My homeland exists in an abandoned house, in the tear of the oppressed, in the sigh of the bewildered, and in the inherited words of the rebel.
I am Ola, from the countryside of Damascus. This is my daughter beside me, in the fourth grade. She has never seen her father; on the day of his arrest, she was still a fetus in my womb.
Years ago, the sun of freedom rose over my country, and its warmth reached Qatana. My four brothers, as always, were at the forefront of the town’s youth in peaceful demonstrations, chanting slogans. They ignited in me an irresistible fervor, and I went down with them, hiding my face so no one would recognize me.
I never imagined that our Alawite neighbors, whose homes were adjacent to our neighborhoods, would one day turn into instruments of our killing—opening fire on demonstrators, chasing them down. Every day brought news of a new martyr and more detainees. My husband and my four brothers were among them: some were killed, some returned, and some we still await news of.
By 2013, as the security grip tightened around us, Qatana began to fall asleep to shelling and wake up to sweeping raids and arrests. Most of the young men left the town for Khan al‑Shih, which was liberated from the regime. I remained with my mother and sister, like other women, in our homes, anxiously waiting as one of my brothers would occasionally sneak in every few days to reassure us.
One day they raided our house. They broke down the door, rifles pointed at us, ransacking the place and overturning everything. They first took our phones and IDs. When they were done, they beat my mother and threw her to the ground. Then they shouted at me and my sisters to come with them. I begged them not to, but they cursed me and dragged me. I begged them to let us change our clothes. The cursed officer mocked us, saying, “Come as you are—it’s better.” After more pleading, he allowed us to put on outer clothes in front of him. He refused to leave the room or close the door. We don’t know how we managed to dress over what we were wearing to cover our bodies.
It was the first time women from our town had been arrested. They took me and my sisters to the security post. The first thing I saw upon entering was them beating a young boy with their military boots. His small body and blood‑soaked face remain etched in my memory. They placed me in one of their offices while the television aired demonstrations in the streets. They scrutinized faces, trying to recognize people, repeatedly cursing and insulting those they called infiltrators.
As I trembled for my fate—and feared even more for my younger sister, who was still a child—they separated her from me. They dragged me to solitary confinement. Shortly after, they pulled me out violently and threw me onto the office floor. Then they brought my sister in. The officer began kicking me while shouting, “Who is threatening us with blowing up the post? Are you his lover or… should I photograph you while you come to him so he can enjoy you?”
He kept repeating the question while I didn’t understand what he meant, until he started reading messages from my phone—threats from the rebels warning that they would attack the post if we were not released.
I told him I had nothing to do with it. He beat me mercilessly—sometimes with his boot, sometimes with the green plastic baton known as the “Green Brahimi.” My sisters cried helplessly, unable to do anything for me. He ordered the guards to continue beating me and took my sister into another room. When he returned to interrogate me, my bones were shattered from the beating.
He asked, “What is your relationship with the terrorists?”
I replied, “I have none. I am a state employee. I work to earn my living.”
He beat me and repeated the accusation: “You help them. You and your sisters smuggle soldiers through the orchards. Where did you hide the ones who fled our checkpoint yesterday?”
I denied everything, confident in my answer—I had done none of what he accused me of. He repeated the questions in different forms. I realized he was trying to entrap me, then understood he was attempting to seduce me. I decided to be strong. I looked at him with disgust and contempt and began shouting loudly that what he was saying was a lie. He returned me to solitary confinement.
The next day, he summoned me again, seated me at his desk, and said, “I want you with me.”
I said, “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
He said, “I’ll release you and your sisters. I’ll provide you with gas, bread, diesel—everything you need—on the condition that you come to me once or twice a week. We’ll spend time together, and you’ll tell me the names of the terrorists in Qatana.”
I stared at him without saying a word. He understood my answer and began beating me like a madman. As I endured his blows, I thought of my sisters—wondering if they were being subjected to the same treatment. I knew I was the strongest among them: the older one was simple, the younger one fragile. I asked him to let me check on them before giving him an answer. He took me to them and left me with them, saying, “Be sensible so nothing happens to them.”
I was ready to endure every form of torture as long as they were not harmed. They took my older sister’s statement in front of me. She lived with her husband in Barzeh, Damascus, and had no involvement in anything; she had been visiting us when the raid occurred. My younger sister was a young child who couldn’t answer properly, stammering in fear. I knelt before them, begging them to leave her alone, claiming she suffered from epilepsy—a lie I told to save her. I pleaded with them to interrogate me instead.
