A Hope More Powerful Than the Sea

by Melissa Fleming

  On March 18, in a coordinated action, people in Damascus, Homs, and Baniyas also took to the streets along with the people of Daraa to demand the release of Daraa’s children while chanting, “God, Syria, freedom.”

  Doaa stood outside her home and watched as protesters marched by shouting, “End the emergency law,” and demanding the release of political prisoners, including the boys of Daraa. She stood at the edge of the sidewalk, just outside her front door, as the protesters passed right in front of her, so close that she could have reached out and touched them. The energy and promise of the demonstration exhilarated her. Her whole life she had been told that the people of Syria would never defy their government and that she had to accept things as they were. But as she stood there watching the demonstrators file past her, for a moment she felt the urge to step off the sidewalk and join them, to be a part of what would be a new Syria. Suddenly, to her surprise, the police began to fire tear gas at the protesters and blast them with high-pressure water cannons from advancing big trucks. Her excitement turned to horror as protesters ran screaming in all directions or fell helpless to the ground. The street in front of her home had, in an instant, turned into the site of a confrontation. Horrified, she retreated to the safety of the house.

  Later that day, outside the Al-Omari Mosque in the center of town, demonstrators gathered and staged a sit-in, declaring their Friday protest a Day of Dignity and demanding the release of the boys and the resignation of the governor of Daraa. This time, the security forces at the mosque did more than fire tear gas. They opened fire on the protesters, killing at least four people.

  These were the first fatalities in a war that would go on to kill over 250,000 and force half the country from their homes—over 5 million Syrians becoming refugees abroad and almost 6.5 million displaced inside the country. Much of Daraa’s population would eventually be driven from their homes, while schools, homes, and hospitals would be reduced to rubble.

  Reports of the use of force against peaceful demonstrators in Daraa made international news, and the response from the global community was swift. At the United Nations in New York, Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon issued a statement through his spokesperson stating that the use of lethal force against protesters was unacceptable and urging “the Syrian authorities to refrain from violence and to abide by their international commitments regarding human rights, which guarantee the freedom of opinion and expression, including the freedom of the press and the right to peaceful assembly.”

  The secretary-general said he believed that it was the “responsibility of the government in Syria to listen to the legitimate aspirations of the people and address them through inclusive political dialogue and genuine reforms, not repression.”

  The Syrian government, however, had a different version of events. According to Syria’s state news agency, SANA, “Infiltrators took advantage of a gathering of citizens near the Omari mosque in the city of Daraa on Friday afternoon to provoke chaos through acts of violence, which resulted in damage to private and public property.” SANA claimed that the infiltrators had set cars and shops on fire and attacked security forces.

  Despite the government’s violent reaction, demonstrations continued to spread across Syria, as furious citizens demanded reform. On Mother’s Day in Syria, which falls on March 21, SANA ran a story that quoted a source in the Assad administration, stating that a committee had been formed to investigate the violent clashes in Daraa and that they had decided to release a number of “young men.”

  The boys from Daraa were given back their clothes and backpacks and taken back to their home, released in the al-Saraya square to a crowd of thousands of cheering demonstrators. But the excitement soon turned to horror as it became clear that some of them, some as young as twelve, had been tortured. Their backs revealed gaping wounds left by electric cables that the guards had used as whips. The boys had cigarette burns on their faces, and some had fingernails missing. Word of the boys’ condition fueled even greater anger. Even in a regime known for suppressing dissent, the torture of children was unthinkable. The boys of Daraa became icons of the budding revolution, and the protests grew.

  The government hoped the release of the boys would quell the movement; they sent a senior envoy on behalf of the president’s office to speak to crowds of protesters. He reminded the crowds that the president had set the young prisoners free and that he was aware of the protesters’ demands. The envoy also said that the question of who had instigated the violence that erupted following the arrests was being investigated, but it was believed that the perpetrators were people impersonating security forces. He added that President Assad was sending personal representatives to the families of the dead protesters to offer his condolences.

