Doaa heard that women were being encouraged to take part in the demonstrations. After what she’d seen on her grandfather’s roof, and hearing about Ahmad’s bruised and beaten body from her mother, she was eager to join in. Something in her had shifted. The shy girl who had once feared change now felt driven to be a part of a revolution.
One of the demonstrations took place in her neighborhood, and many people from the countryside and surrounding areas came to participate. The atmosphere was jubilant. The people of Daraa started to believe that they could make a real difference in their country. When Doaa heard the shouts of the demonstrators approaching her home, she rounded up her sisters, her brother, Hamudi, and her friends Amal and Hoda and joined a row of women and other young girls in the back of the crowd. Doaa was exhilarated. For the first time in her life, she felt a sense of larger purpose, and she was determined to play a part in what she hoped would be a movement for peaceful change in the country she loved.
The more demonstrations she attended, the bolder Doaa grew, and she found different ways to contribute to the cause. One of her roles at a protest was to help people who had been exposed to tear gas by squeezing lemon onto a cloth that they could place over irritated eyes, and by cutting onions in half to provoke tears that would wash away the chemicals. One of her most dangerous tasks was to pick up tear gas canisters and throw them back at the security forces. The hot canisters burned her hands and she risked a face full of tear gas if the canister went off while she was holding it. She also ran the risk of attracting the attention of the security forces, but she didn’t care; she was now wholly committed to the revolution, and her friends were beginning to get involved as well.
The protests eventually became social events where young people would gather to share their hopes for the future. Amal and Hoda would often join Doaa and her sisters after school and on weekends at protests, whenever their mothers allowed it. But most of Doaa’s friends were confined to their homes and would wait anxiously for her to tell them what had happened at each gathering. Doaa’s conversations with her friends were no longer about boys, marriage, or neighborhood gossip. Now they talked only about resistance and rebellion.
At night Doaa no longer watched TV, but rather spent her free time thinking up inspiring rally cries and slogans to print on signs that she would bring to demonstrations for others to carry. She also began making bracelets and rings out of beads that were the colors of the revolutionary flag: red, black, and green. Each took her several hours to make, and when she ran out of beads, she had to beg her father to buy her more. Shokri refused at first, worried that Doaa was risking her safety making the revolutionary-themed jewelry, but in the end, as almost always, he gave in to her. Doaa wore the bracelets on both wrists and gave them out to friends, telling them to hide the jewelry under their sleeves when security forces made their rounds. She knew it was risky to be caught with such jewelry, but she was determined to contribute to the cause in any way she could. Her mother was paranoid that someone might find out that Doaa was making these little symbols of rebellion and feared that Doaa might be arrested, so Hanaa took to hiding Doaa’s materials when she was out, but Doaa would eventually find them again and would go back to work on her jewelry at night while her parents slept.
“I’ll go mad otherwise,” she explained to her parents. She couldn’t demonstrate at night, when only men were protesting, but she couldn’t bear to sit by and do nothing.
The protests were so close to her house that she could hear the chanting as the demonstrators marched by. Each time she heard them, Doaa felt compelled to join in. During the day, she would throw on her jeans and a sweater and drape the flag of the revolution over her shoulders, preparing to go out. Watching her dress, her mother would implore her to stay home, out of harm’s way.
“Hayati [my life],” Hanaa would plead, “please don’t go. The security forces will recognize you and take revenge.”
But Doaa wouldn’t listen. “Mama, we can’t sit at home and do nothing.”
Hanaa knew that she would be in for a battle if she tried to stop Doaa from going out, and deep down she was proud of her daughter’s courage and determination to be part of the revolution that could change Syria, so she let her go.
With the passing days, Hanaa noticed a transformation in Doaa. Instead of being shy and fearful and always resistant to change, Doaa now embraced it. Her enthusiasm would fill the air as she recounted stories about where she had marched that day and what had happened along the way.
Shokri would listen to Doaa’s stories with dread. He was terrified for his daughters. He had heard stories circulating of women being stripped and raped by security men in front of their families. Others had simply disappeared. This was his worst nightmare, and he felt choked with worry as he left for work each day, leaving the girls and Hanaa alone.
