Sleepless nights

She hung up the phone, closed her eyes, and then started bawling her eyes out on the dining room table.

My mom had spent the past few days trying to gather enough courage for this phone call. She did not want her sister to suspect any sense of fear in her voice. For this reason, she waited a few days before actually picking up and dialing the phone. Her sentences seemed rehearsed and practiced to perfection, hiding any sense of weakness.

"Don't worry, Randa, he's a man. They will release him soon. You will see him knocking on your door sooner thank you think."

Manar is my only cousin on both sides of my family that is exactly my age, twenty one. Of all of my relatives, he is one of the most soft-spoken and well-mannered. My aunt treats him as her baby, and I remember watching her monitor his every move two summers ago. These are the victims of the Assad regime. These are the supposed terrorists that are being imprisoned and tortured daily. They are their mother's babies. They are innocent and non-aggressive young men and women who always have smiles on their faces. They simply happened to be caught in the wrong place and at the wrong time while standing against this regime.

Every night that goes by, I worry about the thoughts that go through his mind in that unfamiliar cell away from home. Every passing night, I pray to God that He ease my aunt's pain. I pray that he gives her the patience until he returns to her arms again. I pray to be reunited with them all soon, gathered again in my grandma's family room like we always used to be. We will sit around the foldable table and play our favorite card games, "Kent" and "Spoons". My grandma will serve us her freshly-squeezed grape juice in those long glasses I remember so clearly. The cool Syrian wind will blow in through the window, and her lace cream-colored curtains will dance back and forth. Manar will walk in with a bag from the corner store like he always used to, filled with all of our favorite Syrian-brand ice cream cones. We will smile, cherishing the moment we waited so long for. I cannot wait for that day... In a free Syria, iA.

- Iman

The truth I refused to believe

Today my cousin sent me a picture of this tree that stands in front of my grandma's home in Hama. My uncle and his family live on the floor above her, and our house is right across the street. Our street suffered the damage of '82, but has been rebuilt and improved in the past three decades. Earlier today, clashes between the Free Syrian Army and the Syrian forces occurred in the very street separating my grandma's house from mine.

My relatives claimed that today's attacks on Hama were worse than the attacks during the first week of Ramadan 2011. Only a few days after the Houla Massacre, the regime renewed its assault on Hama. Bullets came down like rain on the street that I used to cross numerous times per day each summer.They were landing on the porches as my cousins were typing and updating meabout their situations. My mom told me that my grandma is usually never afraid during the attacks since she has lived through '82 and has seen the worst. However, she could tell after her phone call with her that today she was truly afraid. The fact that my cousin, her grandson, was arrested last night for taking part in a protest also surely added to her uneasiness.

For the past fourteen months, my mind has been unable tocompletely process what exactly has been going on. I hear the news, I see thepictures, I watch the videos, but my mind is still in denial. Syria- the home of my most cherished summer memories- is now considered a war zone? It was not until I saw the pictures of mystreet capturing the after-math of the clashes that reality clicked in. Pictures of my uncle's car that I used to see parked in front of his house everyday revealed the damage that the Assad regime had done. Its shattered glass, blown out headlight, and bullet marks on the hood brought back memories of the hundreds of times I discovered the city as a passenger init. The image of this tree was proof of the truth I refused to believe. The mental image of a soldier standing next to this tree and being targeted by an opponent brings chills to my entire body. The photos of the chillingly barren street and its closed corner store contradict my memories of it being constantly busy and bustling with noisy cars. 

It is also worth mentioning that the wall behind the tree in this photo was rebuilt after the 1982 attacks. It was destroyed by tanks, but wasslowly rebuilt like the rest of the city. Walls have been rebuilt, bark has regrown, and the memories have been repressed into the back of the Hamwi residents' minds. Material objects can be replaced, but what about the people that will never be seen walking these streets again? Days like this send the Hamwis back not only to the "Ramadan Massacre" during the first week of August 2011, but back to the month of February in 1982.