  These gestures satisfied no one, and as the protests raged on, the government accused demonstrators of ignoring these actions in an attempt to overthrow the state. Security forces started entering the city in large numbers. In state media newscasts, demonstrators were charged with being linked to terrorists. Blame was placed on “outlaws” such as President Assad’s estranged cousin Ribal Rifaat al-Assad, who was exiled from Syria as a child and who became a vocal critic of the government, or Abdul Haleem Khaddam, an opposition ex–vice president who had turned on the government in 2005, defected to France, and called for regime change. Assad also claimed that foreign elements were trying to destroy the country.

  That Mother’s Day, Doaa’s world was changed forever. Every year, as a family tradition, she, her mother, sisters, and little brother would visit their grandfather for lunch and visit the cemetery to read the al-Fatiha, the first chapter of the Quran, over her grandmother’s grave, an important ritual for Doaa. After reading the al-Fatiha, the children would hand out ma’amoul cookies filled with dates, and single flowers from their bouquet, to the other cemetery visitors, receiving similar small gifts in return.

  On that particular day Hanaa’s instinct was to stay home. Outside the door of their home, the street that was usually bustling with passersby and shoppers was eerily silent. There was talk of snipers, checkpoints, and clashes between demonstrators and government forces. To get to her father’s house, Hanaa and her children would have to venture into the city center, where the clashes were at their fiercest. On top of all this, Shokri was at work and could not accompany them until much later in the day.

  However, Doaa wouldn’t hear of staying at home. She loved visiting her grandfather’s old house with its budding garden where she would play with her younger cousins. At least thirty of her family members were expected to be there, an occasion she did not want to miss.

  “Mama,” she insisted, “we go every year. We can’t stop doing what we love.”

  Hanaa eventually gave in, knowing that if she didn’t take her, Doaa would probably attempt to go on her own, leaving her at home worrying. Throughout the unrest in Syria, Hanaa wanted to give her daughters and Hamudi a sense of normalcy. However, nothing about the journey that awaited them would be normal.

  Hanaa decided that the safest way to get to her father’s was to go by taxi. Dressed in their best clothes, and carefully carrying boxes that held chocolate cake and assorted cookies, they set out.

  At first, Hanaa’s fears seemed unfounded. She walked out the door with Doaa, Saja, Nawara, and Hamudi and looked out to their street in El-Kashef. Fewer people than usual were out, but the shops were still serving customers and people were going about their business. Doaa spotted the usual gathering of neighbors in the shady square; the popular Abu Youssef falafel shop had its regular line of people waiting to order and the corner store where Doaa and her sisters bought sweets and chips had its door wide-open. For a moment the family forgot the violence that was sweeping through their city and upsetting the peace of their lives. Doaa strolled down the street smiling at the thought of visiting her grandmother’s grave and spending a day with her family.

  It was only a fifteen-minute ride to Doaa’s grandfather’s house. Normally, taxis were abundant and chea
p: thirty-five Syrian pounds for the ride to the city center. But that day, the few cars that drove by had their windows up and wouldn’t slow to Hanaa’s waving arm. Finally, a taxi stopped and the driver rolled down his window to tell them his price—250 pounds, a 600 percent markup. He said this was his “risk fee.” Doaa was appalled that the driver would charge so much, but if they wanted to get to her grandfather’s, they had no choice but to pay the driver’s price.

  They piled into the taxi, careful to not crush the cake or wrinkle their good clothes. Doaa caught sight of herself in the side mirror and smoothed her brightly patterned veil, wanting to look her best for the celebration.

  The young driver was extremely nervous, breathing hard and constantly looking over his shoulders. As they made their way through the militarized zones in Daraa, they heard gunshots, making the driver jerk in his seat and Doaa think that perhaps her mother’s fears were not unfounded. At every turn, they were stopped at a military roadblock. The driver tried to get around them by taking back roads and promised to take the family as close as he could to their destination.

