Hadi, shop owner (rural Latakia)
In our village in Latakia, it started with graffiti. People went out at night and wrote on the walls in complete secrecy. We called them night bats. We’d wake up in the morning and see slogans like, “The people want the overthrow of the regime.”
I actually had a paint store. The security forces came and told me that I needed to register every customer buying paint. I had to record the person’s name, ID number, and the names of his father and mother. People got scared and stopped buying paint. Eventually I had to close the store. But the graffiti writers just got their paint from somewhere else and kept going.
Later, the phase of night chanting began. Electricity was cut daily at seven in the evening, so there were no lights. In the darkness, people would shout from their windows, “God is great!” Whoever was strong of heart would start, and then everyone else joined in. You’d hear voices coming from all directions. The security forces would arrive and everybody would go quiet. Then the security forces would leave and everyone would start again.
Mahmoud, actor (Homs)
In the beginning, people were afraid to talk on the phone. So they’d speak in code. I was at school in Damascus and would call my mom, in Homs.
“Hey, Mom, what’s new?”
“By God, today it’s raining and foggy.”
“Foggy” meant security forces were present. “Raining” meant they’re shooting. “Storms” meant shelling. And we were saying all of this in the heat of summer!
I’d say, “Yeah, Mom, we have to put up with the weather.”
I was too scared to protest. I went only once, because my girlfriend wanted to go. In the taxi and then at the demonstration, I thought that everyone else was a security agent about to arrest me.
A guy I know got arrested that way. They brought him in for interrogation, but he wouldn’t confess that he’d gone to a protest. Then they showed him a video and asked, “If you didn’t go, who is this?” He turned yellow. In the video he was in the middle of a demonstration, sitting on someone’s shoulders—and that someone turned out to be the interrogator.
Husayn, playwright (Aleppo)
Slowly protests got bigger. Some neighborhoods in Aleppo held demonstrations every week. I started working side by side with the young protesters. We organized weekly meetings in our houses, in secret, of course.
One day I was talking on the phone about going to a protest. My daughter was sixteen or seventeen at that time. She heard me and said, “I want to go with you to a demonstration.”
I told her, “Do I look like someone who would go to a demonstration?”
She insisted, “You’re telling someone that the wedding will be at two in the afternoon. Who has a wedding at that hour? You’re talking about going to the demonstration, and I want to go with you!”
We argued about it, but in the end I agreed to let her come. She got ready and then her mom, my ex-wife, followed us to the door. She said, “If you two are going to protest, I’m going, too. I won’t stay home alone.”
After that, they both became addicted to protesting. We found out later that my daughter was even skipping school to attend activist meetings. So her mom started to take her to school every day and wait outside to walk her back home.
Yasser, former student (Aleppo)
I went to my first protest in Aleppo in a big group, but there were so many people there that I lost my friends. I saw how the shabeeha looked. One was holding a cane and pretending to use it as a crutch, even though he wasn’t limping. One of them had a tool and was underneath a car, acting like he was fixing something. They were all pretending to do things, but really had all of these objects so they could beat people. After a while, everyone was suspecting everyone else.
The protest was supposed to begin at 8:30. By 8:35, nothing had started. Then an old man passed by the guy who was responsible for starting the chanting. The old man asked, “Why are you just standing there? Either say something or leave.”
The young guy said to himself, “If this old man is braver than me, I’m going to kill myself.” So he went out. He started shouting. And then everyone else went out, too. Imagine you have a deck of cards and all the cards go flying everywhere. That’s what it was like.
Jamal, doctor (Hama)
It was impossible to get big numbers to demonstrate in Damascus. People were enormously afraid. So we’d mount “airplane demonstrations”: We’d chant for just five minutes or so, and then run away.
People also came up with alternative ways of showing that they were against the regime. People would agree on a time and place, and then everyone would show up wearing the same color. For example, everyone would come to the same café, wearing black. Nobody would say a thing; it was just a way of showing the size of the opposition. Eventually the security forces figured out what was happening and came after people dressed in the designated color.
You know, if we’d listened to our parents, we never would have gone out at all. That generation lived through Hama. My aunt was pregnant at the time. My parents took her to the hospital. They had to stop at checkpoints on the way there and saw corpses lined along the road. My father carries that sight inside him until now. He still has that fear until this day. Whenever we watched anything on TV related to politics, he’d say, “Turn off the television!” He couldn’t even bear to watch a political TV show—that’s how afraid he was.
My generation is also afraid—but not like them. I now say to my father, “Why were you silent all of those years?” We say this to their entire generation.
Rima, writer (Suwayda)
I was in a demonstration. Others were shouting and I joined them. I started to whisper, Freedom. And after that I started to hear myself repeating, Freedom, freedom, freedom. And then I started shouting, Freedom! My voice mingled with other voices. When I heard my voice I started shaking and crying. I felt like I was flying. I thought to myself, “This is the first time I have ever heard my own voice.” I thought, “This is the first time I have a soul and I am not afraid of death or being arrested or anything else.” I wanted to feel this freedom forever. And I told myself that I would never again let anyone steal my voice.
