We spotted him, my translator and I, when stopping off with our driver to inspect a one-story house in the Aleppo countryside that had narrowly escaped being hit overnight by a missile. That’s when we noticed him — a gaunt, tall, young man dressed in black with a neatly trimmed beard.

He seemed very self-possessed. There was a confidence in his crisp, soldierly movements as he examined the missile shards. He kept his distance from me, clearly not wanting to interact with a Westerner. I got the impression he viewed me as an infidel. And he was circumspect in conversation with my translator, changing the subject whenever asked about his militia affiliation.