When Shokri was home, he insisted that the girls stay inside at all times except to go to school. But Doaa fought his instructions. “Baba, you tell us that we have to stand up for our rights, and yet you won’t let us go out and join the demonstrations,” she complained.
Shokri shook his head. “It’s my job to protect you and your sisters. Leave the demonstrations to the men of this city.” He began insisting that Hanaa keep everyone home while he was off at work. But Doaa was defiant. She cried and sulked, refusing to eat or speak for days. She felt useless stuck inside the house.
Several times when Doaa was feeling particularly restless, she snuck out to join a demonstration. Shokri was furious when he discovered that she was missing, but he could do little. Eventually he gave up on trying to keep her in the house away from danger. Doaa’s stubborn will simply outmatched his own.
The protests became part of daily life in the neighborhood. Men, women, and children came together to participate or watch. Doaa often bumped into cousins and school friends, and whenever she saw her closest friends, Amal and another friend who was also named Doaa, she would grab their hands and they would sing, chant, and march together in unison.
On March 30, 2011, President Assad gave a speech to parliament, addressing for the first time the unrest swallowing his country. As he walked into the chamber, members of parliament stood, enthusiastically clapping and chanting in a loud chorus, “God, Syria, and Bashar.” As Doaa watched the coverage of the speech that night on the evening news, she held out hope that he was about to give in to the protesters’ demands. Instead, while he admitted the deaths in Daraa had happened, he referred to them as isolated cases and a “mistake.” Every citizen, he noted, has complaints, and his government was working to resolve them. But now, he warned, “conspirators” were at work pushing an “Israeli agenda” that was influencing those who had taken to the streets in good faith. He called those behind this conspiracy “foreign agents,” labeled the demonstrators “terrorists,” and claimed that the Arab satellite television channels were part of the scheme that was “creating chaos under the pretext of reform.” He did announce that he might consider some changes to the system, but only after the country had returned to stability and the economy had improved. He claimed that the videos and photos the media were broadcasting to their audiences—showing government forces subduing civilians—were fake, and he pledged that he would not give in to the demands of those he considered terrorists. The prime minister, looking on, chanted, “God, Syria, and Bashar,” in agreement.
Doaa was confused as she watched the broadcast. When Assad was talking about “terrorists,” was he referring to her friends, family, and neighbors? We are not terrorists! she thought adamantly. But when it came to the shooting of unarmed demonstrators in Daraa, all Assad would say was that “mistakes” had been made and that “not all the demonstrators were conspirators.” He wouldn’t condemn the acts of brutal repression that were carried out by the security forces. At that moment Doaa realized that the struggle was just beginning and her country was coming apart.
After the parliament speech, unrest continued to spread across Syria, with protes
ts erupting in the cities of Damascus, Homs, Aleppo, Douma, and Latakia. For a time, it seemed as if the tide was turning in favor of the opposition, as people throughout Syria turned against the government. Emboldened, the protesters vowed they would keep marching until their demands were met. Then, to their surprise, on April 21, just two months after the graffiti incident, President Assad announced on state TV that he would abolish the emergency law that had been in place since 1963.
For the opposition movement, this concession was too little and too late. The abolition of the law was no longer enough; people now had their sights set on regime change. But they soon realized that President Assad was working on a transformation of his own—to fortify his power by replacing the old system he’d inherited from his father with a new one under the pretense of fighting terrorism. Assad changed the laws so that anyone whose actions could be seen as damaging to the status of the nation or insulting to the ruling party or its leaders, or anyone who participated in demonstrations or bore arms, could now be charged with aiding and abetting “terrorists.”
In response to these announcements, the protests swelled. The following day, in what became known as the Great Friday, demonstrations took place simultaneously in over twenty cities and towns across the country. Once again, security forces used tear gas and live ammunition to subdue protesters.
