnight, if by good luck our customers had finally left.. we closed th doors and turned off the already dim led lights.. as to render ourselves invisible.. and thus maintain our sanity.. our customers were not the sort who abided by the rules of opening/closing time; they believe that they were the rules.. some nights they stayed till 4am..


abu mujahid never had a chance.. the kid’s father was isis..  he walked into the cafe after nightfall ..  he smiled awkwardly.. half shy..  something drew abu mujahid toward me..  with us, he was a kid goofy and gentle. in the space that we gave him, his ideology melted like sugar in tea..t




imagine being a teenage boy in a world that denied that teenagers even existedt


it would go on like this for the teenage fighters, for a year or three. he would shove down his need until dad married him off to a stranger and he pumped her full of copies of himself, soon to be equally frustrated..

jihadis’ kids don’t get an adolescence. their undeviating march to martyrdom leaves them no room to find themselves..t


abu mujahid was simply the son of a father who happened to be an avid jihadist. he was small, calm, nice, innocent. yes, innocent. it was the innocence that struck in to me like a barb. he was a sapling, one who roots had been watered w blight. we met long after his infection, but the disease spread thoroughly and one day it would surely consume him. he had no true beliefs, just directives to follow, given to him by the people he loved..t..  he was told that he and his gen would be the redemption of the previous ones

wilde not us law

but the boy was still a boy and a boy he wanted to be. he felt his childhood beneath his costume, and in that space after midnight we saw his true self.. he was captured, lost to himself, subsumed into a gen that had been indoctrinated before it had the capacity to the time the likes of abu mujahid woke up from childhood’s torpor, they would have no minds, only grab bags of undigested jihadi vocab and an unshakable conviction about how to hate.. t.. fight kill die rejoice in heaven. how will they ever learn how tot live..?

we opened the door for him to our world as a human being, and he entered so gratefully..t..   that several nights we had to shoo him away after dawn.. ‘go back before your father finds out you’re gone’


the last time i saw abu mujahid he was surrounded by isis buddies. in this milieu, abu mujahid forgot our nights, and w exchanged a quick strangers’ greeting.


(there w his little brother.. gun bigger than him)..a future abu mujahid, fed on poison by the ones who love him. he struggled to hold the rifle upright. the fighters bathed him in their admiration


(the sisters come.. covered in black.. and one day.. 2 women dressed colorful.. they were yazidi slaves.. this after trying to get thru to the husband).. the whole time i wondered what the helpless woman though of me and the cafe.. would she excuse me from blame for the rolling catastrophe that had befallen her.. or was i just another monster.. would she even have time to carry me in her memory at all.. did these moments stand apart in the gruel of pain that had constituted her last week and would constitute her foreseeable future.

i felt a weight of guilt descend on me for working at the cafe. i will always feel it..


after i broke the news of the coalition air strikes on twitter, i woke up into the eyeballs of the world. my twitter feed exploded.. americans wished me safety. their country bombed mine, and here they were, showing concern more readily than my own people, who were asleep. what irony i thought..  the twitter world is borderless, funny and cruel..


i wasn’t what they wanted, so soon enough, my followers started to flee. they had expected a brave activist..


to both men, i must have seemed a young amateur i need of wise counsel. i must say that i used to be devastated by the poor first impression i left in people’s minds, but now i loved it, because it helped me conceal my intentions, to be invisible..

hide law


of the town of sinjar itself, little remained.. a un report claims that isis killed 5000  yazidi men and kidnapped 7000 girls and women. i remembered the woman in the red woolen shawl..


trips that before the war had taken minutes had become 7 hr marathons, requiring dozens of miles in detours thru dozens of checkpoints


in 2006 aleppo had celebrated being chosen the capital of islamic culture, but nine years later, its only culture was class war..


while there – interrogated in space james foley and others.. had been dragged tortured


told them european vanity fair.. i assumed that these rebels, just like the majority of the population of syira, if not of the whole middle east, would bear negative attitudes toward the us and all things american. not to mention the revolutionaries’ disappointment that the american intervention in syria had not even attempted to stop assad


aleppo promised freedom to aspirants who came there, but only at the price of its complete indifference to their fate..t

escape from freedom


our shared trauma had pushed us apart instead of pulling us closer together..


picture of book cover.. is it tareq..?

i remember molly talking about it .. but don’t remember who she said it was

from salon interview below:

17 min – the cover is based on a self portrait that was shot by tareq


in the middle east, whenever an institution included the word security in its name, it meant mafioso-style thuggery and violence, just as the presence of the word democratic in a political party’s name always indicated tyranny..t

we need to disengage from both.. or radically redefine both  .. security.. democratic


how had our lives become as absurd as one of his country’s sitcoms


if the checkpoint brothers found a problem, they’d yank me off the bus, throw me in jail and systematically torture me before offering me the star role in a propaganda film which would end w me getting shot in the head. american journalists would no doubt praise it as ‘slickly produced’


who knows which perspective distorts more treacherously – to see history up close or from far away


we were traveling to afrin to the border where people gathered to smuggle themselves thru the fence separating syria from turkey..