And after that day I started to join all the demonstrations.
Amal, former student (Aleppo)
Students were in the courtyard of the university, waiting for class to start. Someone started shouting, “God is great!” And then others joined in and started chanting, “Freedom!” I got goosebumps. I was with a friend and she grabbed my purse to hold me back, but I moved forward to join the demonstration. It was like I wasn’t in control of my own body, and my legs were just moving by themselves. My friend kept pulling my purse backward, and I kept moving forward. The purse strap broke, and I merged into the crowd.
Sana, graphic designer (Damascus)
I was very scared on my way to the demonstration. It was night. We put scarves over our faces so the security forces couldn’t recognize us and walked through narrow streets to the square. The square was lit and people were playing music, with drums and flute. I don’t know who grabbed my hands from the left or from the right, but we started singing and dancing and jumping. It was a party to overthrow the regime. At that moment I didn’t care about anything else. I was so happy. It was a moment that I will never forget for the rest of my life: the moment I stood together with strangers, dancing and shouting to overthrow Bashar.
My husband and I agreed that only one of us would go to protest at a time. One would go, and the other would stay home, just in case something happened. He went to a demonstration before I did, and came back home very emotional. He was crying: “Anyone who doesn’t live this moment cannot consider himself alive.” When I came back from my first demonstration, he asked me how it was. I told him that he was right.
Shadi, accountant (rural Hama)
My first demonstration was better than my wedding day. And when my wife heard me say that, she refused to talk to me for a month.
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nbsp; Waddah, graduate (Latakia)
My younger brother and I grew up in the Gulf and went back to Syria for school. To be honest, we hated Syrians a little. We felt that they had no problem being humiliated or abused. Sometimes I felt like I didn’t even want to be Syrian. I just wanted to finish university and leave the country.
On March 21, I woke up in our apartment in Muadamiyah. I heard, “Freedom, freedom.” I thought I was still asleep and said to myself, “I wish I could just stay dreaming.” But it turned out that the voices were coming from outside. I opened my door and yelled, “Demonstration!” I banged on my housemate’s door and yelled, “Demonstration! Demonstration!” Then I realized that I was barefoot and in my pajamas. I got dressed and ran outside.
My brother came outside and joined me. I told him, “Go back home!” I felt responsible for him and was afraid that he’d get hurt. He didn’t listen to me, of course. It was a revolution; nobody listened to anyone anymore.
I started yelling in a loud voice, “Dignity!” What did we want after dignity? We didn’t know. But we knew that we needed more than just food.
The demonstration grew to about thirty people. Then these large men crowded around us. They were wearing black coats and were using cell phones. My brother and I escaped through the back streets. Everyone else in the demonstration got arrested. Everyone.
We both had long hair at the time, so we were recognizable. People were talking: “The two guys with the hair, where did they go?” But the people of Muadamiyah stood with us. Nobody reported where we were.
On March 25, we were hoping there would be another protest. My friend went to the mosque in Douma, and I went to the mosque in Muadamiyah. We figured out how to communicate: He’d text me a plus sign if there was a demonstration where he was, and a minus if the prayer finished and everybody just went home.
I was in the mosque, waiting for the plus. The imam kept talking and talking; it seemed like his sermon would never finish. Then I got a text: It was a plus. From the street, I heard people chanting, “With soul and blood, we sacrifice for you, Daraa!” We ran outside, jumping down the stairs in excitement.
We got to the street and found about two thousand people demonstrating. I started to cry. I was sorry that I had rejected my nationality. I was sorry that I had insulted these people and said that they were cowards. I thought, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You are my brothers. You are my people. You are extraordinary.”
Annas, doctor (Ghouta)
The “Great Friday” demonstration was held in solidarity with Easter, out of respect for our Christian brothers. We wanted to encourage Christian Syrians to come out and participate.
We were a huge gathering of more than one hundred thousand people. People came from all over the Damascus suburbs: from Douma, Harasta, Zamalka, Kafr Batna . . . I remember we crossed a bridge and it trembled underneath our feet because we were so many people.
We reached Jobar and regime forces were there waiting for us. They fired tear gas and we retreated. Cars filled with police and shabeeha came from every direction and attacked with anything they could get their hands on. Because I’m a doctor, I tried to help whenever someone was injured. People were choking on tear gas and we’d pour cola on their faces, which counters the effect of gas. Their faces were sticky and glistening.
We’d been chanting, “Freedom, freedom, freedom!” And then someone shouted, “The people want the overthrow of the regime!” Everyone went silent. This was the first time we’d heard people say that.
No one spoke for ten to fifteen seconds. Honestly, we were afraid that he could be part of the secret police. Everyone looked at each other and thought, “This guy just said what we’ve been wanting to say for years.” After all those years of silence, we were hearing those words. We thought, “Do we chant with him or remain silent?” Everyone looked around, our faces pondering the unspoken. Do we speak or not?
