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.

Emotional wreck

Breatheeee.. Just breathe. La hawla wala quwata illa billah.

Allah ysa3idkon ya Syria. Allah ysa3idkon. I cry for you. I pray for you. You inspire me. Your stories inspire me. I am truly blessed, Alhamdulillah. In a way though, it makes me feel horrible. I'd prefer living there right now, because I feel guilty living comfortably here. Sitting here watching the events and unable to do absolutely anything. It's a horrible feeling. I can't stand knowing people are in this much pain right now. It's been almost a year. I don't know how they do it. I don't know how you do it ya Syria. Syrians are among the most courageous people in the world. I have never been more proud to be Syrian. I am so emotionally drained. I was watching the video of the kid with the blown up jaw for my third time, but this time I heard his moans. Ya Allah ya Allah ya Allah. I will not forget how painful it was to hear them. A child. Children. Abtal. May Allah grant them the patience and strength to make it through these hard times. I started crying with Hadi standing right next to me. I couldn't help it. Breatheeee.. :(

 - Iman

 P.S. This was the video I was referring to: http://youtu.be/UQYneTvtdhc

Wake Me Up

I saw my mom crying for the third time in my life yesterday.

She was fourteen years old when the 1982 Hama massacre took place in front of her eyes. Tanks casually drove by like cars through the streets, running over any moving object without hesitation. She silently watched in fear as tyrants robbed her neighbors of their young lives. Trapped inside her home for one month straight, her entire life was put on hold. My grandparents lived in a house on a corner that had an excellent view of multiple streets, so the soldiers decided to barge into their home and claim it as their own. They kicked my grandparents, mother, and three of her siblings into one of the smallest rooms in the house, and roamed the rest of the house as they wished. They ate their food, used their bathrooms, and slept on their couches. My mother and her sisters had to be guarded by their father whenever they left to the bathroom, fearing that they would be raped if left alone with those immoral soldiers. They could not even feel safe under the roof of their own home.

My mother told me the story of how one day she peered past the window curtain to look at the tank on the street. She watched it slowly turn in her direction and shoot. I cannot even imagine the fear that must have suddenly shot through her body at that moment. This was daily life for the Hama residents for the entire month of February.

Then one day the regime decided to gather all of the men in the entire city. No one knows what happened to them; they never returned.

I have seen with my eyes the re-built entryway to my grandmother’s home that was knocked over by the tanks. I have heard the stories of uncles and cousins who were forced to stand along walls and then were shot to death. I have watched my mom shiver every time she hears a war scene in a movie or video game.

Buried under time, these horrific memories are slowly creeping up again. History repeats itself, and a massacre is occurring once again in Syria. However, this time the massacre is being ordered by Bashar Al-Assad, the son of the murderous Hafez Al-Assad. The Assads refuse to give up their forty-year rule over the country. Bashar will do whatever it takes, killing 40,000 innocent civilians like his father if necessary, in order to stay in control.

The Syrian people are now back on the streets peacefully protesting for their freedom. However, this means that the nightmare has returned. Tanks are now roaming streets that I remember walking through, crushing entire families without hesitation. Sixty, ninety, one hundred; have we become immune to the number of deaths each day? The stories coming out of the country are horrifying. Unrecognizable bodies of fathers, sons, or daughters, returned on doorsteps blue and black with bruises. Those who are brave enough to deliver food to cities are shot dead on their routes. Doctors watching people die in their hands, unable to help them because of the lack of medical supplies. Disturbing pictures my cousin sends me of bullets she has found in her high school classroom. YouTube videos of my nineteen-year old cousin helplessly passed out on the ground, bleeding from his head.

Why is the world still quiet? I feel like this is a nightmare, and I am just waiting for someone to wake me up. The news on the television always hits harder when you have a personal connection to it.

I hate feeling so helpless.

Please God protect Syria. Please God protect Hama. Please God protect my family. Please God end this all, and eliminate the treacherous Assad family from the Syrian government for good.

- Iman