People continued to try to carry out some small acts of resistance, like a commercial strike, just to show the military that we were still there. It was around that time that the idea of the Free Syrian Army (FSA) emerged. I was still waiting for my turn to get a weapon when my cousin learned that I was on the wanted list. For the next month, I slept in a different bed every night so I wouldn’t get caught and arrested.
We kept waiting for some good news from other cities—victories or assistance that would alleviate the pressure on Hama. My cousin told me, “You’re wanted on the provincial level, but not yet at the level of all of Syria. There’s still time. If you’re going to flee, you should do it now.”
All of my dreams were in the revolution. I was not a coward and I wanted to complete what we started. But somehow my family convinced me to leave. On September 15, I wrote slogans on the walls for the last time. I wrote, “Free Hama” and “Tomorrow will be better.”
Abdel-Halim, fighter (Homs)
I was majoring in linguistics in college, and in 2010 I started my compulsory military service. When the revolution began, I thought the regime was defending the people. In the army, they only showed us Syrian state TV channels, which were all propaganda. Then I went home to Homs and saw the destruction. When I defected, my parents reported that I was missing—kidnapped by terrorists. That way, they wouldn’t be harmed because of my defection.
I joined the FSA as an accountant supervising funds and supplies. Our group grew, and when we were about 150 people, we started going out to battles. I was shot in the leg and my parents wanted to get me to Turkey for treatment, but I refused to leave. I loved what we were doing back then. We were like brothers—more than brothers, actually; it was like we were one person. Those are the memories that destroy me now.
Then the army entered Homs. They said that they wanted to inspect houses for terrorists and leave. But they came and never left. That is how the siege began.
Civilians started fleeing, but we stayed. For the first two or three months, we ate everything in the houses that residents had abandoned. Of course some families didn’t flee. Our mission was to protect them and protect ourselves. When the army attacked, we’d attack back. There were battles and people died. Reinforcements came to our area through underground sewers, bringing supplies and help.
The first six months were mostly good. Then we ran out of fuel for cars. There was no electricity, except for one generator per battalion. We thought that we might stay like that for a month or two. But the situation lasted two years.
The doctors in the field hospital took care of us as much as they could, but there was no medicine. The operating room wasn’t even sanitized. If someone got shot in the hand, they’d have to amputate so it wouldn’t get worse. Same thing for an injured leg or foot or eye.
The real hunger began. Everyone would go out and collect leaves and plants. People who knew how to cook would boil them in water, adding spices and bouillon cubes. They did their best to make the meals seem varied and plentiful, but at the end of the day it was just grass. In the beginning we didn’t feel the loss of nutrients. By the last three months of the siege, we could hardly walk. Eventually, the trees had no leaves left. We didn’t know the source of the water we drank; we had the feeling it was coming from near dead bodies in the mud.
In the beginning the FSA didn’t have commanders and conscripts. We were just a bunch of friends. Then dollars started flowing into the commanders’ pockets. The good ones got killed or pushed aside. The bad ones became more powerful. They had heating and hidden food rations. They even cooperated with the regime army to get cigarettes.
And then there was the filming problem. At first, we filmed what we were doing to preserve a personal memory of what we were living. Then leaders started filming to get money and getting money to film. They’d go to an empty area and fire mortars to make it look like they were attacking the army. They’d send the film to external patrons, states like Turkey and Qatar, and get paid to put the footage on TV.
Eventually we started to hate everything called “leadership.” We even had a protest against them. Money sent us backward. Things became like they used to be under Bashar, if not worse. Our goal had been to remove all corruption; our commanders ruined everything.
There were informants among us, too. Maybe for the regime army, maybe for the FSA leadership. We no longer knew who was with us or against us. By the end, I was just waiting for death. I’d try to calm myself by praying and reading the Quran daily. What gave me most peace was when I was able to talk on Skype with my mom and dad.
Some guys said they wanted to surrender. One went over to talk to the army and then others did the same thing. For us, this was a huge betrayal. I would not go shake hands with the people who killed our brothers and sisters. Besides, when I defected, my family told them that I’d gone missing. If the army realized that I was actually a fighter under siege for two years, they’d kill them.
Some guys rigged a car to send it over to the army, like a suicide mission. But it exploded in our territory first. Many people died, including good friends. I went to the hospital to see them one last time. In one corner there was a mix of body parts from five different people. They couldn’t identify them, so they buried them all together.
One thing after another was closing in on us. I felt darkness approaching. Then a deal was proposed to evacuate us from the Homs old city to the countryside. Some fighters were opposed. They said they hadn’t lost everything just to leave their land. The majority was in favor, just to put an end to our misery. We could barely move our bodies by that point. In the end, the battalion leader accepted and we all had to go along with his decision. The bigwigs called the shots and we were just pawns.
May 24, 2014, was the evacuation. The Homs governor and the army were present. Snipers were on the roofs and cameramen were filming. When we came out, they saw how frail we were and were shocked. It was as if they were thinking, “These are the guys we were too afraid to go in and attack?”
