By: Lujain Shamashan, rebellious student.
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.
Since my childhood, I’ve had a deep bond with my uncles. They weren’t just family to me; they were like brothers, friends, and an essential part of my life. I remember the long days we spent together, playing in the garden, laughing until we cried, and sharing secrets no one else could understand. Every moment with them was precious, a simple joy beyond measure. They were my heroes, always ready to protect and guide me.
My relationship with them was strong for two reasons: first, my father worked far away from Daraya, and second, my mother was an English teacher in Daraya. The only place she would leave us was my grandparents' house (her parents’ home), where my uncles were always present. This is why I was so close to them all the time. My attachment to them was so deep that I strongly resisted returning home with my mother in the evenings, preferring to stay and sleep at my grandparents’ house.
My childhood is inseparably tied to that period of my life. When I think of my childhood, I only remember those days with them. Nothing else is imprinted in my memory—not even our house in Daraya. All I recall is my maternal grandparents’ house, where I used to sleep.
However, everything changed one day. The revolution erupted, and the Assad regime tore apart the peaceful fabric of our lives. My dear uncles were arrested. The pain that overwhelmed me upon hearing this news was indescribable. Each passing day without news of them added a heavier burden to my heart. Yet, I held onto a faint hope of seeing them again.
When the revolution began, and my uncle Majd was arrested, it was a massive shock for us. At the same time, we were forced to leave Daraya in haste. Events unfolded rapidly, and we were displaced. I couldn’t process the trauma. We lost loved ones and couldn’t even grieve for them as they deserved.
I remember the year 2012 when my grandfather tried every possible way to get permission to visit my uncles. There were three uncles (Mohammed, Abdel Sattar, and Majd), but Majd remained particularly etched in my memory because of his constant presence in my grandparents' house during my childhood. Later, we discovered that Majd and Uncle Abed were in Sednaya Prison.
We visited them at Sednaya Prison at the end of 2012, specifically in December. The weather was freezing, and the situation was grim. When we saw them, we could only recognize them by their voices. The sparkle in their eyes carried a glimmer of hope despite their dire condition. The detainees there become skeletal, making them hard to identify except by their voices. Between us and them were multiple wires separating us, as if the distance wasn’t enough to express the anguish.
Despite the snow and biting cold, we stood for hours before being allowed to see them. The treatment was harsh, almost torturous. The greatest shock was when my grandmother couldn’t recognize them except by their voices. Yet, it was they who gave us hope when it should have been the other way around.
Our sorrow was immense. They were completely isolated from the world, unaware of what was happening outside. We brought them winter clothes for warmth. Little did we know it would be the last time we would see them and that the end was near.
Afterward, we tried requesting another visit, but the answer was always the same: “They are not here.” That’s when we realized they had been martyred under torture.
Later, we received news of their execution in Sednaya Prison. Suddenly, the faint hope within me was extinguished. I learned they had been killed under inhumane circumstances. Their absence left an immense void in my heart, a wound that will never heal.
When we received their death certificates, the stated cause of death for all was “heart attack.” Who would believe such a claim? They were likely executed—may God have mercy on them.
To this day, their clothes remain in the closet. We brought them with us from Syria to France. They’ve never been washed and still carry their scent. At home, we speak of them as if they are still among us. My mother mentions them at the dinner table as if they are present: “He loved this dish; if he were here, he would have eaten with us.”
For me, Uncle Majd was the closest to my heart. Losing him felt like losing a part of myself.
After leaving Syria, I began to grasp the magnitude of what we had lived through. At first, I couldn’t articulate it. I was consumed by the mere act of survival.
Despite everything, I hold onto a strong hope that they can hear us wherever they are. I am certain they are in a better place.
My uncle Mohammed was arrested before he could see his child, who was born after his martyrdom. Uncle Abed left behind young children who never got to grow up with him.
This loss made it hard for me to form connections with others. I distanced myself from friends and people who wanted to help, believing that by staying away, I was protecting myself. Deep down, I knew this isolation was slowly killing me. I avoided forming deep bonds, convinced that attachment only led to suffering. I became a shadow unnoticed by the world.
However, one day, I met someone who changed my perspective. This person, with kindness and understanding, saw the pain I was hiding. I was hesitant at first, but their patience gradually paved the way for my healing. We shared stories, laughter, and tears, and little by little, I began to see that even amidst the pain, there was light. They showed me that life could be beautiful again, even after immense loss.
As I went through this healing process, I realized I couldn’t let the pain of the past define my future. I learned to honour my uncles’ memory by living fully, choosing to embrace life, and creating new memories. Slowly, I began reconnecting with others, opening my heart once more. I discovered that what I had endured wasn’t a sign of weakness but of strength.
Today, even though the loss of my uncles remains part of my story, I carry their memory with love and have chosen to live for them. I’ve learned to cherish every moment and celebrate life despite its sorrows. Perhaps true strength lies in continuing forward, loving, and laughing, even after losing a part of yourself.
By: Lujain Shamashan, rebellious student.