- Iman

Freedom University

Two or three years ago they entered college with aspirations of being doctors, engineers, pharmacists, and business managers. They made it through twelve years of the intense Syrian schooling system. The stress they suffered and the tears they wept studying for the baccalaureat exam were in the past, as they now were students of one of the most prestigious universities in the country. They were unaware that they would soon be labeled heroes and students of the bravest university in the world. They never envisioned their campus to be the Syrian government's worst nightmare. Today, the priorities of Aleppo University students have shifted and their career goals have been temporarily put on hold.

Instead of fighting for their 4.0 grade point average like any other college student in the world, the students at Aleppo University are fighting for Syria’s freedom. Instead of waking up to a dreaded 7 AM alarm clock, they wake up every day to the sounds of gunshots outside their dorms. While average college students carry Coca Cola for a pre-lecture caffeine boost, Aleppo University use the acid in the soda to counteract the effect of tear gas exposure. They have learned to carry it with them everywhere they go because tear gas is the Syrian government's preferred way to disperse protests that erupt throughout the university. You are running around campus because you fear being overweight? They run around campus for fear of being arrested and tortured by the security guard that is chasing them simply because they yelled the words "salmieh, salmieh" (peaceful, peaceful).

Students are expected to learn in classrooms where the blood of their classmates has stained the desks and floors. Soldiers regularly break through doors and windows to arrest students inside the buildings. At least fifteen students left their parents to receive diplomas, but returned home wrapped in sheets. Earlier this month several students were seen falling out of the fifth story of the dorms as they were being chased by security forces. Either they were pushed out of the windows by ruthless soldiers, or the students were so afraid of the torture that they would have rather fell from the fifth floor of a building rather than be arrested.

Once the revolution succeeds, the Syrian people will undoubtedly look back at May 17, 2012 as of one their proudest moments. Approximately fifteen thousand young men and women stood shoulder to shoulder on the campus squares protesting in the presence of the United Nations monitors. The protests staged across the nation the next day were in solidarity with the students, labeled as “Heroes of Aleppo University Friday”. The students are providing the spark of energy the city of Aleppo needs, encouraging it to rise with the rest of the country against the regime. 


- Iman

"Beware the Ides of March"

March 15th. This is more than just any day. Throughout history, March 15th has been a known date. In Shakespear’s Julius Caesar, a fortune teller said: “beware the ides of March”, meaning “beware the dangers of March 15th”. In fact, March 15th was the day Julius Caesar was stabbed to death.

March 15th, 2011. The day the first uprising of the Syrian revolution began.

A year ago. A year of blood, murder, torture, death. Imprisonment. Pain. Heartbreak. Children are no longer children. They have seen death. They have laid their own parents in graves. Parents have laid children in graves. 365 days ago, there were 10,000 less graves in the country of Syria. Those 10,000 people are more than just a number. They all had a life, story, past, present, future, dreams. They wanted freedom. Of these 10,000 are children, some so young that they haven’t even had the opportunity to attend school.

It’s been a year. How much longer do we have to wait? How many more people need to die? Where is the justice? Where is the world? Can anyone hear them? Does no one care? Why isn’t anyone doing anything? All these meetings, conferences, interviews; where have they gotten us? It feels like we’re just going in circles. One thing we know for sure: the Assad regime must leave Syria.

What I’m asking is for you to try and do everything you can to help the innocent people of Syria. Raise money, donate money, organize a protest! Call your senator or state representative, tell them to take action. Show the government that the American people really do care. That we really do want to see the people of Syria freed.
10,000 lives too many have been taken. I just want to stop seeing that number go up. I don’t want to have to see any more pictures of mutilated bodies of children.

Please. Show that you’ve heard the voice of the Syrians. It’s been a year too long.

-Amal

Martyr Stories

Arwa Damon ended the "72 Hours Under Fire" CNN documentary with a powerful sentence: "that is your responsibility to keep sharing their stories".

