The best days of my life were in Syria. I was born and raised there. I married and reared my family in my country. My kids went to school, and my husband worked as a carpenter.
I was a 29-year-old stay-at-home mom, and we owned furniture stores in Damascus. We shared everything with our neighbors and felt the love around our home. But in 2011, everything for my family and every family in Syria changed.
Peaceful protesters began asking for improvements from the government basic things, fundamental rights. Among other things, they were calling for the release of political prisoners and for an end to the government’s corruption. My husband and I were not revolutionaries.
We respected the role of the government in our lives, but we agreed that changes were needed and believed those changes could happen peacefully. Our family did not participate in the protests. We watched from our house.
The demonstrators were not terrorists. They didn’t carry weapons; they carried signs calling for a better life. I remember seeing people with olive branches and flowers, symbols of peace. So the government’s reaction came as a terrible surprise. Soldiers began using violence to silence the voice of the people, shooting them in the streets.
A war between the people and the government had begun.
The government bombed the neighborhoods where the protests started, including ours. Tanks rolled through our streets, smashing cars and destroying property.
Checkpoints popped up throughout the city; everyone passing through was questioned and had their IDs checked. The military came into homes and took the men, young and old, creating panic and fear. The government dispersed crowds by shooting into them at random; even bystanders were hit. My children and I were terrified. During this period, many people lost family members.
Some parents immediately pulled their children out of school, but education for my five daughters had always been our family’s focus. We drove them to school, and they walked home. Soon tanks controlled the cul de sac that led to their school, and they had to walk between them to leave.
One day, my 7-year-old daughter came home petrified about something she had seen. She told me the soldiers had pulled random students and people from the street and lined them up on their hands and knees, in two rows, in front of the tanks. They were not allowed to move. The soldiers in the tanks threatened to run them over and taunted those who were watching.
Before, I tried to ease my daughters’ fear by telling them that things would get better. Now I could no longer say this. After that day, I stopped sending my daughters to school.
But we couldn’t shut the conflict out. The military conducted random raids on homes in our neighborhood. While my husband was at work one day, soldiers broke down our door and went through our things. Alone with my daughters, I was in a complete panic.
The soldiers ransacked our home and threatened us. They weren’t looking for anyone or anything in particular; they just wanted to instill fear. They even attacked my husband’s car, breaking the windows and slashing the tires. Eventually, they left, taking cash and jewelry with them.
During all of this, I was pregnant. In the fall of 2012, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, our first son. He was born with jaundice, and we had to take him to the Al Fateh Hospital occasionally for treatment. This was normal; we didn’t worry. One day, my husband took him there for what was supposed to be a three-hour visit. My husband wasn’t permitted to stay the whole time, so he left. CONTINUE READING
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