Action Group | Syria
In 2013, our family lived in the Husseiniya area, where life was going on in relative peace, like a calm river running through fields of memories. But suddenly, everything turned upside down. The random shelling, like a hungry beast, tore apart our sky and land, leaving us running in terror in search of a safe haven. We had no choice but to flee to the Jaramana camp, carrying with us our simple hopes: safety, calm, and a life unbroken by sirens and explosions.
But what we found in the camp was far from those dreams. Life there was a pale shadow of the life we had lived before. At first, everything seemed calm, until we started to meet new faces. They would visit us regularly, sharing laughter and conversations with my father, as if they were old friends. We did not know that they were wolves hiding under sheep’s skins, spies of the regime, skillfully weaving their webs around us.
We had a small tailoring workshop, our only source of income. These “friends”visited us regularly, giving us the illusion of security. But the truth was harsh and bitter. After each visit, they would send other men from the regime’s thugs, who would come like a devastating storm, plunder what remained of our money, and threaten us with those words that still ring in my ears to this day:
“We will make you disappear from the face of the earth.”
Those threats were like a black cloud hanging over our heads, always reminding us that we might be next on the “disappearance”list.
We could not bear it any longer. We decided to leave the country, carrying with us hopes of a new beginning, far from fear and injustice. We said goodbye to our friends, those we thought were the nucleus of our security, and we did not know that they were part of a larger conspiracy, the threads of which extended to the heart of the regime.
Only five hours after we left, a spy received a call, reporting our whereabouts. The betrayal was like a dagger stuck in our back, and we were not prepared for the depth of the wound.
It wasn’t long before my father was arrested. There was no evidence against him, but justice in that world was just an empty word. The regime was playing a dirty game, and the spies we considered friends were their tools.
My father, a good man who had nothing but a simple dream of a decent life, was subjected to the most horrific types of torture in Sednaya prison. Those walls bore witness to a suffering that words cannot describe.
My father died in that prison, a victim of betrayal and injustice. We were left alone, carrying in our hearts a wound that would never heal.
That experience taught us that trust in this world can be a double-edged sword; it can protect you or kill you.
Today, whenever I close my eyes, I see my father’s face, and I remember those days when we thought we were living, when we were only escaping death.