By: Tiyama Kordilo, Syrian activist.
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.
I write now in the stillness of night, jolted awake by a nightmare that has robbed me of sleep. I never knew nightmares could hurt so palpably, as if waging a battle between my fragile body, my fluttering eyelids, and a mind that resists the solace of rest. This is the third nightmare in five days.
My mind drags me back to that fateful night—August 11, 2012—when I was only sixteen years old. It was just after my mother’s forty-ninth birthday celebration. How did I transform from the pampered “Daddy’s little girl” into a lost child overnight? My mind replays memories of those long nights spent beside my broken mother, muffling my sobs beneath the covers so she wouldn’t hear—because, as I often told myself, “She has enough to bear.” My breath catches, and my throat burns. I recall waiting to dream of the young men¹ to hear their voices again, triggering my memory for twelve long years to cling to the sound of their laughter.
But over time, my dreams have fallen silent. I would still see them smiling but saying nothing. I've come to feel as though I have banished them to silence again and again. Now, my dreams are nightmares. I hear my voice, and the those of peripheral figures, while theirs remains a haunting silence. No one hears their cries, not in reality, nor even in nightmares.
Mother, I know I'm all that remains for you. I understand your overwhelming fears. But can you see me? I am here with you; I am still alive, Mom. Please, look at me! Two years have passed—wake up, Mom. I long to see your smile again, to see you care for yourself. I no longer want to see the weariness etched into your face, nor the gray invading your hair. I am here, Mom.
I live in a world of silence and ambiguity, a realm shaped by memories and pain. At twenty-eight years old, I find myself burdened with images and sounds that refuse to fade. They are mountains of emotion and feelings that weigh me down, pressing on my spirit. Why am I angry? Why does an unrelenting fire burn within me? Is this anger truly my own, or is it the accumulation of something greater, something I cannot grasp? I often ask myself: Who am I? Who is my "self" lost in the shadows of my life, somewhere between the girl I once was and the woman I was forced to become?
It all began on that day—a day unlike any other. It was the day my childhood vanished, and the sense of safety I once took for granted was shattered forever. The day was eerily still, its silence heavy with menace. I watched as my father, my brother, and my uncle disappeared before my eyes—taken by merciless hands devoid of compassion. I was powerless, paralysed, as though I were a lifeless weight that my mother dragged from room to room, both of us awaiting for their guns to target something else, anything but us. It was as if life itself had betrayed me, leaving me a helpless witness to the abduction of those I loved most. I couldn’t even scream. Reality had collapsed around me, leaving me adrift in an endless abyss from which I have never truly emerged.
In that moment, everything changed. My childhood fractured, and my life transformed into something unrecognisable. I was no longer a child, yet I wasn’t prepared to be anything else. Suddenly, I became responsible for my mother, a woman consumed by grief, unable to heal. She had lost her pillars of support, and I had to become her anchor. I bore her sorrows and tried to ease her pain—but who was there to bear mine? Who could hear my silent anguish?
As the days turned to years, I lost sight of who I was or have become. I lived a life whose details I did not choose, following a path I never wanted. I wore the mask of a woman older than her years, wiser, more resilient—a woman carrying invisible wounds and memories she could not escape. Yet inside, I constantly felt empty, a lost child struggling to find her path in this world.
When I'm alone, my memories resurface, and I feel trapped in a relentless struggle with myself. I see the young girl I once was, brimming with ambitions and dreams. Before sixteen, I was a teenager with hopes for the future, living in the moment without fear. I saw myself as brave, strong, unafraid to face the world. I dreamed of a life filled with adventure, challenges, and self-fulfillment. I envisioned myself as a free and confident woman, in control of her destiny.
But in a single moment, those dreams were obliterated. The vibrant image I held of myself shattered into fragments, scattered beyond my reach. Even in moments of accomplishment—graduations, achievements—I find no complete joy. Everything feels incomplete, as if the colours of life have dimmed.
Sometimes, in fleeting moments of quiet, I see the woman I wish I could be: a strong, confident young woman, walking with purpose, her head held high. I dream of her resilience, her ability to confront adversity with a smile. I long to embody that strength—to raise my voice against injustice, to cast off the chains of fear. Yet she is merely an illusion, a dream that never materialised, a reality too far from the truth.
I live between hope and fear, trapped in the borderlands of a reality I didn't choose and a dream I couldn't achieve. At times, I laugh bitterly at myself—at those lost dreams, at the person I wished to become. I have become a woman who carries deep scars, emotions tangled in sadness, anger, and fear. I shouldered more than I could bear, trying to be strong. But beneath it all, I am still that lost girl, wandering in a world of silence.
I live in the shadow of a past that haunts me and a future I dread. I try to live, searching for happiness, for a sense of self. But how can I find it when I was never the girl I wanted to be? How can I discover myself amidst this ceaseless struggle?
The questions never cease. Is there a chance to reconnect with the self I lost? Can I reclaim the spirit I once aspired to? Is this truly me?
¹ My father, brother, and uncle.
By: Tiyama Kordilo, Syrian activist.