By: Zahraa Darwish, Syrian activist in public affairs.
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.
We are the children of oppression—how did we dare to find joy even for a moment?
I wonder as I try to separate the past from the present, recalling how I never learned to distinguish the general from the personal. This inability has made living a normal civilian life nearly impossible for me.
The differences between me and the popular resistance are countless, yet I strive to support it without abandoning my principles. When did some of us start saying, "The revolution no longer resembles me"? Is it necessary for the revolutionaries of this phase to resemble me, or is it my duty, as someone committed to the cause, to understand this phase and adapt to its circumstances?
I tried writing without addressing the present—sometimes because the text would become too lengthy, and sometimes because my mind refuses to confine what we know. It demands to either express everything or remain silent, which increases the odds of my death—either from a heart attack caused by silence or under torture from speaking out.
Perhaps I once asked my father—or maybe I imagined asking—"Are we Palestinian?" I couldn’t find logical reasons for my personal attachment to the cause. I thought; perhaps it’s just Greater Syria, and my emotions don’t differentiate between what existed before or after the Sykes-Picot Agreement. Eventually, I realized I was born of revolutions, inherently rejecting oppression.
I remember the phrase, “We dared to dream, and we will not regret our dignity.” The Syrian people's defiance with these words breaks my heart. The oppressors' main aim is to make us think a thousand times about the price before we rise to break our chains. They turned our lives into hell, aspiring only for us to die in silence.
The poet Amal Dunqul concludes his poem The Last Words of Spartacus with: “Teach him to bow his head,” a recommendation for a child. I read it and weep in despair. But I continue: “I hang on the gallows of dawn, my forehead bent in death... because I never bowed it in life.”
Thank God, I never knew how to live indifferently. I prefer the position of the one hanged in the poem over that of those who pass silently through the square.
Twenty-five years in Syria—my entire life—thirteen of them under regime-controlled areas. I realize that the new calendar in my mind is based on the dates of disasters across the country. The paranoia of living in a constant danger zone gradually shifts, over the years, from a temporary feeling to a chronic illness passed down through generations.
At one point, I replaced my smartphone’s fingerprint lock with a written passcode, writing things under the heading "Publish when I leave." Then I’d remember that I couldn’t risk my family’s safety even if I did leave. I began revising memories, thoughts, or texts to match the intellectual freedom permitted at the time. Even if caught red-handed, I clung to the faint hope of lying in order to survive.
At times, the sharp, small blade in my bag or pocket—once a weapon for self-defence—became a weapon for self-harm, a tool to end my life before humiliation could touch me. I studied the exact spot on the neck that guarantees death if cut at the right moment. Every day, I reaffirmed my literal belief in the slogan: “Death over disgrace.”
For revolutionaries—especially those born into it—the sweetness of life holds an entirely different meaning. We throw ourselves into danger while simultaneously devising ways to survive.
The revolution... Collective chants resonate deeply in my head: “Mother of the martyr… we are all your children.” Funerals for martyrs; those tortured to death and whose families never received their bodies. I followed leaked videos of demonstrations and revolutionary songs on coordination committees' YouTube channels. I memorized every video, for I was almost always confined to the house, except for school. My parents tried every way to protect me, convincing me that nothing was happening—aside from constant reminders not to share household conversations or say what we watched on TV. I started persistently asking: “Dad, who are we?”
Thirteen years in Syria after March 15, 2011, taught me not to judge anything without diving into its depths. In central Syria, our encounters with survivors of bombings, detainees, or the families of the forcibly disappeared often revealed prejudice from all sides. I fiercely defended others, exchanging curses and shouting to reject generalizations. I ensured no one could imagine me taking sides with another group “on principle.”
Later, my anger toward the regime became a new motivation to challenge its root cause—sectarianism. To dismantle it, I had to understand it. And to understand, I had to empathize.
My involvement with leftist and socialist activists opened my eyes to the “double price” some Alawite individuals paid for supporting the 2011 revolution or being imprisoned since the days of the Labor Party in the 1970s and 1980s.
My acceptance of them, my reconciliation with them, and my rejection of generalizations transformed into solidarity—especially after I came to know of thugs and collaborators from other sects. That’s when I realized that the crux of the matter lay in a completely different place than I had thought. This acceptance and solidarity evolved into love when I got to know the simple, struggling individuals among them: those who work the land at the break of dawn, love it, and understand its value; those who study and toil tirelessly every day because they have no other path to freedom—freedom from material hardship first and from subjugation second. The families of dear friends who share with us cups of mate and arak, debates and books, evenings of oud and songs. Yet, sadly, until not long ago, I would still remind myself of the rule: “Be careful; when it gets serious, they’ll band together.”