Our bodies were weak, but we were filled with dignity. We had defended Homs to the best of our abilities. I hoped that I’d put something forth for God and for my parents. I said goodbye to everything. I lived two years in this area and it became a part of me, like my hands or my eyes. I looked at Homs and thought, “I’m not going to see her again.” And it’s true, I’m not. She’s gone now.
Abu Firas, fighter (rural Idlib)
For every action there is a reaction. When the regime is killing in this way, people become what we call jihadists and you call terrorists. I swear to God that I have nothing but respect for you regardless of your ethnicity, religion, or nationality. But when my sister is arrested and they rape her, I have no problem entering any place in the world with a car strapped with explosives. Because no country in the world is paying attention to me. Not a single one is doing anything to protect any fraction of the rights that I should have as a human being living on earth.
I’m not saying that the conscience of the international community is asleep. I’m saying that conscience doesn’t exist at all.
Khalil, defected officer (Deir ez-Zor)
I was a colonel serving in the Fourth Brigade and we were sent to put down demonstrations in Daraya and Muadamiyah. The commanders told us that we were fighting armed gangs. I knew this was false, but these were military orders and you don’t debate military orders.
For the first two weeks, we used batons, and Air Force Intelligence officers and snipers would shoot from behind us. By the third week, they gave us orders to open fire at demonstrators’ legs. If they approached within two hundred meters, we were supposed to shoot to kill.
The first time I saw a demonstration was like ecstasy. Inside, I was thrilled. But I also witnessed, with my own eyes, how the army was full of rage and resentment. I remember going to raid the house of someone accused of funding demonstrations. The officers hit the man. When his wife tried to intervene, they hit her, too. Then they hit their little girl
so hard that she was thrown against the wall.
My heart was with the people from the beginning, but if the army knew you were going to defect, they’d kill you. Before I could defect, I needed to ensure the safety of my wife and children. Once I was able to do that, I fabricated a scenario to make it seem like I’d been kidnapped, and then I disappeared. For a while, it wasn’t clear to the army if I’d been captured or actually defected. During that time, they arrested my father and brother. They released my dad after a few days, but held my brother longer.
Then the regime came to my house in Damascus. They stole what they could and burned the rest. They did the same thing to my family home in Deir ez-Zor. I’m not crying over the loss of the houses. The point is that I have nowhere to go back to.
They offered a reward to anyone who could provide information on my whereabouts and a bigger one for anyone who killed me. I moved around from place to place at night. At the same time, I began working with the FSA.
Then the Nusra Front emerged. In June 2012, I went to talk to them. I saw them as a threat to our own security. They were raising al-Qaeda’s Black Flag. I said, “This is a popular revolution, why don’t you use the revolution’s flag?”
They said, “That’s the flag of the infidels. We’re raising the flag of the Prophet.”
I said, “Okay, the Prophet is in our hearts. But raising this flag is going to cause us a lot of problems. Why do you want to do this now?”
They said, “We’ve been rebelling against the regime since before the revolution began, but we were in prison.”
I asked, “Which prison?”
They said, “Sadnaya. We were released in April.”
I asked them, “What were your charges?”
They said, “Antiregime activity.”
That’s when it became clear to me. The regime had allowed these people to go to Iraq to fight the Americans. Then they came back to Syria, and the regime put them in prison. And now the regime was using them for leverage.
I said, “Bashar let you go so he could say that he is fighting terrorism.”
They replied, “God willed that this should be done and he made Bashar take that decision.”
We each went forward with our work separately. We in the FSA would attack a regime position, force the regime to withdraw, and move on to the next regime position. Meanwhile, Nusra would come along behind us and take control of the point we’d just liberated. We were focused on fighting the regime while Nusra was looking to occupy territory.
Most of Nusra’s fighters were foreigners—Saudis, Qataris, Tunisians . . . The FSA had more men, but received little aid. We could afford to give fighters only a one-time payment. Nusra gave its fighters monthly salaries and top-quality weapons. Nusra distributed bread to people to try to win their support. People took it because they were hungry, but the first opportunity they had to go out and protest against Nusra, they did.
Then ISIS emerged. Abu Mohammed al-Jolani was responsible for Nusra, which was like a faction of al-Qaeda. Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi made ISIS, and part of the movement left with him. ISIS also paid people to join its ranks. It offered money, weapons, and ammunition.
Raqqa became the ISIS headquarters. There was no battle; the regime just handed it to them and left. ISIS imprisoned hundreds of FSA fighters and civilians. Once, we were transporting ammunition supplies from the FSA Supreme Military Council in Turkey to Deir ez-Zor and had to pass through Raqqa. ISIS arrested the driver and seized the ammunition. We were in dire need of that ammunition. Fighters called me and said, “Tell us if we’re getting more supplies or not. Because if not, we’d be better off just surrendering to ISIS.”
We don’t accept ISIS. We’re against Assad because he’s a dictator. We won’t accept another dictator to take his place. What gives them the right to say that something is blasphemy? ISIS killed a German doctor working in a field hospital, saying he was an infidel. This man had come from abroad to treat injured people. If that’s infidel, let us all be infidels like him.