  As they neared the city center, Doaa spotted dark gray smoke rising a block away. They turned a corner and saw a police station on fire. Flames bloomed over its roof and shot violently out of its windows, and the smell of smoke began to fill the taxi, burning Doaa’s throat. Police officers ran from the building to escape the flames, and the driver slammed on the brakes. “The protesters set it on fire,” he shouted as the car screeched to a halt. But Doaa could barely hear him over the roaring of the fire and the shouts of people on the street. Scanning the scene through the windshield, she suddenly saw through the smoke protesters throwing rocks and shouting at the fleeing police. She pressed against the window, trying to get a clear view of what was happening.

  “All hell is going to break loose now.” The fear in the driver’s voice terrified Doaa. “I’m sorry, but you have to get out. Keep close to the walls or they will shoot you.” Doaa couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This driver was going to leave them in the middle of this chaos? And why would her own government shoot her just for being on the street? Reluctantly, Hanaa paid the driver and the family got out. Hanaa kept Hamudi close, while the girls clustered together. The heat from the fire pressed against them as they began to walk as fast as they could away from it, looking around warily. Doaa’s heart raced as she realized that her mother had been right. Things were unraveling. The demonstrators they saw were no longer carrying olive branches and throwing stones, now they were setting fires, and the security forces were fighting back with water cannons, tear gas, and live artillery, and Doaa’s family was right in the middle of it. She was the one who had insisted they go. She was the reason her family was in danger.

  With the crackling sound of gunfire erupting nearby, Hanaa grabbed Hamudi’s hand and they all ran, heads down, to the closest building. Feeling exposed, they pressed against the wall as bullets ricocheted above their heads. They couldn’t see where the bullets were coming from and weren’t sure how to avoid them. Doaa’s mind couldn’t process that people were shooting at her. Part of her couldn’t believe what was happening around her, how her quiet, normal life had so turned in an instant that her family were now huddled together in fear as bullets flew through the air and fires raged through the street. Another part of her was coolly thinking up a plan for how to protect her family. She knew that they had to keep moving. Going back home was just as dangerous as going forward, so they decided to press on toward their grandfather’s house. At one point they dropped to their hands and knees and crawled through the streets. “Keep close to the wall!” Doaa called to her siblings ahead of her. Hamudi and Nawara started crying. Doaa ignored the sour taste of fear in her mouth as she tried to comfort them: “Don’t be afraid. Get up now and run!” She knew that if they panicked, they were more likely to be killed. The family ditched the cake, stood up, and moved carefully along the walls, retreating to alleyways before moving farther up the road again. A walk that should have taken ten minutes took them an hour.

  Finally, they reached the house in the Abassiya neighborhood and frantically banged on the door. Doaa’s uncle opened it and pulled them into the house, his face pale with worry at the sight of his family in the midst of the gunfire. “Are you crazy?” he shouted at Hanaa when they were all safely inside. “Didn’t you know what it’s like outside?”

  Saja, Nawara, and Hamudi were in shock. They quickly retreated to the back of the house, away from the sounds of shelling and death, trembling in fear. Doaa, however, felt that she had to know what was happening. Minutes after she greeted her relatives, she dropped a bag of cookies on the table and ran up the stairs to the roof, knowing that from there she would have a view of the square where they’d seen the clashes. Hanaa shouted after her not to go, but Doaa ignored her.

  She pounded the rest of the way up the steps, shoved open the door, and ran to the chest-high wall surrounding the roof’s edge. Breathing hard, she peered over the wall to the square in front of her grandfather’s house. Throughout her childhood, Doaa had spent hours on that roof, watching the quiet plaza surrounded by shops and homes. She scanned the neighborhood now, transfixed by the protesters who had amassed on the square and were chanting, “We want freedom,” as they marched with signs and olive branches toward a line of black-clad security men. Unlike the protests a few blocks away, this demonstration in the square across from her grandfather’s home was peaceful.