I never realized how important it is that I share the stories my relatives in Syria tell me on a daily basis. As an active participant in the revolution, my seventeen-year-old cousin's stories come straight from the protesting streets. He has watched friends die in front of him, shot by Assad's gangs. He has dragged fellow protesters hit by bullets into alleys and clinics. His stories are accompanied by videos his friends have taken, leaving me staring back at my computer screen in tears. Although I do not have the privilege of traveling to Syria like Arwa Damon did, I do have these connections to family members experiencing the violence firsthand. My cousin tells me the stories in Arabic, and now I feel that it is my responsibility to translate them into English and share.

"Let me tell you the stories behind the deaths of seven of my friends in this revolution", he began the conversation. He started each story with a name and an accompanying date he had memorized. Each one of the martyrs was either 16, 17, or 18 years old.

---
June 3, 2011
This was the first day since the uprising began that the people of Hama joined the protests in massive numbers. 150,000 flowers were passed out to the protesters, brightening the streets. My uncle was hesitant about letting my cousin join the protests that day, but eventually allowed him to. In order to plan out the route for the protesters, my cousin and his friend Saed drove to a location that the protesters were walking towards.

Suddenly, they saw Assad's soldiers. Saed began to mock the soldiers, telling them that he was coming for them. They would respond by saying, "come here for a minute, you 'men', the protest is far from here". They eventually ran away without confrontation, and went back to warn the others about the presence of the soldiers.

Other soldiers had already beat them to the protesters, spraying them with bullets and gas. Everyone was afraid to fight back, but Saed decided to fight the soldiers by himself. He hid behind walls with rocks in his hand. He would come out, throw the rocks, then hide again. My cousin described how Saed was the bravest out of the entire group. No one else dared to throw rocks at the soldiers from that near of a distance. In the end, two soldiers began walking towards Saed to grab him. My cousin and his friends began screaming to him, "Saed, run! Run!". He began running. As he was running, a bullet hit him in his head. He died instantly.

My cousin and his friends had to carry Saed off of the street. 182 others died in Hama that day. From that day on, the residents of Hama began playing an active role in the revolution.

--
July 30, 2011
Assad's army entered Hama. His friend Jihad was standing at one of the security points the city had set up, attempting to protect the civilians. As soon as Jihad heard that the army entered the city, he ran to grab bottles of fire starting fluid. With them in his hand, he ran towards the tank. Assad's tank simply shot back at him. He was shot in the mouth and instantly died. My cousin described how Jihad was also a real hero, present at almost all of the protests when the uprising first began.

That same day, his friend Talha was also standing at a security point in the city. He heard that the hospital in Hama needed volunteer guards near the entrances in order to prevent the soldiers from entering. On his way there, he was killed by Assad's forces. Talha was with another person my cousin knew, Bisher, who was also killed on the way to the hospital.

---
August 10, 2011
My cousin's friend best friend, Abdulrahman, was trying to flee the city of Hama because of the ongoing violence, but was unable to. He lived near a mosque that a protest began out of that night at 9 pm. At that time, he was inside his house and was not not part of the protest. At 9:45 pm, the protest ended. He then left the house and was hanging out with his friends in the neighborhood. Assad's forces approached them, so Abdulrahman and his friends quickly ran into someone's nearby house. However, the government disconnected the phone lines in that area. In order to prevent his family from worrying about him, Abdulrahman told his friends that he wanted to return to his house. Three meters from his house was a small shop, and he passed it running. A soldier then came out of the shop and shot him dead. The bullet came in from his back and out from his heart.

The soldier walked over to him and stood on top of him, making sure Abdulrahman was dead. Earlier that day, the soldiers had killed an eleven-year-old boy nearby. The soldier made a phone call and told the others to come and "pick up these two dogs", referring to the eleven-year-old boy and Abdulrahman. They then dragged his face along the cement, leaving scars and marks. They threw him into the government-run hospital and left.

Abdulrahman was innocent. He was not involved in the protests nor did not anger the government, but the regime killed him anyways.

