Syrian Chronicles:  Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI

In this series, Syrian refugees share their stories of being displaced as a result of the current atrocities occurring in that region. All accounts are factual, but may be written by a family member or a friend.

By Issra

Fridays were holy days and “weekends” in Syria, but that was long before our revolution began.

I lost three very dear people to me – Salem, Kenan, and Dawud—on a Friday.

That day was the worst day of my life.

It did not begin in any peculiar way.  Just another attempt to live our lives normally in an environment that was anything but normal.

Salem, his son Kenan, and his nephew Dawud were headed to my aunt’s home for breakfast that Friday morning. The town in which she lived in was targeted by local regime forces, and many of the main roads leading to it were closed off with makeshift barricades and military checkpoints. In an effort to find a way through and evade a confrontation with soldiers, Salem lead Kenan and Dawud down a different route that was seemingly safe.

Little did they know that there were snipers positioned right ahead. As the three walked along early that morning, they came across a man on the side of the road who began to call to them for help. As they moved towards him, a sniper began to shoot them down. Salem died instantly, and as his wounded son began to crawl towards him, Kenan’s soul left him before he reached his father. Dawud, injured in the neck, slowly crawled towards the man they had been walking to and hid behind his truck.

Salem and Kenan’s bodies remained sprawled in the middle of the road until the news reached my family. Two of our neighbors set out to try and drag the bodies away from harm, fully aware that they could easily end up in the same position as Kenan and his father. As they began to drag Salem’s body, one of the men bumped into a dumpster used to block off a side road and alerted the attention of regime soldiers nearby. They ran towards the two men and caught one of them, detaining him as if he were a criminal. The other man ran for his life, and later on fled the country after being identified and wanted by the police, leaving behind his wife and three-month old son.

When it was decided that dragging the bodies was too risky, my family began to plead with the soldiers, bribing them with money and asking them to simply allow for someone to bring the bodies home. One of the officers eventually agreed, after proper compensation for his “favor,” of course. But even bringing in the bodies to our apartment was a dangerous thing to do. Across from our building lived regime thugs, paid by the government to terrorize and kill as they pleased. If they spotted people taking bodies of the dead, it was unimaginable what they would do. So Salem and Kenan’s bodies were snuck in to the basement of our apartment building, and thank God the ordeal went unnoticed.

Salem’s mother and wife awaited him and his son, and upon seeing their bodies soaked in blood, the two women began to weep in deep anguish and despair. It broke my heart to watch Salem’s wife speak to his stiff, bloodied corpse. “Your martyrdom earned us a home in paradise, Salem. I hope you died quickly and didn’t suffer too much.” That night, our whole building was inhabited by fear and grief, and those painful images haunted us all.

The burial process was not any easier. At dawn of the next day, Salem and Kenan’s bodies were placed in a relative’s pick-up truck. Our family bid them a final farewell as the driver prepared for the huge risk he was about to take. The first attempt to drive across town under open fire earned him a gunshot in one of his arms. The second attempt involved heaving the truck up a stairway with a group of men in order to avoid a checkpoint. After many extremely risky maneuvers, the driver finally arrived to a grove near Salem’s childhood home. Salem and his fifteen-year-old son were buried there, as were many of the martyrs of our hometown

By the next day, our whole apartment building had fled their homes, as the terror of last night’s experience reined far too unbearable. My family and relatives all moved into one home in another area of Syria. We lived like sardines in a can, forty-five of us dwelling in one house for a period of three months. The pressure, fear, sadness, and overwhelming risks kept us all from leading ordinary lives; I had to leave school, and no one in my family had work. When the three months had passed, I fled the country to Egypt with many of my relatives. We yearned for a sanctuary there, and had one for a bit, until we were made scapegoats for politics that we played no role in.

As we later learned, Salem’s wife and son who remained in Syria were victims of a chemical weapons attack. Dawud, who was taken by the man on the side of the road the day he was shot, was hospitalized at a military hospital. Visits to his room were extremely limited, and eventually prohibited completely. The bullet remained in his neck, and he was later detained and moved from the hospital to a prison, with no consideration for his health.