  The protesters were a mere five hundred meters from Doaa’s position. She had the perfect vantage point to watch the demonstration unfold. Protesters stood in lines and were walking slowly forward across the square when security forces began firing tear gas at them. The metal canisters flew through the air, striking some protesters before falling to the ground and spewing gas. Some people fled, while others continued marching and chanting, “No to the emergency law” and “The Syrian people won’t be humiliated.” Many dropped to their knees, rubbing their stinging eyes as the tear gas choked their breathing. Then, to Doaa’s horror, she saw officers raising their rifles and shooting live ammunition directly into the crowd. She heard herself shout, “Dear God,” before a wave of tear gas reached her mouth and seared her throat. The chemicals burned her eyes, and she started coughing uncontrollably. She began to feel faint as she gripped the edge of the roof’s wall and watched people fall to the ground, some wounded, some not moving at all. Even from a distance, Doaa was certain that they were dead, and she began sobbing at the brutality of their deaths. The government she had grown up wanting to serve as a policewoman was now shooting its own people, the people from her grandfather’s neighborhood. She realized that everything she’d grown up believing about her country was wrong.

  “Get down here!” Doaa could hear her mother’s panicked shouts from the top of the stairs. Half-blinded by smoke and tears, Doaa ran back to the stairway. The moment she reached the bottom of the stairs, she collapsed into her mother’s arms, gasping from the tear gas and trembling in shock. It was the first time Doaa had seen someone die in front of her, and she hated that she could do nothing about it. She was a powerless bystander.

  Eyes watering, Doaa and her mother felt their way down the stairs and into the house. They retreated into a bedroom to recover and to try to make sense of what Doaa had seen. After some minutes, her grandfather coaxed her out. He wanted to maintain the rituals of their Mother’s Day meal, and the family began eating in a hushed and heavy silence. But when Doaa drew the fork to her mouth, queasiness overtook her and she left her plate, filled with her favorite foods, untouched. Shokri burst through the door just as they were about to eat dessert. He joined them for coffee and sweets, but announced that they would be leaving before dark. Although the shooting was over and the protesters had retreated, the atmosphere outside was tense. “We can visit grandmother’s grave another day.” This time, Doaa didn’t argue.

  When they left the house, huddled close together, they saw bloodstains on the pavement where
the shooting took place. The streets were deserted, save for a few men who were carrying the wounded into cars to take them away. Everyone’s eyes started to burn and water from the tear gas that lingered invisibly in the air. Shokri led the family to a busy adjacent street that seemed unaffected by the uprising and violence that had taken place only a block away, and hailed a cab to take his family home.

  Later they found out that demonstrators had also set fire to the Ba’ath Party headquarters and to a courthouse. Two branches of Syriatel, the phone company owned by the billionaire cousin of President Assad, Rami Makhlouf, had been targeted as well. Fifteen demonstrators were killed that day, according to eyewitness accounts, and scores injured. The government in Damascus, hoping to contain further unrest, announced that it would investigate the deaths but immediately began placing blame on local officials in Daraa. After that, the protests only grew in size, and more clashes occurred between demonstrators and the police. Meanwhile, the death toll mounted. In reaction to the government’s brutality, a wing of armed opposition began to emerge from the peaceful protest movement.

  Soon after the Mother’s Day incident, Hanaa joined her sister on a visit to a friend of theirs, the mother of fourteen-year-old Ahmad, one of the boys who had been arrested. When Hanaa returned home, she was shaken and tearful. Ahmad was thin and gaunt, a ghost of his former self. “We almost didn’t recognize him when he came home,” his mother had told Hanaa. When she’d met with the boy, he had sat motionless, staring into space, unable to answer when they spoke to him. His swollen face was covered with red, shiny wounds, and his arms were blotched with bruises. Not only that, his knuckles were cut open and his fingernails were missing. His mother explained that his hands had been beaten with cables as punishment for the graffiti.

  As word of the boys’ mistreatment and abuse while in prison spread and the death toll of protesters continued to climb, more and more people joined the weekly protests at the mosque and demonstrators began to add to their original demands of ending corruption and the emergency law. They were now calling for regime change. The protests were growing quickly in size and frequency, and more soldiers started pouring in from Damascus to subdue the movement.