By: M. S.
September 2024
The poster is designed by the cartoonist Amani Al-ali.
Note: This article was written before the fall of the Assad regime, the victory of the revolution, and the liberation of Syria.
Nearly four years had passed since our last encounter. The woman I once called my mother—the woman I once believed to be an angel— revealed herself instead to be a devil in disguise. Even now, I struggle to put into words how I felt when I saw her again. From the moment she entered my life, she made it a living hell.
November 11, 2013 – The Night of my Mother’s Arrest
It all started that evening, five years and five months before it happened.
My mother, father, sister, and I were on our way to dinner—our first family outing together since my parents' divorce. As we drove, a security checkpoint signalled us to stop, and the officers asked for my parents’ identification and ordered us to roll down the windows. My sister and I exchanged nervous glances. Without any explanation, they confiscated my mother’s phone and compelled her to exit the car. Panic seized me. My sister and I burst into tears, pleading with them to let her go; they ignored us at first, then took us along with her.
Our first stop was my mother’s aunt’s house, where we had been staying. The officers stormed in, ransacking the house like a whirlwind, flipping furniture, scattering papers, and taking her laptop, her phones, and even the money she had raised for relief efforts. Then, without any explanation, they took my mother away. They told us they were going to search my grandmother's house and then bring her back. We insisted on going with them, but they refused. My mother wouldn't let us go either, because she knew—she knew exactly where they were taking her and what awaited her there.
I often wonder, had we gone with her, what would have become of us.
A day passed. Then two. A week. A month. We heard nothing. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, and for the first time in my life, I faced day after day without hearing my mother’s voice.
Later, we learned she was being held in Branch 215—a detention centre notorious for the horrors within its walls. Her crime? Humanitarian work. Helping people. To them, that was enough to brand her a criminal funding terrorism.
Eventually, they moved her to Adra Prison, and after what felt like a lifetime, we were finally allowed to visit her. The night before the visit, I couldn’t sleep; my mind was racing with thoughts.
The next morning, we set out for Adra. I was excited, nervous, overwhelmed—but more than anything, I was just happy to be going anywhere that would bring me closer to my mother. When we arrived at the prison, we had to walk past the men’s wing first, then cross a stretch of ground to reach the women’s wing. Along the way, we passed under a wooden structure with a military boot nailed to the top. Back then, I was too young to grasp what it meant. Now, I understand all too well—and it sickens me. It was more than just a display of power; it was an act of deliberate humiliation. I have no doubt that it was meant to crush the dignity of political prisoners’ families.
At the waiting area, I witnessed the desperation of those families and the humiliation they endured just for a glimpse of their loved ones. It was beyond anything I had imagined.
Finally, the prison guards brought my mother out.
I could never forget the look in her eyes that day; nor how she seemed – everything about her spoke of a woman undone.
After my mother’s arrest, my sister and I had no choice but to move in with my father. My parents had been divorced for years, and so neither of us knew how to navigate living with Dad. I was only eight, and my sister was fourteen.
My father was living in his elderly father’s house and working long hours, so we barely saw him. He decided we needed someone else to look after us. That was how she entered our lives.
The first time I met my father’s new wife, I liked her. Maybe it was because I was starved for a mother’s warmth, or maybe it was just because she brought me little treats—fruits, sweets—and I was a foodie child. Either way, I clung to her. And day by day, my attachment to her grew.
A few months later, my father decided to try to travel to Belgium, seeking asylum. He planned to bring me, the youngest, with him, hoping it would make family reunification easier later. But as the time to leave drew near, he hesitated. He changed his mind, saying he couldn’t risk my safety by taking me along.
His wife, however, persuaded me to plead with him. She argued that I’d be better off in Belgium, that I’d have a future there. If I stayed, she said, I’d just end up being used for housework at my grandfather’s. She even coached me on what to say, but when I was with my dad, I just blurted out what I was truly scared of: “I already live without a mother. I don’t want to live without a father too.” We both broke down in tears before he gave in.
Before we left, I visited my mother in prison one last time – a visit so painful that every flicker in her eyes remains with me to this day.
The Journey
We left Syria by car, crossing the border into Lebanon. The journey was long, and Lebanon was just the first stop. From there, we took a ship to Turkey, and then, like so many others, we were smuggled across the sea. In a small, overcrowded dinghy, we crossed from Turkey to Greece. I was terrified and exhausted, and yet, still a child then, I saw it as a thrilling adventure.