Until today, no one knows anything about him. His mother is living a nightmare, facing complete uncertainty about the fate of her son.

All of us Syrians share her misery, as we mourn the obscure future of our country. We know the truth to be very clear, but continue to face the most absurd atrocities and injustices.

And so we continue to pray, and so should you.

In this series, Syrian refugees share their stories of being displaced as a result of the current atrocities occurring in that region. All accounts are factual, but may be written by a family member or a friend.

by Isa

I am at a loss for words after my grandmother passed away.  The sudden events that took place as my brother and I were simultaneously placed in jail by the Syrian regime may have caused her the traumatic strokes that ended her life. Am I to blame for causing her stress? Am I the one that should have been placed upon her deathbed? These are the questions that often circulate through my head. I can’t help it though. I long for the freedom that neither I nor my parents had.

It all started when Syrian citizens of all ages took to the streets. We peacefully protested the Syrian Regime, because we lacked basic human rights,  a stable economy, and freedom at any level. We were sick of an authority that was brutal, a dictatorship that needed to be replaced with a government who benefited the citizens of this country and looked out for their best interest. At 24 years of age, I wanted to be out there, I wanted the future generations to experience the freedom and justice that we missed out on.

I faced many challenges by taking this route, internally and externally. I have six aunts and four uncles. Three are pro-regime, and the rest are against, but they do not take a public stance or do anything about it. I have one aunt who freely expresses her disgust with the regime, but that naturally happens since she lives in America.  My mother is pro-regime, because she was one of Hassoun’s students ((Ahmad Badreddin Hassoun, the Grand Mufti of Syria and a supporter of Bashar al-Assad)) ; she believed the government can do no wrong and blamed it on foreign interference. I often argued with her about everything I did to oppose the government. I did not have much support from the family. I lost a lot of friends and cousins due to my position.  Some of them called me a sell-out and a shame to the family. They tried me and tested me with questions: How dare you defy the regime and put yourself out there with the scums that are protesting along your side?

Who are you to decide that the regime is corrupt and give our family a bad reputation?

I was picked up at a protest and held in jail for three months. It was the most horrid, terrifying experience of my life. I was fed rotten bread, just so I can live to bear the abuse in every inhumane way possible. Sometimes the rotten bread was flavored with urine; the attempt of the regime was to put our morale down as much as possible. This was the best case scenario for there was worse. We were sometimes urinated upon along with our food. We were beaten with wires so badly that maps were engraved onto our backs to tell our stories forever. They stripped us down, electrocuted our private parts and tongues. AlhamdulilLah (Praise be to God), I was finally let go three months later after my family begged and pleaded and paid 500 USD.

The dismay I experienced provided me with determination to move forward and demand change regardless of the consequences. I continued to protest by helping those hurt by the attacks of the regime. I took them to hospitals and documented everyday experiences through words, pictures, and videos. I was caught for the second time at a protest. I swallowed the SIM card and threw the phone on the floor because I did not want any of my contacts to get hurt or interrogated. My friends informed my mother that it was a peaceful protest. We had our cameras, phones, and flowers as we chanted, “Freedom, freedom!” I was finally bailed out after my family paid 1200 USD, but at this point I was broken.  They got to me and took away any sense of dignity I had—that is the purpose of prison—but I will not back down.

At this point, my family decided to ship me out to Lebanon. I was taking too many risks and they wanted me out of their sight, because I was causing them too much trouble. I stayed in Lebanon for three months where I was active through Facebook in exposing the atrocities committed by the Syrian regime. I kept in touch with my fiance Amal who I loved dearly. I decided to sneak my way to Idlib and marry her because it seemed that the conflict was dragging longer than expected.

While I was away, the regime was unhappy with my virtual activism and they habitually visited my parents’ home asking for me.  They were frustrated with the fact that I was absent and took my older brother instead. Ahmad was 28 years old, married with a daughter.  His experience in jail was much worse than mine. It made me feel guilty that they took him on my behalf. He endured the same experiences I did, but to a greater level.