it was their moment to assert supremacy over us, desperate humans whom the turkish govt had named guests – lacking the regular status of refugees perhaps, but still welcome in the country – but whom they, the border guards, had been ordered to relentlessly chase, even shoot, to prevent from crossing in their country..


the jandarma who guard the border… are less murderous if you are an arab trying to cross, but it does them no harm to send inferior syrians back to their homeland

if you are a kurd.. well, the mere fact that you’re crossing next to me might cause me a problem, more humiliation to be exact, at the hands of the soldiers.. but i’ll forgive you. because the farther we are from home, the more similar we become..  the thing is.. once we cross this damn wire and the trench behind it..assuming we aren’t blown up by mines or shot in the head.. we become syrians, and barely anything else matters..  miraculously, one step back inside and we return to our roles as ‘arabs’ and ‘kurds’ .. t


if most kurds didn’t join in our revolution in 2011 it might have been because  in their minds the kurdish revolution had started in 2004.. at a soccer match in qamishlo.. that would later become the defacto capital of rojava..


what could unite syrians i wondered.. repression seemed the only practical answer.. who was the enemy and who was the friend..  the answer for both is everyone.. that illusory id, bounded by a line drawn o paper, was never really shared but instead was enforced by the de facto world system..t

siddiqi border law


later.. the more certain you were of your ‘real’ which is to say nonnational ethnic, religious, or tribal, id, the more you reflexively clung to the war. and war is an ugly word..t

marsh label law

five years after i took the decision to leave this religiosity once and for all, there came a gen that attached ammo to those garments and masculinity to those beards.. they hijacked not only the uprising but my life as well, and they looked down on me, as if i was the one who was supposed to be ashamed..  i had counted on the majority to defy such aggression , but instead they remained silent at best and complicit at worst..  .. i was furious at my people for being so politically ignorant that they couldn’t see what was deteriorating and at the outside world for denying me the choice of how i would be id’d.. and now here i was, on the border, leaving at last..

if the war gave me anything, it was a visceral knowledge of how empty humans can be, and how wretched..  when you are a programmed machine w a gun, all that is left in you that is human is the feeling that you are invincible; when you are not, you know exactly how weak you are..


when his son joined isis he knew he could do nothing.. basic principles taught to young isis recruits: jihad is an obligation. parental consultation, not to say consent, is completely unnecessary..


‘i saw drs, engineers, and other well education people. and those from other countries, who had left their homes and come all this way to fight for isis.. how can i convince him while he’s among those people’


‘syrians have become soil.’ at the time, it sounded to me like a meaningless sentence, until i figured it out later; she probably meant that we were already dead.. (after her husband killed himself to die before his son)


god only knows how many wished that that those protests hadn’t happened in the first place. and here we go again.

in ankara..the only intention was to return when the war ended.. return: the word that destroyed palestinians’ futures and upon which arab countries, like mine, denied them equal status. return.

on hold ness


then to istanbul.. then back to raqqa via a byline in the nyt


raqqa was crippled, wounded from each side ..the punishment was too severe for a prisoner incapable of committing the crime of which she had been accused.. the whole world worried about radicalization, .. the world never wondered whether the radicalization originated from the bombs they and others dropped.. t

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should i tell you the story of an improvised street dance? it’s set to the noise of the bombs.. the best middle finger pose of your life


raqqa had not only acquired a worldwide reputation as the heart of terror and the defacto capital of the caliphate (a state under the leadership of an Islamic steward), it also reaped special severity at the hands of the islamic state..

our story went like this: a bunch of belgian, dutch, british and french followers of baghdadi helped invade raqqa in the name of the islamic state and built what looked like a distinctive form of colonization. they fought locals and usurped their properties.. they kidnapped local kids and enslaved, raped, and forcibly married local women.. these guys were born in europe from european families and none of them, i could safely say, had ever head of raqqa before 2013.. the us coalition .. which included european countries whose citizens were flying from european airports to play out their jihad fantasies in syria – was bombing raqqa, while those jihadi orgs were still active in european cities, sending more and more jihadis to us..  this was something ungraspable for me; frankly it still is.. how were european laws unable to indict homemade jihdi orgs and members, while their govts were so certain that my people in raqqa collectively deserved doom? they had sentenced us to death by aerial bombardment.. our charge was terrorism, but the only undeniable truth was that govts brought charges against their own jihadis only when they arrived in syria.. should i point out the real victims of terrorism? should i point out who the terrorist were? they were mainly europeans and non-syrian arab jihadis, and american, european, russian and regime military pilots fighting each other in a war that was never ours, but claimed us as its victims all the same..


since turkey had long ago closed its border, under the assumption that its prior porousness had allowed european jihadis to join isis and then return to their worried countries, crossing became harder than ever.. so i had to make a final decision. what finally pushed me to leave was not just the daily threat, not war’s cruelty; it was the instinctive evil that had started to prevail in people’s eyes..  people in raqqa had begun to prey on each other, and their anger at the world frightened even me too much.. not that i blamed them.. rather, i was afraid of becoming one of them..

