Between what was and what God willed

By: Maram Muhammad, Syrian translator.

September 2024

The poster is designed by Sulafa Hijazi.

Note: This article was written before the fall of the Assad regime, the victory of the revolution, and the liberation of Syria.

It all began in the spring of 2011. She was a nine-year-old girl bursting with joy and energy, enamored with animals and the planting of greenery. Birds would flutter down to perch on her shoulders, cats would hurry toward her and circle around, awaiting her care, and even the turtle refused to eat unless from her hand. She expressed her love for all these things through drawing and molding with clay. She adored her school and excelled in her studies, dreaming of a beautiful future spent on a small farm, tending to animals and growing whatever plants and flowers she desired, living peacefully with her family.

One day, on her way back from school, she saw a group of men and women gathered in the streets chanting, “Freedom! Freedom! We want freedom!” The chants felt to her like a beautiful song pouring into her ears, opening her mind to something she had never known before.

“Mom, today I heard people chanting beautiful slogans. What’s going on?” the girl asked. Her mother replied, “Yes, my little one, those are chants of hope and freedom that we have long dreamed of and will achieve, God willing. But the road may be difficult. Oppressors do not give up easily.”

At that moment, the girl didn’t fully understand what her mother meant. Over time, however, she began to comprehend. At first, she thought the difficult road her mother spoke of was just a figure of speech. The reality of that path gradually became clear as events escalated, and she realized it was a literal road fraught with hardships. About a year later, amidst bombings and arrests, her family—like many others—was forced to flee to a place that seemed safer compared to the chaos and violence that engulfed their original home.

How could a nine-year-old girl grasp what she saw during that harrowing journey of displacement? Her family tried to flee several times in their car, but relentless shelling always forced them back. Finally, they succeeded in crossing the boundaries of their city, Al-Tal. They looked like a straw in a raging sea of displaced people, their beginning and end indiscernible.

The distance to the village of Badda, their intended refuge, was no more than a fifteen-minute drive, but that day it took them ten hours to cover the short stretch. The faces of Assad’s soldiers, whom she once believed to be “defenders of the homeland,” were terrifying, their tongues spewing vile words with no regard for the elderly or children. They seemed to belong to another world, devoid of humanity.

The most terrifying moment for her was when one soldier pointed his weapon at her three-year-old brother, who was nestled in their mother’s arms. A dreadful silence fell over them. It was a harrowing moment. Later, the girl learned the soldier was “just joking” with her brother. Once again, they proved to her that they came from a world utterly void of humanity.

Finally, morning broke, and they arrived at their destination: the small village of Badda, a few kilometers north of Al-Tal. After a long search, they found a place to shelter them—a space that barely accommodated their group of about sixty people. They considered themselves lucky to have found a space at all.

The shelter was two large rooms devoid of even the most basic living necessities: one for women and girls, and the other for men and boys, with a small bathroom shielded by a piece of cloth. Their displacement coincided with the beginning of Ramadan in 2012. Despite the overcrowding, the girl spent her time playing with her cousins, which eased her burden during that period. But difficulties persisted. Bathing was impossible, there weren’t enough clothes, and the adults constantly spoke of their fear that Assad’s forces might storm the village.

After twenty days of living like this, the army seized control of their city, killing and imprisoning many. Her family decided to return to their house in Al-Tal, only to find it bombed and uninhabitable, requiring extensive repairs. With no other choice, they moved to her maternal grandfather’s house in a nearby area called Hurna. Her father worked to restore their home in phases, eventually enabling them to return and adapt to its harsh conditions, without water or electricity. Through patience and God’s grace, they persevered.

But it didn’t end there. The constant fear of raids and arrests loomed, prompting her father to send the family to Jordan for a month or two, hoping that peace would return, and they could go back to their homeland. In May 2013, they sought refuge in Jordan.

Days turned to months, and months to years, as the girl wandered in exile, asking herself: Will we ever return? Why did all this happen? Why won’t that tyrant yield to what the people wanted? Why did those beautiful chants lead to such brutal arrests and killings? Why are people forced to leave their homes in search of safety? Isn’t home supposed to be safe? What about my dream? Will I no longer be able to live it?

The answer came loud and clear. What is done is done. The important thing is what we do now, in the present. That answer awakened her from a long, troubling nightmare that had followed her throughout her years of exile—not just exile from her homeland, but from safety and a complete family. Crying couldn’t help, nor would living in the past. Her heart was still alive, still beating, reminding her that it wasn’t too late.

As long as her heart was alive, the chance remained in her hands to achieve the justice for which thousands had died. She had to seize that chance, as God commanded, to build a bright future for the children of Syria who were born outside its borders and had never known it; to nurture individuals who understood the meaning of freedom and could rebuild the nation’s future; to ensure they knew that no creature should be obeyed instead of the Creator; that all people are equal, born free, and that they are still capable of walking this path—the path of truth—toward victory.

By: Maram Muhammad, Syrian translator.