The regime specialized in ways to break each person who went through the jail experience, male or female. Ahmad spent three weeks in jail, he was fed meals that contained a type of substance that made people act irrationally. They forced the men and women in jail to strip naked and rape each other. He was defiantly scared. The problem with our culture is that we do not talk about these experiences to get over them or seek help, we just bring shame to the family and it ends there. We continue our lives as broken individuals who are not healed and do not know how to heal.  I wanted to turn myself in so that my brother may be let go. My aunt convinced me out of it, because she knew that the regime had no mercy and would keep us both instead. My family was able to collect 1000 USD and bail Ahmad out after three weeks of his hellish experience.

I lived in Almarra for some time with Amal and her family, until I had to leave because it was getting attacked. We fled to Aleppo, but my parents’ house was shelled and therefore, we relocated to a village in the outskirts of Aleppo.  My wife is pregnant, and we will be expecting any day now. I am grateful for the supportive family that I have, someone to rely on in times of hardship. I pray that my child experiences a Syria that is free, able to operate in a democratic fashion. I pray for her to enjoy a life my grandmother never imagined or fathomed. I pray for a victory very soon insha’Allah (God willing).  For I want the upcoming Eid to be a holiday of true celebration and lack of bloodshed. Ameen

Syrian Chronicles:  

In this series, Syrian refugees share their stories of being displaced as a result of the current atrocities occurring in that region. All accounts are factual, but may be written by a family member or a friend.

By Eaman

My name is Eaman and I left my home, heart, and husband in Syria.

In October of 2012, I sought refuge from the tumultuous and chaotic scene my homeland has become and fled to Jordan.

My mother-in-law, disabled and suffering from Alzheimer’s, accompanied my child and me on the two-day trip to Al-Zarqaa, a city 50 kilometers (30 miles) from Amman, the capital of Jordan. We settled in Amman and tried our best to adjust.

Within a few months, when the yearning for all that I had left behind was more than I could bear, my husband Luay finally decided to try and join us. I use the term “try” because Luay, like many other Syrian men of all ages, was wanted by regime security forces for some unwarranted crime and leaving Syria was not a legal option for him.

Nonetheless, he tried for his mother’s sake, for his son and his wife, and for his own livelihood. Although escaping Syria put his life on the line, staying there did not guarantee him anything either. Dodging checkpoints and airstrikes, and living in the shadows to escape captivity were not exactly ideal living conditions.. The best he could do was to try and cross into Jordan.

And so he did. Five months after my mother-in-law, my son, and I officially became Syrian refugees in Jordan, my husband Luay began the perilous trek across the border of Syria and Jordan along with a few other men.

Traveling conditions were brutal; the men voyaged on foot, traveling strictly within Free Syrian Army-controlled areas, which added the obstacle of constant shelling and bombardment from government forces. The men only traveled at night in order to avoid Syrian Army checkpoints. Unfortunately they could not use any light for fear of being targeted by regime snipers, whose numbers were highly concentrated within the area. Through it all, the group shared the task of carrying a wounded man across a distance of 300 km (186 miles).

Typically this trip takes less than three hours by a car; Luay arrived at the Jordanian border fifteen days later. The men were greeted with the heartless refusal of entry by border patrol. The border patrol was somehow unconvinced of the refugees’ dire need to escape the violence and enter Jordan. At what they perceived to be their final destination, the runaways were turned away and prohibited from entering the infamous Al-Zaatari refugee camp, with promises to enter the following day; no legitimate reasons for the delay were provided.

The men were forced to retreat to a village near Daraa, a Syrian city directly north of the border of Jordan. The Syrian Army was well-aware of the fact that this village was a “gathering point” for Syrian refugees flocking in large numbers to Jordan, so the area was faced with constant, heavy shelling.

