You can do no better that start your enquiry in a front line dugout near Arbeen, on the old and now war-smashed international highway between Damascus and Aleppo. It is protected by oil barrels of solid concrete, an iron roof, a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, a couple of rifles and a rusting cycle of violence
, presumably to carry messages when the lines were cut. "Twenty mortars a day," one of the Syrian soldiers says, rolling his eyes.And now it is over, he hopes. But ‐ aside from the oil lamps and the cups of ’mutta’ tea (an outrageous non-alcoholic brew originating from Argentine plants, which the Syrian army drinks by the pint) ‐ what catches your attention is the absence of a single trench.