Thom Westcott

Rov in g Repor ter

“Reportedly, the Syrians’ love of Land Rovers even extends to its president’s personal vehicle”

SYRIA IS a fascinating country for historic vehicle spotting. Away from the front lines, where life ticks over with a surprising sense of normality, an impressive array of head-turning cars, from the 1980s, ’70s, ’60s and even the ’50s, can be seen on any half-hour amble through Damascus or Aleppo.

Since I only really like Land Rovers, I can’t even identify most of them, apart from guessing at their decade of manufacture. Most of these are not just project vehicles or kept for special occasions, but are often people’s everyday cars, seen ploughing through rush-hour traffic or queuing at military checkpoints.

Their proliferation gives Syria the feel of being a living museum for the automobile industry. And the climate is clearly ideal for bodywork preservation because, although there are plenty of examples of neglect and abandon, the levels of rust and decay my Lightweight exhibits are scarcely in evidence on cars a decade older.

Strolling through a leafy Damascus suburb on the day I arrive, I spot the first Land Rover. It’s a battered light-blue LWB Series III, parked outside the long-closed Saudi Arabian embassy, the walls of which are spattered with excrement (possibly human) resentfully thrown in acknowledgement of their apparent part in funding and supporting Syria’s so-called ‘moderate rebels’ and fuelling a ruinous seven-year civil conflict.

The Land Rover’s windows sport seethrough stickers bearing the outline of the face of Syrian President Bashar al-assad on the rear windows. Many Syrians are staunch supporters of their president, to whom they remain incredibly loyal, even surrounded by the destruction left in the wake of the war.

At the top of the road, beside a military checkpoint, there’s an even nicer military SWB Series III. Painted matt black, it features a giant golden eagle sticker – the emblem of the Syrian forces – emblazoned across the bonnet. It also has a great many padlocks, locking down the bonnet, the rear door and some apparatus on the roof.

The next day, slipping past in a taxi, there are two, almost identical, with the same stickers. They make a comely pair. Matt black is such a fine colour for old Land Rovers. As the old fashion adage goes: ‘black hides a multitude of sins’ including, in the case of vehicles, all manner of dents and irregularities.

The drive from Damascus to Aleppo, avoiding rebel-held territories, is still a seven-hour slog but at least it no longer features a nerve-wracking 100 km stretch along a road with the Islamic State (ISIS) controlling one side and al- Qaeda affiliated groups the other, which was the situation two years ago.

We are under strict instructions not to photograph anything military without consent, particularly at checkpoints, which is a shame because they are very photogenic. But the hardest is when we are having our papers and passports scrutinised at a checkpoint beside which is parked an interesting up-armoured Land Rover.

I’m no expert on military Land Rovers but its armour plating, although professionally executed, looks improvised. Windowless metal plating covers the front and sides, raising its height considerably, and its windscreen is a sheet of metal fitted with a pair of very small windows. These have bullet-proof armoured shutters fitted with tiny tank glass panels, which can be lowered when under intense enemy fire. On the corners of the roof, interesting bundles of plastic tubes between a hard-to-access spare tyre, appear to provide air to the vehicle’s occupants.

More thought has evidently been given to the safety of the occupants than the engine and a bullet-hole in the front grill, which clearly would have polished off the radiator, indicates a distinct oversight. Once our papers are deemed to be in order, I hop out and, trying to sound charmingly enthusiastic and not a threat to national security, ask a soldier if I can photograph the nice Land Rover, deploying my usual line about it being from England, like me. The soldier beams back at me, says “you’re welcome in Syria”, and waves a casual arm towards the armoured Land Rover.

Reportedly, the Syrians’ love of Land Rovers even extends to its president’s personal vehicle. In a tiny Christian village near Homs, residents excitedly tell me about how Assad and his wife and children last year visited a local shopkeeper who had a leg blown off by a mine while fighting with Syria’s National Defence Forces (voluntary pro-government units) against rebels trying to take over Christian areas. “They came out of the blue, in a black Land Rover, the whole family, with Bashar driving and just one other vehicle with them, for security,” an old lady excitedly explains, dashing inside to fetch a clearly much-admired photo of the shopkeeper and his family with Assad standing in front of the wooden shelves, all beaming. “It was such a surprise. They sat and drank tea with us. They are such a lovely, ordinary family.”

Unfortunately, the tendency in the Middle East to confuse Land Rovers and Toyota Land Cruisers is so frequent, we can’t be sure that Assad really does drive a Land Rover. But, of course, his wife Asma was born in England – like the Land Rover – and perhaps their choice of family car is another one of many untold stories of the Syrian conflict.

Thom Westcott is a British freelance journalist who has written for the Times and Guardian, and now mostly spends her time reporting from Libya.