Luay ran the risk of captivity and death back and forth between Jordan and Syria for the next few days, returning every night to no avail. After a week of unfulfilled promises on the part of Jordanian border patrol, and much begging, bribing, and intercession on the behalf of Luay’s party, the men were finally able to enter the Al-Zaatari refugee camp. Here hundreds of thousands of Syrians, then and now, are dying to live through utter starvation, disease, and poverty.

My husband and I are reunited; my home and heart remain in Syria.

Syrian Chronicles: Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

By Joud

It was the summer of 2012 when my parents and I, along with our neighbors, packed the food we had and left everything we knew to be home behind. Aleppo was getting more hostile by the day; we had no choice but to leave our homes, hoping one day to return.

We fled to Turkey in five cars along a route clear of Assad Regime checkpoints carefully mapped out by (defectors of the Syrian Armed Forces) also known as the Free Syrian Army (FSA). We traveled through unfamiliar roads and streets, not knowing what to expect. As we traveled, we recalled stories of refugees who were kidnapped, girls and women raped, and families murdered, and we began to fear that our lives would end in the same vicious manner.

Once we neared the border, we paid a Turkish man to guide us to the nearest city, but miscommunication led us to Northern Turkey, to a city that bordered Russia. We felt far from home and very lonely. With no source of income, it became challenging to live, despite our conservative housing arrangements of two families in one home. No one expected the revolution to continue past the summer—but it did, which left us with little money to continue living in our temporary haven, let alone afford the basic necessities. Since our living arrangement was not getting any easier and the school year was about to begin, my parents decided it would be best to return to Aleppo.

My senior year was filled with obstacles and dangers that threatened not only our safety but also our lives. Going to school involved the possibility of being kidnapped, raped, or killed at the hands of the regime, and if we could not find safe routes we would just head back home and miss school.

Given the unpredictable nature of the Assad Regime, teachers often called to inform us of alternative routes or advised us to stay home because it would be too dangerous to come. The days I hated the most were when we would finally arrive, only to find that the school was under threat, or worse, attack. Danger was not limited to school. Five months ago, a neighboring apartment building was bombed, blasting through the windows, living room, and bedroom of a family in that complex. Fortunately the family escaped with minor injuries, but it was another reminder of the unpredictable and psychologically abusive nature of the Regime. I now live with the constant fear that my family or friends could be attacked at any moment.

That moment came soon enough. One day, the hisses of bombs were getting uncomfortably close, when suddenly our entire building began to shake violently. We realized the floor above us had been hit. I started screaming and crying and after checking on me, my parents checked on our neighbors. I thought of escaping, but recalled a vicious tactic used by the Regime where snipers would target and hit any person attempting to escape. Those who were not shot were considered lucky to have been kidnapped, and if returned alive, they returned with horrific stories of inhumane torture.

I did not realize that I was shaking franticly until my mother rushed to my side and held me. AlhamdulilLah (praise be to God), it was a close call; after that experience, I cannot help but fear what might happen next. It is only with the knowledge that Allah (subhanahu wa ta`ala – exalted is He) has power over all things and that only He is our Protector from the unexpected and unpredictable dangers that we may face in this dunya (world).

I end with a hadith (narration of the Prophet ﷺ, peace be upon him) that I feel will relay this message:

“O young man, I shall teach you some words [of advice]: Be mindful of Allah, and Allah will protect you. Be mindful of Allah, and you will find Him in front of you. If you (have need to) ask, ask of Allah; and if you seek help, seek help from Allah. Know that even if the Nation (or the whole community) were to gather together to benefit you with something, they would not benefit you with anything except that which Allah has already recorded for you, and that if they gather together to harm you with something, they would not be able to harm you with anything except that which Allah has already recorded against you. The pens have been lifted and the pages have dried.” –Reported by Abdullah bin ‘Abbas, radi Allahu `anhu (may God be pleased with him).

Syrian Chronicles

By Mariam Khatib

Every Syrian has a personal narrative that is difficult to articulate. It is challenging due to the psychological trauma, physical abuse, and inability to make sense of the gruesome reality. My account is not the most devastating chain of events to occur, but it is painful to consider that life may have taken a different course had the Syrian government toppled peacefully.