On the streets of Daraa, the standoffs between protesters and government soldiers were becoming increasingly violent, but this didn’t deter Doaa, who went out anyway. One evening, just as a protest that Doaa, Nawara, Ayat, and Saja had taken part in was winding down, security forces suddenly appeared and advanced on the crowd with their guns raised. Everyone knew what would happen next—tear gas and beatings, possibly even death. People panicked and began screaming and running in different directions. Doaa lost track of her sisters in the mêlée. But as people scattered in all directions, Doaa could hear someone yelling after her—one of the organizers.
“Hide the loudspeaker and the tabla [drum],” he shouted, shoving them in her direction. “If they catch us with them, they’ll arrest us!” Anyone caught with protest paraphernalia would be associated with the demonstration and could therefore be classified either as aiding terrorists or terrorists themselves.
Without hesitation, Doaa grabbed the drum and loudspeaker and shoved them under her abaya. These days, Shokri demanded that if the girls insisted on going out in the streets, they had to wear an abaya, a long black garment that covered them from head to foot. Women wearing them attracted less attention and it also allowed them to blend in with other women in the street, offering a layer of protection to Doaa and her sisters. At first, Doaa resisted—she hated the hot, shapeless garment that hid her identity. However, on that night she was grateful for the cover. Cloaking the drum and loudspeaker under the abaya could allow her to get them to a safe location. Her home was just two streets away, so she turned and ran in its direction.
After she’d taken only a few steps, two cars screeched to a stop in front of her. One was filled with protesters, the other with security forces pursuing them. As the policemen jumped out of the car to arrest the protesters, Doaa realized that she was in trouble. If they caught her with the tabla and the loudspeaker, she’d be arrested as well or maybe worse. Struggling to keep panic at bay, she frantically looked around her and spotted an abandoned, partly constructed building just behind her and ran for it. The security forces, intent on capturing the protesters, didn’t notice her. So with heart pounding, Doaa ran to an empty room on the second floor and hid behind a pillar. There she waited silently, trying to catch her breath. But a few moments later, the building was crawling with police looking for demonstrators. Doaa held her breath, afraid to move. Her mouth was dry, her chest was tight, and her arms shook as her grip on the loudspeaker and the tabla weakened. If they fell to the ground, she would surely be caught. Doaa began to pray under her breath for strength.
After agonizing minutes, she heard the sounds of the police making their way out of the building, back out to what was left of the demonstration. Breathing a sigh of relief, she set the drum and the loudspeaker down to give her aching arms a rest. From inside the building she watched as the police searched nearby shops and restaurants for people to arrest. Finally, when she couldn’t see any more officers outside, Doaa picked up the drum and the loudspeaker and sprinted out onto the street to make her way home. The moment her feet hit the pavement, she realized she’d made a mistake. One of the security men had not left the area and was standing just outside the building, only a hundred meters from where she had been hiding. He immediately spotted her dashing from the building.
“Get her!” he shouted, pointing at Doaa. “She’s one of the protesters!”
Terrified, Doaa ran as fast as she could. Not only was she still hiding the tabla and the loudspeaker, but the independence flag was also draped around her shoulders. There was no way she wouldn’t be arrested if she was caught. Doaa quickly rounded a corner and was momentarily out of sight of the police. She pounded on the first door she saw.
“Let me in,” she pleaded through the crack in the door, “Please hide me or they’ll arrest me!”
When the door opened, it felt as if God himself had heard her plea. A woman about the same age as her mother embraced her and quickly pulled her inside, closing the door to sounds of gunfire. She rushed Doaa to the back of the house.
“Change your clothes now. Here, take my daughter’s abaya and put on a different veil. If they come, I’ll say you’re my daughter.”
But Doaa refused to take the woman’s clothes. She didn’t plan to stay long and also didn’t want to put the woman in further danger. Instead Doaa sat huddled in the corner of the room, alone and shaking, until the sound of bullets outside died down. Every few minutes, the woman came in to check on her: “Stay here until nightfall, binti [my daughter], then it will be safe to go home. We can hide your things for another day.”
