My journey into Syria’s nightmare

The contact from Syria called: “Be ready in 30 minutes,” he said. “If you want to go, we have to go now.”

Unlike in Libya, where clear frontlines divided rebels from Muammar Gaddafi’s army, in Syria, frontlines cut through villages and criss-cross farmlands in a treacherous maze. One village might be pro-Assad, the president’s picture hanging in every window, the next a solidly rebel-held town, another a mixture of communities where you could not trust your neighbor.

In Libya, miles divided the warring parties. In Syria, enemies are yards apart. The war is being fought from house to house. Not knowing the local terrain, we were completely dependent on our rebel guides to keep us alive.

As we began to make arrangements to fly home, we received an e-mail; the man who had lent us his home for five days in that rebel village had been killed in Idlib, by shabbiha, it said.

Conditions for our work had been so tough in Syria, that it had been hard to capture many of the striking, bold images that make for the most arresting photography. This man had risked his life so that we could make at least a simple record of the fear that Syrians, whichever side they are on, are living with every day.