---
December 27, 2011
My cousin describes the next young man as the bravest man he knew. He met him at the beginning of the revolution, and they became extremely close friends. Arab League monitors were planning to visit Hama that day. Everyone soon gathered in the center of the city to protest and show the monitors exactly what atrocities were being committed by the government. Hundreds of thousands of people came from all parts of Hama to protest. They began walking in the tight streets so that the army would have a difficult time reaching them. While they were walking and protesting, they saw members of Assad's gangs. They were at the bottom of a hill, and the protesters were at the top. The soldiers began to hit them with gas and bullets. My cousin and his friend Abdallah were standing in the beginning of the line. They both grabbed a garbage dumpster from an alley and threw it towards the bottom of the hill so it would fall onto the soldiers.

My cousin wanted to grab one of the soldiers and drag him over to the monitors. He was a few meters away from the soldier before grabbing him, when my cousin was hit with rubber bullets. He was hit on his head and back, and then fell to the ground. Abdallah lifted him up, placed him aside, and woke him up. My cousin woke up dizzy, unable to tell where he was walking. They then both continued protesting. The protesters remained peaceful during the entire four hour protest, while Assad's soldiers continued to attack them with gas and bullets.

Among the martyrs that day was a man named Mutassem, one of the best cameramen in the city. My cousin ran with the others to pick him up off of the street. He covered his face with a piece of cloth since the bullet had hit Mutassem's brain.

My cousin was on his way home from the protest when he received a phone call from a friend. He was told that Abdallah was just taken to the hospital, covered in blood. My cousin responded by saying he was most likely assisting with picking up the injured, which is why he was probably drenched. His friend responded, "no, his head was covered in blood". My cousin immediately ran to the hospital to see him. The bullet had hit Abdallah's head. He died two weeks later.

This is a video of Abdallah on the way to the hospital that my cousin later found online: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EGcA2YQB1is

---
It was 9 pm on a Friday night, as my cousin found Anas and a few of his other friends hanging out in the neighborhood. A protest was planned for 10 pm, so my cousin told them that they should start preparing for it, making sure the speakers and microphone were working. Anas told my cousin, "it looks like we are going to be hearing your voice loudly tonight". My cousin responded by saying, "yes, something like that".

They grabbed the equipment and soon realized they were not working. My cousin told Anas to go grab other speakers for him. They were separated.

My cousin and the others around him soon found out that the area they were planning to protest in was not going to be safe, and was not going to be protected by the Free Syrian Army. They quickly canceled it, and told everyone to go home.

My cousin returned home late that night and signed onto the internet. He read the sentence, "Martyr Anas from Hama...". My cousin started laughing, thinking what he just read was a joke. 'I was just with him', he said to himself.

He called Anas again, and again, and again, but he did not get a response.

My cousin later found out that Anas was standing by the door of a small shop near his house, when a soldier approached him. Assad's soldier asked Anas what he was doing standing there, and Anas responded by telling him that he worked there. The soldier ordered him to go inside the shop and close the door, and Anas listened. The soldier then shot at the shop from outside. Anas was killed in that shop along with four others.

---

We hear the numbers of deaths each day and see the images of the martyrs, but we do not hear their stories. We do not know what they they were doing, or how they were killed. 10,000+ Syrians have been killed by Assad's forces in the past year. There are 10,000+ heartbreaking stories that must be shared and never forgotten.

- Iman

18

"How long is this going to last? We are tired of living like this. We are tired", my aunt cries via Skype, as her voice begins to crack and tears start falling down her face. She comments that it feels like just yesterday that it happened.

The deeply buried Hama Massacre memories resurfaced this past week on its thirtieth anniversary. The wounds have not yet had time to heal, and they are now watching the city of Homs relive these horrific memories. The anniversary signifies not only the pain that the people of Hama endured thirty years ago, but also serves as a reminder that the regime is still controlling their lives today. The corrupt ruling family has not changed, the oppressive tactics have not changed, and so far, the world's response to the massacres has not changed either.