I am an American Syrian who lives in Georgia, but I have strong ties to Aleppo. I was born and bred in the timeworn lands of a city with a heritage from the 3^rd millennium BC. The Citadel, one of the oldest world castles, was the reference point for my parents, siblings, aunts, uncles and the majority of my family. Today, it is tarnished by the bullets and bombs of the regime, reflecting the reality of its citizens. Syria is thousands of miles away, but I receive daily updates via Facebook and I am aware of their happenings.

Born in 1936, my mother Haleemah could not tolerate the chaos, constant artillery fire, and the unexpected turn of events. After regime soldiers detained her two grandsons multiple times for partaking in peaceful protests, Mama suffered a stroke and then fell into a coma. The coma was followed by a lack of performance; she became disabled and required assistance in her everyday functioning.

As soon as I received a call regarding my mother’s stroke, I booked a flight to Jordan. I knew that this trip was daring, but all I wanted was to see my mom, embrace her and say a few words before she departed. I decided to cross into Syria via bus to avoid hurdles in Damascus for there was no time to waste. My two daughters and son accompanied me, because this might be their last encounter with their grandmother. The unanticipated trip was risky, but with the escalating situation, life the very next day was not guaranteed. Our route of typically five hours took many detours to avoid the clashes and war torn cities. After a long, strenuous trip we finally reached Aleppo, but the true challenge was ahead of us.

Hospital trips to Abdullah Aljubary, an area in Aleppo, became journeys with checkpoints manned by regime forces that persistently stopped us to inquire about our whereabouts. We played the beseeching game and promised them that we simply wanted to visit my mother who was ill with a low chance of survival. One of the visits kept us on our toes; I called my son and told him to meet me at the entrance of the hospital so we can grab him. He hustled towards me, which caught the attention of a regime solider who swiftly picked him up.

I was ordered to leave my 21-year-old son in the hands of the merciless soldiers for three long hours. He never shared the details of his captivity until we returned to the United States. He was held at gunpoint to his head and became a worthy prey especially when they found out he was an American citizen. It was a mocking dialogue between two soldiers who were debating his future. After my nephew implored them for hours to let him go, they strip searched him, took all of his money, and let him go.

Bassem’s experience was grim but nowhere near what his cousins endured in jail cells. I am indebted to Allah for Bassem’s freedom which could have been my last waking moment with him! The very next day, my brother insisted that we depart the blessed land. We had no choice; we surpassed yesterday’s detainment with the mercy of Allah, but could not guarantee what was ahead. Regime soldiers began searching the neighborhood door to door for ID’s, and my American citizenship was not going to make my case stress free. I left with a heavy heart wanting to stay alongside my mother whose days were numbered.

Two weeks later the home of my childhood was demolished in Bab Al Hadid by the regime shelling. My family survived the attack because they were in the basement taking cover from the shelling. This began the displacement process for many family members who took refuge in the house. My mother was taken to another residence temporarily while her paperwork procedures were completed. She no longer could live in Syria as her diabetes medicine was scarce, and she needed physical therapy to heal from the stroke.

After 76 years, my mother was forced to leave the only country she ever knew. She was taken to Yemen after waiting in the Damascus airport for three days, just to get on a flight. After only a month there, she passed away from another stroke on the first day of Eid Al Adha in 2012. Haleemah couldn’t handle the separation from all that she loved and was accustomed to. She couldn’t bear to leave her birthplace, and protested by completely leaving this world of injustice and oppression. I could not help but think of her every time I stumbled upon the following verse:

Qur’an 22:40 “[They are] those who have been evicted from their homes without right – only because they say, “Our Lord is Allah.” And were it not that Allah checks the people, some by means of others, there would have been demolished monasteries, churches, synagogues, and mosques in which the name of Allah is much mentioned. And Allah will surely support those who support Him. Indeed, Allah is Powerful and Exalted in Might.”

