Published : 04-02-2025
Action Group | Syria
In 2013, our family lived in the Husseiniya area, where life flowed peacefully, like a calm river meandering through fields of memories. But suddenly, everything was turned upside down. Random shelling, like a ravenous beast, tore through our sky and land, forcing us to flee in terror, desperately searching for a safe haven. With no other choice, we sought refuge in the Jaramana camp, carrying with us our fragile hopes—safety, tranquility, and a life unbroken by sirens and explosions.
But what we found in the camp was far from the dreams we carried. Life there was merely a pale shadow of what we had known before. At first, everything seemed calm—until we started meeting new faces. They visited us regularly, sharing laughter and conversations with my father, as if they were old friends. We did not know then that they were wolves in sheep’s clothing—spies of the regime, skillfully weaving their webs around us.
Our only source of income was a small tailoring workshop, which became a target for these so-called “friends.” They gave us the illusion of security, only for the regime’s thugs to arrive after each visit, descending upon us like a merciless storm. They plundered what little we had and left us trembling under the weight of their threats, words that still echo in my ears to this day: “We will make you disappear from the face of the earth.” These threats loomed over us like a black cloud, a constant reminder that we could be next on the list of the disappeared.
We could not endure it any longer. With heavy hearts, we decided to leave the country, hoping for a new beginning—one far from fear and injustice. We bid farewell to those we believed were part of our safety, unaware that they were threads in a larger conspiracy, woven deep into the regime’s grip. Just five hours after our departure, one of the spies made a call, betraying our whereabouts. The betrayal struck like a dagger to the back, its wound deeper than we could have imagined.
It wasn’t long before my father was arrested. There was no evidence against him, but in that world, justice was just an empty word. The regime played a dirty game, and the informants we had once trusted were merely their pawns. My father, a simple man who wanted nothing more than a decent life, was subjected to the most brutal forms of torture in Sednaya prison. Those walls bore witness to a suffering that no words could ever describe.
My father died in that prison—a victim of betrayal and injustice. We were left alone, carrying within us a wound that will never heal. That experience taught us a painful truth: trust can be a double-edged sword—it can protect you, or it can destroy you. Today, every time I close my eyes, I see my father’s face. I remember those days when we thought we were living, only to realize we had merely been running from death.
Action Group | Syria
In 2013, our family lived in the Husseiniya area, where life flowed peacefully, like a calm river meandering through fields of memories. But suddenly, everything was turned upside down. Random shelling, like a ravenous beast, tore through our sky and land, forcing us to flee in terror, desperately searching for a safe haven. With no other choice, we sought refuge in the Jaramana camp, carrying with us our fragile hopes—safety, tranquility, and a life unbroken by sirens and explosions.
But what we found in the camp was far from the dreams we carried. Life there was merely a pale shadow of what we had known before. At first, everything seemed calm—until we started meeting new faces. They visited us regularly, sharing laughter and conversations with my father, as if they were old friends. We did not know then that they were wolves in sheep’s clothing—spies of the regime, skillfully weaving their webs around us.
Our only source of income was a small tailoring workshop, which became a target for these so-called “friends.” They gave us the illusion of security, only for the regime’s thugs to arrive after each visit, descending upon us like a merciless storm. They plundered what little we had and left us trembling under the weight of their threats, words that still echo in my ears to this day: “We will make you disappear from the face of the earth.” These threats loomed over us like a black cloud, a constant reminder that we could be next on the list of the disappeared.
We could not endure it any longer. With heavy hearts, we decided to leave the country, hoping for a new beginning—one far from fear and injustice. We bid farewell to those we believed were part of our safety, unaware that they were threads in a larger conspiracy, woven deep into the regime’s grip. Just five hours after our departure, one of the spies made a call, betraying our whereabouts. The betrayal struck like a dagger to the back, its wound deeper than we could have imagined.
It wasn’t long before my father was arrested. There was no evidence against him, but in that world, justice was just an empty word. The regime played a dirty game, and the informants we had once trusted were merely their pawns. My father, a simple man who wanted nothing more than a decent life, was subjected to the most brutal forms of torture in Sednaya prison. Those walls bore witness to a suffering that no words could ever describe.
My father died in that prison—a victim of betrayal and injustice. We were left alone, carrying within us a wound that will never heal. That experience taught us a painful truth: trust can be a double-edged sword—it can protect you, or it can destroy you. Today, every time I close my eyes, I see my father’s face. I remember those days when we thought we were living, only to realize we had merely been running from death.