The interrogator turned to me and asked, “Tell us about your brothers. Where are they?”
I said, “In Lebanon.”
He mocked me: “Which Lebanon? The lower one?”—meaning Khan al‑Shih.
I said, “No, the upper one.”
He scolded me, saying I was lying and that they knew where my brothers were. I told him, “I am a state employee. I have nothing to do with my brothers or their actions. Even if their behavior is wrong, they are like today’s youth who don’t listen to their families. What is my guilt or my sisters’?”
He left the room and returned with the officer, who said, “You won’t understand,” and ordered them to return me to solitary confinement.
The next day, the interrogation resumed. I was shocked that they questioned me about private matters only my family and neighbors could know. The same questions were repeated with greater insults and harsher beatings than before, which caused my teeth to break. Each day brought new interrogation and torture sessions. I returned to solitary confinement with no pain relief, no medicine for my festering wounds. Food was a boiled potato—still raw—and a few olives, or bulgur with onions.
Alongside torture, they waged psychological warfare—fabricating accusations to intimidate us. They claimed my brother scattered nails on the road to prevent their patrols from reaching the protest square, that he helped one of their soldiers defect, and that my other brothers participated in demonstrations. Though they proved nothing against me or my sisters, I remained steadfast, defying them.
At one point, I believed they were looking for a way to rid themselves of us. The rebels had created a balance of terror with them. After my release, I learned they had infiltrated the area multiple times, intensified operations, attacked the post, and even kidnapped a shabiha in retaliation for our arrest. Until my release, I did not know why the officer stopped torturing me or why he seemed to be seeking a deal to free us.
Eventually, a brigadier came to the post, summoned us to the officer’s office, and adopted a fatherly tone. He told them we had nothing to do with anything and that we would work with the state. If we cooperated, they would release us.
When he turned to question my younger sister, I intervened, saying, “Leave her. I will do whatever you want.”
The brigadier exchanged a lewd glance with the officer and left.
The next day, the interrogator brought me to his room and said everything was under their control, that they knew all the young men, their gatherings, and movements, and that they would be dealt with in due time. He asked me to hand over three wanted young men. I agreed.
He told me to swear. I swore by God that I would do whatever he wanted.
He laughed mockingly and said he did not believe in God to trust such an oath. He pointed at my genitals and said, “Swear by this.” He repeated his obscene demand until I did.
He seated me on the couch and produced a written pledge stating I would work with them. He told me I had to come to him twice a week and contact him with information about the youth, and that he knew how to reach me whenever he wished. He summoned my sisters, produced blank papers, and forced the three of us to fingerprint them. Then we were released.
At the gate of the post, I grabbed my sisters and dragged them home like a wounded bird—barefoot, my body ulcerated and frail. When my mother embraced me at the door, my nerves collapsed. I remained in bed for days. I don’t know if it was my need to stay in her arms, the burden of protecting my sisters in detention, the untreated wounds and malnutrition, or the looks from neighbors—eyes wavering between suspicion and pity.
I oscillated between pride and misery—sometimes proud that I had sacrificed my body to save my sister, other times blaming myself for yielding to words that anger God. Above all loomed the heavy anxiety of what they demanded of me. I concluded there was no way to deceive them and no solution but to leave. Yes, it was time to leave.
The interrogator did not stop calling, demanding I keep my promise. I stalled him while arranging our escape—my mother, my sister, and me. Within days, my brothers organized our passage to Khan al‑Shih. The reunion was joyful. They tried to mend my broken spirit with pride in me and to heal my wounds.
When the criminals at the post learned of my departure, they raided our house and burned it with everything inside. Despite my grief over the loss of our life’s work and memories, the blow was lighter than their arrest of my sister from her home in Barzeh, Damascus. We never thought they would reach her there. Her husband was compliant with them. For twenty days, I lived in agony, knowing their cruelty. My brothers and I paid everything we owned to save her. They released her physically and psychologically shattered—terrified of any man, even her husband and children. She later traveled with her family to Lebanon for treatment.
Three years in Khan al‑Shih, in the far south, then to the north on the green buses. Assad left us no safe place in this homeland. It was a new catastrophe I lived with those of my family who remained. I married a kind man, a friend of my brother, and together we tried to endure the hardships of life and the bitterness of loss. In Khan al‑Shih, one of my brothers was martyred, another was gravely injured and remains disabled. My first husband was martyred earlier; my brother was detained. My health deteriorated. We lost our home and everything we owned—until we became a devastated family.