Cherin, mother (Aleppo)
We had gotten used to oppression. It was part of our life, like air, sun, water. We didn’t even feel it. Like there is air, but you never ask, “Where is the air?” A lot of people were opposed to the way things were, but no one protested. You just adapted to oppression and rotted along with it.
And then—in one second, in one shout, one voice—you blow it up. You defy it and stand in front of death. You have an inheritance, and after thirty years, you slam it on the ground and shatter it.
I encouraged my sister’s children to come with me to demonstrations. I felt that if they didn’t try that experience, they’d be missing the real meaning of life. Even if the revolution failed, those days will never be forgotten. We’ll tell our children that we took a stand. We went out. We spoke out. We shouted.
My sister’s children, two girls and a boy, at first their voices were timid and low. But every time they repeated the chant, their voices got louder. The sound rose until you heard it echo between the buildings. All the people living in the buildings came out to see what was going on. Words can’t describe what it was like.
Don’t even imagine that it was easy to go out to a demonstration. No amount of courage allows you to stand and watch someone who has a gun and is about to kill you. We—as a people—were certain that they were going to kill us. Fear didn’t go away because we knew that there was death.
But still, this incredible oppression made a young man or a young woman go out and say, “God is great!” And when those words are said, you and two hundred other people are ready to call out, “The people want the downfall of the regime!” Your voice gets louder and you feel intense feelings: You shudder and your body rises and everything you imagined just comes out. Tears come down. Tears of joy, because I broke the barrier . . . I am not afraid, I am a free being. Tears come down and your voice gets hoarse. Sadness and happiness and fear and courage . . . they’re all mixed together in that voice, and it comes out very strong.
Before the revolution, I thought that Syria was for Assad. Syria was just the place where I lived, but it didn’t belong to me. When the revolution began, I discovered that Syria was my country. As Kurds, we had thought that we were oppressed and others were favored by the regime. After the revolution we discovered that we were all suffering from the same oppression. We discovered that we had not been working together, and that is how the regime was able to dominate us.
Abdul Rahman, engineer (Hama)
My parents were divorced and I was raised by a single mom. She had only a high school diploma and we were poor. Studying was my only hope for the future.
I always wanted to be an engineer, and I got a scholarship to study in Algeria. My mother sold a necklace she had received from her mother to buy me a plane ticket. As a teenager, I’d been a troublemaker. But when I found myself alone in Algeria, I became a serious student. I learned French and fell in love with an Algerian girl and became ranked first in the whole department.
I was finishing my master’s degree when the Arab Spring started. Our dreams became so near. I was too afraid even to like the Syrian Revolution Facebook page, so I created another Facebook account under the name “Syrian Man,” so I could participate freely. There was another Syrian guy with me in Algeria, but his family was in the Syrian police and loyal to Assad. When I showed him my political opinions, I felt like I was signing my death warrant. Later, one of his friends was killed in a demonstration. I showed him videos of the incident and said, “See the police? Maybe your cousins were involved in this.” He was in shock.
I finished my exams and booked the first flight back to Syria. From the Damascus airport, I got a taxi to the bus station. I couldn’t wait to chat with someone about the revolution. I nearly said something to the taxi driver, forgetting all about the fact that many taxi drivers are security agents. Thank God, light from outside hit his arm and I saw a very big tattoo saying, “Praise Ali, Praise Bashar.” Ali is a holy person for Shia, so this indicated that he considered Bashar to be a holy person, like a god. I shut my mouth.
I reached Hama
at 6:30 in the morning and went out in a demonstration the same day. I felt like I was in heaven. My first shout was, “Death before humiliation!” Everything was happy. Even the stones of the street were happy. I could feel it coming from everywhere. People joined from all directions and the streets moved under our weight as we marched to al-Asi Square in the city center. Women threw rice and candies from the balconies. A sound system played the revolutionary song: “Oh shame / Oh shame / And you, son of my country, killing my children / Oh what a shame.”
I felt like a free person. I thought, “I’m glad that I’m here at this moment. I’m glad that I belong to this place.”
Marcell, activist (Aleppo)
I used to be the Christian girl who talked about how everything is fine in Syria because the regime is secular and minorities have privileges. Then in 2005 I joined an online group and started to blog. Some guys I knew got arrested because of their online writing. That’s when the issue began to have a face for me.
My first blog about the revolution was on March 15. I said that we deserved freedom. I never wrote under a fake name. That was risky, but I wanted all Syrians to know my identity: I’m a woman. And I’m Christian. And I believe that this regime should go. I don’t see Muslims as people who kill Christians. I trust you. Let’s go forward, together.
By April I was out in the street. I was living this divided life: I’d go out to protest, but I couldn’t tell anyone. My family was supportive, but some friends were repeating what they heard on television about gangs destroying the country. I started to take people I know with me to protest. Jesus said, “Come and see.” I believed that if more people had come to see demonstrations, things could have gone differently.
We Crossed a Bridge and It Trembled Page 7