Young Syrians despair over unemployment and fear of death

After almost a year of unremitting dying around him, Mahmoun, a 24-old Syrian, often thinks about his own death. In an improvised cemetery in the town of al Qusayr, where he lives, he points at a fresh hole in the ground. "This one is mine," he says, smiling nervously. "I'm going to put a plank on top of it so nobody takes it. I am sure I will be the next martyr, so I want to reserve it for myself," he says.
The ever-present fear is taking its toll on the residents of Syrian localities resisting the repressive rule of President Bashar al-Assad. The best-known of such bastions is Homs, about 30 kilometres to the north of al Qusayr. In the evening, Mahmoun opens his computer, watching images of the wounded in a makeshift clinic. Men and women have clustered around a motionless body. Children are heard crying.
The laptop has just a little battery life left, there is no electricity, and the internet connection is down in any case, so Mahmoun will not be able to transmit the images to supporters of the Syrian rebel movement. The sounds of anguish and despair coming from the computer have turned into the soundtrack of Mahmoun's life over the past 10 months.
The young man's family is on a regime blacklist and he is becoming accustomed to the idea that he will not live long. When he is around town, he now takes the shortest route home, even though he knows there are snipers on the rooftops nearby. "I am sick of taking detours," Mahmoun says. He walks slowly, as if challenging the snipers to target him.
Syrians have got used to living with violence since protests against the regime erupted in March 2011. Dodging bombs and snipers has become a daily routine for many. A 25-year-old electrician relates how he donated blood to his friend Hasem before he died. "Now he's in paradise. I believe my blood is already there and that I will soon follow it," he says.
Thoughts of death are never far away. These largely unemployed young men spend much of their time going to funerals, when they are not participating in the frequent anti-government demonstrations. "There is nothing to do," says Moamer, a 23-year-old who has joined the anti-government Free Syrian Army. "The conditions for joining were having completed my military service and owning a weapon, but because I didn't have enough money for that, they gave me a Kalashnikov."
He recently led prayers at the funeral of three of his comrades who had been abducted by militiamen loyal to the regime a few days earlier. Their bodies, showing signs of torture, were found on the street. The violence has caused the deaths of 85 people since the unrest began. The town's most important economic sector, apple growing, has come to a virtual standstill. One of the main cool rooms for the fruit has been turned into a mortuary.
Only a few shops remain open in the streets, some of which have been taken under control by the Free Syrian Army. About 400 government troops are also present in al Qusayr. Yet despite all the violence, there are shimmers of hope. Shaura - revolution - was born this week. "I went into labour, but was unable to go to hospital," his mother says.
The main hospital is under the control of the government forces. "My mother took me to a clinic hidden in a house and the little fellow was born there," she says, declining to give her name. Shaura and his mother are now doing well at home with her husband and four other children.