After clearing make-shift regime checkpoints, we arrived to Damascus around noon. I pleaded with Mr. X -- the rebel begged me not to mention his name -- to talk with me at a nearby coffee shop.
"Sure. I am not scared. But you have to tell the Americans everything. Either way, if I get caught, I will kill myself before they torture me," the twenty-one year old rebel said.
There was no drama in his response. I grew up in the Middle East. I know! But, I saw no danger in a conversation.
While sitting down, the waiter returned, twice, to verify the order. We only ordered coffee and water. Then, I saw his image on the screen of my iPad enabled by the front camera. I told the rebel, "The waiter is making me nervous."
"He should," he replied in a calm voice. "The government broadcasts radio announcements around the clock. They are offering rewards for anyone who reports suspicious activities."
I froze. He smiled nervously. He continued, "iPhones and such are prohibited. That is how we congregate. I think we should--"
I instantly got up, threw my stuff in the backpack, and flung a large bill on the table. I cared less where it landed. I demanded the rebel scramble in the opposite direction.
More on this trip, talks with more rebels, a former intelligence officer, and a Syrian cleric later.
