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