By: Daughter of Idlib.
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.
It was the early hours of Tuesday, November 3, 2020. We woke unusually early at 4:00 a.m., not for dawn prayers, but due to a deafening noise we couldn’t immediately identify. It didn’t take long for us to realise—it was the sound of war, something we had never experienced before.
The streets were filled with cries, the wailing of children, and the clattering of vehicles. In that moment, we understood there would be no more peace, no more hope, no more calm of any kind.
As the noise began to fade, people started hastily packing whatever they could carry to flee their villages, their homes, their lives—all in a desperate bid to save themselves. A debate broke out within my family: should we leave, or stay, hoping nothing would happen and that we wouldn’t end up homeless, strangers in our own country? My father wanted to take us somewhere he thought safer, intending to stay behind himself. My mother, unwilling to leave him alone, refused to abandon the home she had lived in for over twenty years. My older brother insisted on taking us to safety, but remaining with my father. Meanwhile, my younger siblings, terrified, pleaded, “Let’s leave. We don’t want to die.” As for me, the thought of leaving my house, my room, my bed—all the things that had been a part of my life—was unbearable.
Yet, deep down, I knew that if anything happened to my family, I couldn’t live with the guilt. After a long and emotional argument, we decided to stay together, clinging to the fragile hope that nothing would happen.
We packed our belongings, just in case we had to leave in a hurry. By the afternoon, we heard news that our neighbourhood would likely face escalation overnight. That made our decision easier—we would leave that night and seek refuge with relatives in another part of the village. The scene was chaotic: my father helped my grandmother into the car, my mother held on to my younger siblings, my sister carried her schoolbooks, determined to continue her studies for the secondary exams, and my brother held his infant daughter, a child he had waited five years to hold. As for my other brother and me, we carried the food we had prepared but hadn’t had time to eat.
At my aunt’s house, we spent hours discussing the unfolding situation. Then, I suddenly remembered the money I had worked so hard to save—and realised I had left it behind. I also remembered the windows—we should have left them slightly open to prevent the glass from shattering due to the bombardment. I persuaded my mother to let me and my brother return briefly. The darkness was so thick I couldn’t see a thing. There wasn’t a single light on, either from the houses or the streetlamps, as everyone feared turning on a light might draw unwanted attention or make them a target for the bombing. We reached the house, quickly did what was necessary, and rushed back to my aunt’s home, as news of the worsening situation came in. It was a tough night for all of us.
As the next day unfolded, our neighbourhood remained desolate, devoid of any sign of life. Still, here we are, torn between whether to leave or stay, enduring the pain of war, surviving on fleeting moments of safety, and waiting for a future shrouded in uncertainty. As the days go by, I find myself asking: what justice can I possibly seek? How could justice ever be realised in my homeland? And then, I drift off to sleep, burdened with the conviction that there is no justice on this earth.
By: Daughter of Idlib.