The Arab Spring ignited a fire of long overdue revolt fueled by years of oppression in all of its forms. It first pressed its embers into the hearts of the Tunisians; from there, many other countries followed. However, most unforeseen was the Syrian Revolution of 2011, sparked by a few schoolboys who painted anti-government phrases on their school walls. Any uprising in Syria was highly unexpected, simply because the ruling Assad regime had suppressed all forms of political pluralism with utmost brutality, while maintaining a facade of progressivism to the outside world. Two years and two months later, the Syrian struggle to exist and resist continues. Syrian Stories is a new series focused on sharing the personal narratives of Syrians affected by the violence in their homeland.

 
By Issra

Spring here only lasts for a few weeks.

Naturally, we try to spend every minute outside before the pleasant weather becomes a sticky, humid summer.

Spring nights are especially my favorite. The feeling is mutual with my mom. She makes us some tea and carries it outside to the porch. I follow.

Something about the cool breeze on these nights brings back memories of my visits to Syria. Reminisces that always return during this time of the year; passing late hours of the evening on the rooftop of my favorite aunt’s home as she and my cousins spoil us with love, attention, and tea. The air, cool and refreshing, brought along distinct scents of late-night barbecuing and fragrant flowers. The only light emanated from the glowing, green minaret of the mosque next door.

My mom’s voice interrupts my thoughts, but not abruptly: I am not surprised to hear that she is re-living similar memories. Yet, the melancholy reality of today has infringed upon her delightful recollections of the past. She says exactly what is on my mind.

“This weather reminds me so much of Syria. The cool breeze, especially . . .

Do you remember how we used to sit in your tay-tay’s small courtyard, the whole family cramped around the food? Do you remember her flowers, and all the kids running around? It was far from luxurious . . . but it was definitely comforting to know safety, to have everyone around you.”

I remember all right. Tay-Tay, my paternal grandmother, is now far from that comfort. A few months into the uprising, her movement was paralyzed by a stroke. It is disheartening to see her displaced in her own country, having to leave her home several times to flee the violence, especially in the state she is in.

And being that her home was completely burned, what was there to return to anyway?

Around the same time my Tay-Tay suffered a stroke, my maternal grandmother, Sitti, also fell ill. Sitti was always known to be a strong and healthy woman for her age; within a few months into the uprising, she died. Jiddo soon followed her. My aunts told us that he could not live without her; he would talk to her picture every night and visit her grave as often as he could.

For safety reasons, we were unable to attend their funerals. It pains me to know that my mother lost both of her parents in one year, but was prevented from saying goodbye, or having any type of closure…

“I am sitting here and I all I can think of is how secure our family used to be.

Here we are, privileged to be safe and settled. I can’t stop worrying about them and their living conditions. Multiple families housed together in small apartments, like a bunch of chickens in a roost. The simplest of their needs cannot be met because they are unable take a step outside for fear of snipers or armed soldiers…”

When my mother says this, I think of my cousin Ahmad. Sometimes regime forces would send empty buses into our hometown and fill them with young detainees. Ali, my other cousin, slept in the factory where he worked all day. He would sleep there for ten days in a row sometimes in an effort to evade “imprisonment”, because it was often much more than what the general term implies.

Likewise, my uncle Hasan fled his home and moved to a less dangerous area in the suburbs of Damascus. A few days later, he returned to shower and collect some of his family’s belongings that they had forgotten in the hassle of things. A few hours after leaving his home, the apartment building was hit by scud missiles.

I wonder who is better off: the family members who chose to remain in Syria, or those who have become refugees.

“And the ones who fled – look at them now, in a foreign country with nothing but a few changes of clothes. They have left everything behind. Who knows what their homes look like, or if they still even exist? Are their walls still standing?”

I am not quite sure of the answer, Mama. But I know that the walls of my cousins who fled to new homes in foreign countries are completely bare. No history, no family memories there. Nothing to reminisce about, as I do now.

“Syria was beautiful. They ruined her, may God bring ruin upon them.”

Her words drag through my mind a film of painful images of the last two years, leaving me teary-eyed and heavy-hearted.

My mind contemplates one question: When will this nightmare end…?

I look up to the dark sky and make a prayer.