Those who, like me, have lived in the mountains know that there is no real difference among the mountain people. Everyone harvests figs and presses olives in their seasons; everyone works in the vineyards and orchards during sunny days. Everyone shops at the same market, and most speak with the same "qaf" sound in their accent. The only distinguishing factor is the difference between rich and poor, alongside subtle variations in the weight of the "qaf" and other minor nuances in the dialect.
As for me, I grew up speaking in a "white accent" (neutral) and replacing the "qaf" with an "alef." I don’t know if there was a specific reason for this at the time, but perhaps it was to confuse the listener, to keep them from categorizing me based on my dialect. I only realized what I had lost when I later tried to reclaim my native accent as an adult but couldn’t.
I have a name that makes everyone wonder if it was a "vow" (nathr), as it doesn’t religiously align with my appearance, in their eyes. My surname is one that exists across all sects. My identity carries names of two regions: one frowned upon, and the other caught in between.
There isn't a single Syrian who hasn’t pulled out their ID card to scrutinize it when the phrase "killing based on identity" began. We’d examine it, asking ourselves: "Where do I seem to belong more? Do I look like an enemy to them?" Of course, the answer would often be yes. You will always appear to be an enemy to someone, as everyone fears everyone else. It’s difficult to convince anyone that some of "the others" are just as scared as they are.
No one understands how Syrians of all backgrounds are constantly self-censoring. Everyone knows, as a fact, that walls have ears. This is why some of us have come to believe that there are people among the harmed—or even those who don’t benefit at all—who actually agree with the actions of the regime, simply because they’ve forced themselves to believe so.
Syrians have mostly learned to smell the scent of intelligence agents and to fear the "simple folk," who may not be so simple—or who may be too poor and weak to say "no" to an intelligence officer. We fear scavengers, street vendors with their moving stalls, those who spread their wares on the sidewalks, the cotton candy and popcorn sellers, the balloon men, all the kiosks in the country, the walls—and even our own shadows.
After the great Syrian exodus, I began to feel a gap in my memory. Few remain who shared that time with me. The dense years of war are now buried deep in the subconscious alongside those who left us. Memories and events flood my mind all at once when I try to summon them.
How can we recount stories that are still ongoing, intertwined with the pains of the past, to those who’ve managed to leave the country’s struggles behind in an attempt to move on? When does someone still inside "move on"? Or someone who doesn’t want to leave in the first place? Are they included in the plans for healing, or are they outside the context entirely? When will we—those of us forcibly silenced here—be able to tell our stories? How many Syrian stories have we already lost, their tellers passing away, perhaps frightened for themselves or their loved ones? Does anyone in the world still care to listen to us?
What about those who remain in the big prison, who’ve never left it, never tasted the freedom to speak without fear, even once? What does it taste like, to speak without fear? And can someone who’s tasted it describe it to us? What is the taste of regret outside the country? Is it entirely different from the regret inside, or does it resemble it? What is the scent of a moment of survival? Does it resemble the scent of survival we inhale every morning inside the country?
I don’t know how to explain my ability to leave and arrive safely, coupled with my desire to stay. How can I articulate my enjoyment of walking through the country’s muddy, pothole-riddled streets, my love for everything in it, and my indifference to the rest of the world? I will lose my source of inspiration if I leave. I will lose what has kept me alive until now.
The mission I can carry out for the Syria we love and dream of is being handled by others abroad. We have many voices doing wonderful work. I will carry out my mission from inside. I will guard the Syria we love and tell you what happened and what is happening from here, so we don’t all detach at once, making it impossible to reclaim her. I will bite down on the wound of my excessive understanding of what’s happening around me here, just as you bite down on the wound of longing over there.
Understanding the phase in order to work on it later requires living and documenting its pain from every angle. I chose this angle. From a distance, we might seem like muzzled mouths and miserable faces, toiling with our heads bowed and forced smiles. The regime has used every means to break our resolve, and it has failed, like all tyrants before it. We will dare to dream again next time, with the tools necessary to achieve those dreams.
I won’t leave my parents until my siblings can return. I won’t leave the country until you can return. I will stay until you come back.
By: Zahraa Darwish, Syrian activist in public affairs.