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18 min video interview

Molly Crabapple (@mollycrabapple) tweeted at 5:50 AM on Tue, May 29, 2018:
On @salon talking about #BrothersOfTheGun

i feel like the syrian war is perhaps the most photographed war in history.. w possibly the exception of palestine.. but i feel all these photos of broken bodies/cities can accord a certain numbness.. i wanted to show people.. hey.. look at this

there of course a reason to show photos of people dead in a gas attack for instance.. and that’s to prove war crimes.. but art’s not going to be used at a tribunal.. at the international criminal court.. because of that i wanted to do something else..

& i feel like so many of the portrayals of middle east that we see in america .. it’s just as this like.. terrible/savage/war-torn country that was always hence and they’re always fighting each other. . i actually feel like this narrative is so dangerous.. & it actually regularizes more attacks/bombings..t

on marwan in internet cafes.. surrounded by isis.. the daring he had and the commitment to journalism is something that can’t be overstated.. t

8 min –  in 2011.. i saw arab spring as almost a sister movement to something that was going on in occupy.. and i felt a great deal of sympathy.. then as protests (in syria) developed into a civil war.. there was a lot of confusion about what was going on and i wanted to go and speak to people myself.. so that i would learn.. basically

first of all americans don’t know anything about the middle east.. i don’t know how a country can spend decades invading a place and still know nothing about it..t

like a man sitting on someone else’s back.. and he knows nothing about the man he’s sitting on .. but the man he’s sitting on knows every single thing about him..

one of the things marwan really didn’t want to do.. is spoon feeding.. so the balance of making something that’s accessible to americans but that’s not babying them and talking down to them and not writing a syria 101 for dummies book.. t

11 min – (on whether book was intended as a corrective) .. people from the middle east are so de humanized in american discourse... from being terrorists to pitiful refugees.. who need our help.. we wanted to show syrians w all depth.. complexity.. that you would give to any other character..t

14 min – there are countless men who picked up guns to join neighborhood watch group to fight the regime that they thought of as fascistic and violent.. however once external backers started to get involved.. qatar and saudia at first.. but also the us and turkey.. the dynamics really started to shift.. and later groups like alqaeda.. that took huge advantage of it..

(and marwan talks about even these european isis fighters coming in like colonizers)

in this book there’s literally a guy from belgium w a college degree who goes to sexually enslave iraqi women.. they’re exactly the same as any belgian who is going into the congo to murder/rape people

16 min – part of it is really selfish.. i’ve been drawing since i was four.. and *there’s no way i could ever stop drawing.. if i was on a desert island i would draw on the sand.. and then i just like rebles.. smart people fighting back.. i’ve never been attracted to stories of victims.. and i actually find the story of the pure victim to be quite humiliating..  in some ways.. though of course in some ways people are purely victimized

*the thing you can’t not do

on illustrations being powerful because they are rarer.. ie: all have camera phones

17 min – the cover is based on a self portrait that was shot by tareq.. t.. when nael was killed tareq was studying in beirut working at a cafe a really cool life.. writing poems.. but he was so tormented by his brother’s death he decided to go back to syria and to fight.. and w/o really reflecting so much on which group to join early on .. he joined a fundamentalist islamist group.. and as the war went on he started to adopt more and more of this group’s ideology.. but this pic.. the way that me and marwan understood it was.. this guy who’s surrounded by death.. by all the horrors in the world.. but who still remembers what he was.. a young guy who wrote poetry.. and he was trying to keep that memory of beauty even in the midst of so much horror..t.. and perhaps had nostalgia for how it was before.. and we chose to put this on the cover because tareq.. he died.. fighting against alqaeda .. and we wanted this to tribute him


Sara Afshar (@SaraAfshar) tweeted at 5:07 PM – 29 May 2018 :
Inspiring evening listening to @marwanhishampen & @mollycrabapple discuss their incredible book Brothers of the Gun @AmnestyUK with the brilliant @paulmasonnews chairing & @OzKaterji in attendance. Energising talking to all of them. #Syria (


Me and @marwanhishampen did our only event together on the entire #BrothersOfTheGun tour. Thank you to @bantmagazine and to the city of Istanbul, which is itself a fellow conspirator in the making of the book. Fuck Borders. Much love
Original Tweet:


Thank you with all my heart to all those who bought, read, reviewed, wrote about and supported #BrothersOfTheGun. Hardest, most precious project

Original Tweet:


kristyan benedict (@KreaseChan) tweeted at 4:45 AM – 27 Jul 2018 :
The US-led coalition has now accepting responsibility for all civilian deaths documented in Amnesty’s June 5th report into the aerial bombardment of Raqqa (



maté trauma law