During the journey, the last person I expected to miss was my sister. But I did – I found myself missing her the most. We hadn’t been close at all; our relationship was defined by constant arguments, shouting. Maybe it was the age gap, or maybe it was everything we’d been through. We had no outlet for our frustration but each other.
Once in Greece, we followed the well-trodden path of countless refugees. We eventually reached Belgium, applied for asylum, and were placed in a refugee camp.
For a while, everything was in limbo – waiting to be processed, waiting for an interview, waiting for a decision. Essentially, we were waiting for a new life to begin.
When our claim was finally approved, my father and I moved from the camp to a house. This marked the beginning of our new life, but not in the way I had imagined.
I went from being a carefree child to a parentified daughter, burdened with worrying about what to cook, how to clean, and how to balance schoolwork with housework I’d never done before. The weight of this responsibility was noticeable; at school, teachers saw how it was affecting me, and social services placed me with a Belgian family, hoping to restore some normalcy to my childhood.
Eventually, my sister arrived in Belgium, along with my father’s wife—the one I had once called an angel. With their arrival, I was allowed to move back in with my father. I was ecstatic. After living with the Belgian family, where everything was on a strict schedule—when to eat, when to sleep, when to study—a culture very different to how I was raised and what I am used to—going back felt like a dream.
But dreams fade quickly.
… but No Place to Belong
Not long after, things between my father and his wife began to fall apart. Arguments became more intense, and before I knew it, they had decided to separate.
And I was given a choice: go back to the life of strict rules, or stay with my stepmother, who had always doted on me.
At that age, the choice was obvious.
I moved in with her, into a small but warm and comfortable home, where, for a while, everything felt right. Then, she met someone—they got married, but kept it a secret. He seemed kind, always telling me, “You’re like a daughter to me.” Meanwhile, her warmth disappeared, her attention to me faded, and she started treating me differently.
April 2019: When it Happened
One day, her husband invited us both to dinner at his restaurant. I left the table to freshen up, and as I was on my way back from the bathroom, he stepped out from the kitchen and walked towards me.
He hugged me.
At first, I didn’t think much of it—after all, people hug all the time. But the hug dragged on longer than usual. He kissed me and I froze.
I didn’t know what to do, then I walked away and sat down at the table, acting as if nothing had happened.
The next day, I told my stepmother. Her response?
“Yes, I told him to try. I needed to make sure you weren’t into women.”
A couple of days later, something far worse happened. And she was there. She let it happen. Afterward, she made me promise not to tell a soul.
It kept happening. Again and again. I was repeatedly entrapped and powerless. I felt bound to silence because I had promised her so. Even as I began to understand the gravity of what was happening, and that a promise extracted from a child had no real weight, still I had no one to turn to. My mother had just arrived in Belgium, but by then, she was a figure of my childhood memory rather than a confidante. As for my sister, as life put us on different paths, we had been estranged for years.
I tried to end my life – and I failed.
Breaking Free
It took me sixteen months to find a way out.
My mum and sister were moving to a new house, and so I claimed my way out, insisting I'd move with them.
I thought I had escaped by physically leaving, but it haunted my dreams and lingered in my thoughts, always creeping back. The weight of what had happened was still crushing me, and again I attempted to take my life, but once more, I couldn’t.
Breaking the Silence
One day, a friend who knew my stepmother told me how that woman had manipulated her family and caused them pain. As she opened up to me about what she’d been through, she—perhaps unknowingly—encouraged me to speak up. And for the first time, I did. I told my friend what had happened to me.
She urged me to tell Mum, but I couldn’t.
On New Year’s Eve, my sister and I planned to write down our worries and burn the papers—to symbolically let go. My sister, troublesome as she is, read what I’d written before I could burn the paper, and she told Mum, who encouraged me to seek counselling at school.
From there, everything changed. With the school counsellor’s support, I built the courage and made the decision to take them to court.
My Life, My Verdict
The case was initially dismissed for lack of evidence, but I appealed. Four years later, the court overturned the dismissal and sentenced them each to six years in prison.
No sentence could undo the past. I refuse to dwell on it; instead, I choose to confront it, overcome it, and learn from it. It’s a tough choice I make every day, and because of that choice, every day reminds me to be proud of how far I’ve come.
Thinking back to the suicide letters I once wrote, I remember the overwhelming hopelessness—the feeling of having no way out and no one to turn to. That memory drives me to share my story, hoping to help others who may be struggling as I did and to remind them not to lose hope—there is always a way out.
By: M. S.