Similar to today’s revolution, numerous opposition groups existed in Syria during the 70s and 80s. In 1982, my 23-year old uncle was a leading member of one of the revolutionary groups in Syria. He dreamed of a day when Syrians would be able to freely express the views on their minds; a day free of corruption. During the massacre, he was involved in writing a flyer that described to the Syrian people how corrupt the regime is. They put the regime at fault for the mass killings, and explained that the Muslim Brotherhood had nothing to do with the situation. They released this flyer and organized press releases. My mom told me that her parents used to beg him to not be involved with such political parties because they feared the outcome. Their fears soon became reality shortly after the massacre.

Soldiers barged into his house and proceeded to punish him for insulting the government. They stole him from my mom, their family, and his pregnant wife. They threw him into a prison without providing a release date. Syria's court system is not like it is here in the United States, thus he was not entitled to a trial.

His son, my cousin, was born in August of 1982 in his absence. Later that same year, my grandfather died of a heart attack. The stress of the past few years impacted his well-being and the regime succeeded at indirectly stealing another Syrian life. After five or six years of unrelenting requests, the government finally granted my family permission to visit him in the torture chambers. My mom shivers every time she remembers those visits. She mentions they were “lucky” though, because most families were not even given permission to see their loved ones.

Fighting for a permit in order to see him was only the first step of the arduous process. For two weeks, my family would gather clothes, food, and other essentials to be delivered to my uncle in his cell. They then rented a van to transport all of these essentials. My mom and her siblings had to take turns visiting him because of the limited seating in the van. After traveling three hours to a remote desert area, they reached their destination. As if to punish the family members even more, the government built the prison on top of a mountain. She remembers how she used to have to lift the pounds of food and clothes on her back as they walked two to three miles up to the top. Once they reached the checkpoint, the soldiers would check what they brought with them. If the soldiers liked any of the food or clothes, they would keep them for themselves; if they did not like anything, they would give them to my uncle.

Then, they were allowed to go in and visit. However, two chicken wire fences that were one meter apart separated my family from my uncle. In each fence existed a hole about five inches wide. My mom would stick her hand in the first fence, and my uncle would stick his hand in the second, and they would shake hands. With soldiers standing over their shoulders, they would ask him how he was doing. Fifteen minutes later they would be forced to leave. That was it. His son was growing up in his absence, and every few years he would see how much he had grown from behind the fences that separated them. After being held for seven years, he was finally granted a trial. The government decided that he would stay there for another twelve years of his life.

About twelve years ago, I remember a surprising rush of excitement on my mom’s face as we passed the gate in the Damascus airport. Tears rushed down her face as she hugged this unfamiliar man, overwhelmed by his presence. I was nine years old, and I was confused as to who this was, and why she was so ecstatic to see him. Only later did I find out that he was my uncle. I never knew such an uncle existed since my mom is always hesitant to talk about sensitive subjects.

My mom never talks about his imprisonment with him. Released at age forty-five, he was ready to open a new page in his life, putting it all behind him. My uncle’s story is one of millions. My great uncle was also imprisoned for eighteen years, my other uncle was imprisoned for three years, and my own father was imprisoned for five. Hundreds of thousands of innocent freedom fighters are currently detained in the country, and their families are currently going through the same pain my family went through. May God grant them the patience to endure this pain until the regime falls.

- Iman

Nightmare

Last night I woke up around two a.m., shivering and crying. I had just witnessed the most horrible nightmare of my life.

- Amal

I dreamt that my grandparent's house in my hometown of Hama, Syria was hit by bomb. My grandma, grandpa, and uncle were all killed.

My grandma that I am named after, the woman that is like my second mother, dead. My only grandpa that I know, the one that lets me do whatever I want because I am his first grandchild, dead. My youngest and favorite uncle, the one that has been there for me like an older brother, dead. The house where most of my childhood memories took place, destroyed.

It may have been just a dream for me, but for so many people, this is reality. The sound of tanks and gunfire has become the norm in Syria, especially in the city of Homs. Death every day. Loved ones lost. Children murdered.