Syria has tried to compensate for some of the American pressure by turning toward Europe. After nine years of glacial negotiations, Damascus this year signed an "association agreement" with the European Union. It was held up at the last moment when the EU insisted that its new rules on human rights and weapons of mass destruction be incorporated. But, says Frank Hesske, the EU's ambassador to Damascus, the agreement "certainly does not" mean that the Syrians can play off the EU against the United States.

The U.S. sanctions by themselves don't harm Syria's economy much. Trade between the two countries is relatively minor. But the sanctions do make it a lot harder to attract international investment, including capital from European companies, which is desperately needed to revive Syria's antiquated economy, says Hesske. Unable to provide jobs for young people entering the labor market and faced with slowing growth, Syria's economy may grind to a halt in two years' time. Partly as a result, social unrest -- including renewed stirrings of Islamic fundamentalism -- is growing. Fundamentalism was stomped out after Assad launched a brutal assault on the city of Hama in 1982, a stronghold of the Muslim Brotherhood, killing up to 20,000 people. Political repression is still heavy, even though the government is now steadily releasing small numbers of political prisoners. There have been no more signs of a thaw after the authorities came down hard on a nascent pro-democracy movement that sprang up after Bashar Assad took over in 2000.

The seemingly logical way to avoid a crisis would be to give in to the international pressure, get out of Lebanon, and stop meddling in Iraq and Palestine. But for several reasons Syria may find it difficult to do that. First of all, the regime survives by the grace of payoffs to clans and factions, according to several analysts who wish to remain anonymous. The money supposedly comes from Syria's involvement in Lebanon. Then there is the traditional role that Syria has played as a champion of Arab nationalism. It will not be easy for the government to let go of those ambitions and maintain its credibility domestically, among a public that has turned increasingly anti-Western after the U.S. invasion of Iraq. And lastly there is a persistent feeling that the good old ways still work.

Part of the riddle is the position of Bashar Assad. The British-educated ophthalmologist inherited the presidency upon his father's death, but many question the extent to which he is in control. Some observers speak of competing factions within the governing clique, which consists mainly of the extended Assad family, their minority Alawite sect, Christian allies and a sprinkling of outsiders. One of the factions is said to advocate business as usual, despite the 9/11 attacks and the presence of American troops in neighboring Iraq. Business as usual in Syria means that the country will keep up its support for hard-liners and militants wherever it can, in order to remain influential.

The continuing ambiguity about Syria's role in Iraq may fit this pattern. In Hiri, a desolate village about halfway along the 400-mile-long border, the Syrian security service, the Mukhabarat, seems to be keeping an eye on any suspicious strangers. Journalists who are not on a press tour organized by the country's Ministry of Information are told to leave and then escorted for more than 45 minutes through the nearby town of Abu Qamal, just to make sure they're really gone. But the regime's vigilance against people sneaking across the border to join the Iraqi insurgents, or bring them money or supplies, is said to be less sharp.

Indeed, as Syrian officials keep saying, the border is long and difficult to patrol. Near Hiri, the Syrians have built an earthen ramp to prevent cars from crossing, but everybody agrees that people get through elsewhere. The tribes and families in Syria are the same as on the Iraqi side, and people are used to moving back and forth. A sheik of the large Duleimi clan in Abu Qamal said that he was in Iraq during the war and that he knows that some people have since crossed to join their family members in their fight against the Americans.

The United States appears to be worried less about such individual crossings and much more about the possibility that the Syrian government may either be turning a blind eye to Iraqi insurgents or be actively assisting them. After initially complaining about the porous border, the United States has shifted its attention to the presence in Syria of members of the former Iraqi regime and its Baath party and their alleged role in funding and supporting the insurgency.

The country officially hosts some 45,000 Iraqis, but wildly inflated figures of up to a million refugees also circulate. One Iraqi Baathist who has been in Damascus for some 30 years, a refugee from Saddam Hussein, not an associate, is Mahdi al-Obeidi. "There are many people here from the regime," said Obeidi, who styles himself a representative of the "original Baath party, from before Saddam." In his shabby office in Damascus, he claimed to have met with many new arrivals. He does not make a distinction between those who have been "Saddam's men" and others. Now is Iraq's hour of need, and everybody should unite to fight the Americans, Obeidi said. "Even if I only have one dime left, I would give it to the resistance," he declared. Most Iraqis who are in Syria feel that way, he asserted, so it should not come as a surprise that they try to support the "freedom fighters." It is no secret that the Syrians are in "total sympathy with the resistance," Obeidi claimed. Sadly, he added, the government has not done much to help.

On the surface, it seems that the claim is correct, at least since the capture of Saddam Hussein about a year ago. Mahmoud Mohammed al Ghasi, also known as Sheik Qa'aqa, was a fiery preacher until the invasion of Iraq. Bearded and dressed as an Afghan veteran in a combination of fatigues and traditional garb, he urged the faithful to oppose American designs in the region. After the invasion he was told to tone it down. Now he looks like a businessman, dressed in a blazer with a cropped beard, and he has given up preaching in the local mosque. "The government does not have a problem with me," maintained Qa'aqa, seated behind his desk in his office in Aleppo. "I think some officials just became worried because I attracted too many people."

One disappointed former associate who preferred to remain unnamed said that he and a group of some 300 core supporters left Qa'aqa almost a year ago because the sheik "turned out to be a fraud." He said that before the war, Qa'aqa had called for a holy war against the Americans if they invaded Iraq. After the fall of Baghdad, Qa'aqa made a U-turn. "A lot of kids came to talk to him about going to Iraq and he swore again and again that there is no jihad in Iraq." Qa'aqa's former associate is closely watched by the Mukhabarat, and he has been forbidden to meet with other former followers of the sheik. "They do not want us to organize," he said. Nevertheless, he claimed that he and others like him had "very good contacts" among the insurgents in Iraq and that it was no problem to cross the border.

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