Husayn, playwright (Aleppo)
The FSA launched its attack on Aleppo, and the city entered the revolution’s military stage. The city became divided between regime areas and liberated areas. The FSA took over the poorer neighborhoods—more than half the city. People were worried about survival. As revolutionary activists, the most important thing we could do was offer people an alternative to the regime. We had to provide food, shelter, and services. We had to create a new system.
Building on that idea, we held elections for local councils to represent Aleppo city and all of Aleppo province. The elections was the first of its kind in Syria. It was one of the most important experiences of my life. I invested all of my political experience into it, because I believed that we had to make it work. We wanted to build real institutions that could develop the state.
The main competition was between us revolutionaries and the Muslim Brotherhood, which was very organized and had a lot of money. We had only words. We walked around neighborhoods all day long, talking about our goals and principles. People still appreciated us back then. Later, money and relief aid started flowing in, and they stopped caring. Now if I went and talked to them about the revolution’s values, they’d kick me out.
At that time, there were thousands of abandoned homes in Aleppo. The armed battalions simply took over empty houses. We activists insisted on getting permission from the rightful owners. A man from Aleppo who was working in Saudi Arabia donated his house for our use, and it became like a beehive of activity. More than thirty of us slept on foam mattresses. Everyone took turns cleaning and cooking. One guy was rich, so he’d buy kebab. Others were poor, and could only afford to make eggs.
Whenever people went to pray, I’d keep doing whatever I was doing. No one ever pressured me to join. They knew that I’m secular, but treated me with respect, as an old man who left his family to help the revolution. One activist friend became a Salafist and grew a long beard. He lived in a distant neighborhood and it was dangerous to walk at night, because there was no electricity and no lights. He told the others that if he couldn’t make meetings, he gave me permission to vote on his behalf. There wasn’t religious extremism at the beginning. It took time and effort to get people to become extremists. I think the impetus was from outside the country, and money and weapons were the main drivers.
We created the first movement against Islamization after Islamic groups killed a fourteen-year-old who used to sell coffee on the street. Three Islamists—an Egyptian, a Tunisian, and a Syrian—wanted to take coffee and pay the boy later. He told them, “Even if the Prophet Mohammed came I wouldn’t give it to him on credit.” The Islamists considered that blasphemy and killed the boy.
We called our movement “Enough is Enough.” We started organizing small civic campaigns. One, called “Don’t be part of the chaos,” urged people not to drive cars without license plates. Another, called “I want my school,” asked battalions to return schools that they had seized as military centers.
It was around that time that ISIS arrived in Aleppo. They started kidnapping journalists and activists, including Abu Mariam, who was a famous protest leader. There were few of us left by then, but we organized a sit-in in front of the ISIS headquarters demanding Abu Mariam’s release. We felt safe, relatively speaking, because ISIS wasn’t as powerful then as it is now. But an ISIS car followed us home and, along the way, blocked our taxi in the street. That was a way of sending the message that they were watching us.
After that, we began working in secret. I moved into another neighborhood run by a warlord known to be a violent killer. He didn’t allow ISIS in and promised to protect anyone living under his control. I faced a dilemma. I didn’t want to ally with any armed group. But I was accepting protection from a violent killer, so people would consider me to be on his side.
That was the point when I felt that I had become useless. I decided to leave Syria. I no longer had a purpose for staying.
Kinda, activist (Suwa
yda)
By 2012, the FSA, Nusra Front, and other groups had emerged. There were ugly incidents. A cease-fire was declared, but no one was respecting it, of course.
My sister and I met with a few friends to figure out what we could do. We came up with the most wonderful idea. Four of us would wear bridal dresses. It’s a beautiful sight, a white dress with a veil. Our message was to both sides: Enough! End the killing.
Our parents were supportive. They stood by our side even though other relatives refused to talk to us. They were pro-regime, like most Druze. We started making the dresses. We got fabric and a sewing machine and asked a seamstress for help. I told myself that if I died wearing that white dress in protest, I would die on Syrian land with pride. The rest of the world would know that we’re not terrorists.
The preparations took about twenty-five days. We had a party the day before we went out. We decorated with jasmine flowers, as people do for weddings in Damascus. We prepared signs. One read, “I’m 100 percent Syrian.” Another read, “Syria is for all of us.” The third sign read, “Civil society calls to end all military operations on Syrian land.”
The next day we went down to Midhat Basha market. We had to pass through checkpoints to get there, so we wore black abayas over the wedding dresses. Friends met us in the market; they dispersed into the crowd with the plan to come together once the protest began.
One of the girls counted. One, two, three, and we took off our black abayas. The white dresses appeared and we put on the veils. We raised the signs and stood there for about seven minutes. People were shocked. We were four brides in the middle of the market, and we brought it to a standstill. It was a wonderful scene, by far the most beautiful day of my life.
We Crossed a Bridge and It Trembled Page 11