When darkness fell an hour later, Doaa thanked the woman for saving her life. Knowing she had to return home, Doaa tentatively opened the front door and stepped outside. Security officers still roamed the streets but, having shed the independence flag, Doaa didn’t looked suspicious in her abaya. All the officers saw was an ordinary Syrian girl walking with her head bent modestly down. Doaa’s home was mere steps from her hiding place, and now so close to safety, Doaa walked as quickly as she could without attracting attention. She saw her oldest sister, Ayat, standing outside.
“Doaa,” Ayat screamed from a distance, “where have you been? We’ve been worried sick about you!”
Security officers turned toward them, and Doaa saw them looking at her with sudden interest. Terrified that they might recognize her, she ran for her house. The moment she reached Ayat, Doaa grabbed her sister’s arm.
“Shut up, will you?” she hissed as she looked over her shoulder. “You’re drawing their attention.” The men were now staring at the girls and pointing. Doaa and Ayat continued toward the house, and as soon as they reached the door, Hanaa pulled them both inside, hugging Doaa close to her. She had been overcome with worry when the other girls had come home without Doaa and was terrified that she’d been arrested.
As her family gathered around her, Doaa recounted what had happened. Her siblings were impressed by her bravery, and Hanaa was too relieved to be angry.
“Habibti [my love],” Hanaa said, holding Doaa close and stroking her hair, “I know you are brave, but you are still a girl, and God knows what they’ll do to you if they catch you. You must be careful.”
Doaa turned toward her father, expecting him to embrace her in the same way her mother had. But instead, he stood with his fists clenched and his face red with fury. Doaa took a step toward him, then stopped, recognizing the anger in his body language. Shokri’s temper didn’t show itself often, but when it did, it was fearsome. She had never before seen such anger in his eyes. Doaa knew that this time she’d gone too far.
“I forbid you from ever going to another
demonstration again,” he thundered.
Saja and Nawara shrank away from him while watching Doaa apprehensively. Hanaa tried to calm his temper, while Doaa began to cry in frustration. She couldn’t bear the thought of staying away from the protests. But Shokri was adamant. He was terrified of what might have happened had Doaa been arrested. There were rumors that girls had been raped in the streets in front of their parents for stepping out of line and disobeying the law. Other women were arrested and never heard from again. Shokri decided that he would lock Doaa in the house if that’s what it took to keep her out of the streets and prevent her from endangering herself. For the first time in Doaa’s life, he turned his back on her tears. “That’s my final word,” he stated resolutely.
Despite her stubbornness, deep down Doaa was still a traditional Syrian girl and knew when she had to obey her father. She knew she couldn’t get around it this time, so she reluctantly agreed to stay indoors, but her acquiescence wouldn’t last; her heart remained with the revolution.
THREE
The Siege of Daraa
Monday, April 25, 2011, started out like any other bright spring day. Doaa was on her way up to the roof to hang the family laundry, the one household task she didn’t mind since she could do it while chatting with her best friend, Amal, whose balcony overlooked Doaa’s roof. It was also a chance for her to see the comings and goings in the neighborhood from a prime viewing spot.
That morning she pushed open the door to the roof with one hip while balancing a plastic basket full of freshly washed dresses, scarves, and shirts on the other. The sun was warm on her face and a cool breeze ruffled her veil. As she shifted the heavy basket for a better grip, she heard a low, rumbling sound. Startled, she set down her load and rushed to peer over the edge of the wall. From four stories up, she had a clear view of the streets of El-Kashef—the bakery across the street, the sidewalks where the neighborhood children played. But now, instead of a familiar quiet, she saw people running in all directions, panicked and afraid. In the distance, she could make out large black shapes advancing toward the city. To get a better view, she leaned farther over the roof wall. As the shapes came into focus, she recognized that military tanks were slowly rolling down the street toward her house. The weight of the massive vehicles seemed to crush the surface of the street, and she could feel the roof trembling beneath her feet. Alongside the tanks she saw hundreds of armed soldiers marching, while military helicopters circled above, their loud propellers drowning out the usual sounds of the city.
A Hope More Powerful Than the Sea Page 4