Between Daraa, where I was born and lived with my husband and children, and Ghouta, where my family resided, I participated with the people of my town in peaceful demonstrations. My young students at school preceded me in joining them; even a fourth-grade pupil was among those students. My activism was not as visible as that of my brothers, who had long opposed the regime and were wanted because of their full involvement in the revolution. This prompted them to warn me against passing through checkpoints or leaving the area. When I told them of my intention to travel to As-Suwayda for medical treatment—after my doctor’s clinic had been shelled and he subsequently left Daraa for Egypt, and as there was no other specialist in rheumatology and joint diseases in Hauran—they urged caution.
I was encouraged to go because I knew that As-Suwayda was effectively run by local committees from the city, and these committees did not concern themselves with those wanted by the regime. Their only concern was that anyone entering the city not be carrying weapons. Many residents of the region—some of whom were wanted by the regime—regularly traveled to As-Suwayda and returned without incident.
Indeed, on October 18, 2014, my cousin Rana and I went to As-Suwayda: I to consult a rheumatology specialist, and she to see an ophthalmologist. On the way there, no one stopped us; the checkpoints were manned by popular committees. Out of fear of the regime, I had taken a precautionary measure: I carried the ID card of Hanan, our neighbor’s daughter who resembled me, placing it in my bag to use if we encountered a regime checkpoint. I carried my own ID to purchase a mobile SIM card and hid it inside my clothes. I also wanted to repair my broken phone during the trip. Later, the technician told me it could not be repaired, and I was saddened by the loss of the family photos stored on it—unaware then that this would turn out to be a blessing.
While we were waiting for the results of the medical tests requested by the doctor, my cousin decided to please her husband—who had defected from the regime—by buying him a carton of cigarettes. We were delayed slightly, and at 1:00 p.m. the return bus set off along the same route. The terrifying surprise came at a transportation checkpoint, where we encountered a mobile patrol of Assad’s Air Force Intelligence. This was unusual, but apparently disputes with Sheikh al-Balous, a resistance figure in As-Suwayda, had led them to set up temporary “flying” checkpoints. This occurred near the village of Al-Shaqrawiya. As soon as the bus stopped and the soldier opened the door, he immediately asked my cousin and me for our IDs. Our headscarves had clearly drawn his attention, as women in As-Suwayda are mostly unveiled. He approached us, his eyes fixed on the carton of cigarettes in my cousin’s hand, and asked, “Who are these for? Where are you from?”
She replied, “We are from a village called Sour in Daraa.”
He shouted at her, “You are carrying cigarettes for terrorists!”
He ordered everyone to get off the minibus and searched it thoroughly. People were carrying gas cylinders and bags of sugar and food supplies. He grabbed my shoulder bag and felt it, noticed the medicine boxes, took them from me, and searched them. He found my original ID inside the envelope of the SIM card I had purchased and looked at me with a stare I will never forget.
He asked, “Who are you, Madam—Hanan or Somaya?”
I replied in terror, “I—I am Somaya.”
He said, “If you are Somaya, why did you give me Hanan’s ID? And why are you carrying two IDs?”
I replied, “I gave you the ID by mistake. I was carrying the other one because its owner asked me to buy her a SIM card. I mistakenly handed you her ID instead of mine.”
He said, “Alright, alright—we’ll see shortly.”
He collected the IDs of the other passengers and went to the patrol of about ten officers, then returned and ordered me to stay with them while instructing the driver to continue with the remaining passengers. I argued and begged him to tell me why I was being kept, explaining again that it was an ID mistake. He barked at me to be silent, ordered me off the bus, and told my cousin, “Rana al-Ahmad, you stay too.”
Rana looked at him, then at me, and said, “I have nothing to do with this.”
He replied, “You will both stay,” and signaled the driver to move. We broke down crying and begging him to let us go. He paid no attention, walking toward an adjacent room while we followed, crying, until soldiers stopped us with their rifles pointed at us. We remained outside crying and screaming, watching the bus leave. Another officer came and ordered us to climb into the back of a military vehicle, threatening to put us there himself if we refused. We climbed in, crying and screaming, still hoping they would release us after an hour or two, as they had done with other women before as a form of intimidation. We cried and thought of our families and husbands, of the blame and reproach awaiting us for our delay, and at the same time feared what the soldiers might do to us. It never crossed our minds that they would actually arrest us—we had done nothing. While in the truck bed, we searched the faces of passing motorists—who were being stopped at the checkpoint—for anyone who might help us.
They then removed two elderly women from a bus from Busra al-Harir and placed them with us in the truck bed. They tried to calm us. I remember one of them saying, “What’s wrong, girls? God is with you.” We were astonished by their strength, while we were nearly dying of fear. They focused on comforting us until around 4:00 p.m., when they closed the door on us and the vehicles departed. Our nerves collapsed completely.
We arrived at the Air Force Intelligence branch in As-Suwayda. I futilely try to recall those moments—the interrogators’ names, their faces, the building, the cell I was in, how I entered or exited, who was with me. I remember nothing of the first hours due to the shock, except the investigator’s final words: “Somaya al-Ahmad—Palestine Branch,” as he threw a dark blue file onto the desk and told another person to continue.
I lost consciousness. I woke up only in the women’s cell, with detainees waking me. I do not remember their faces, even though I later learned that one of them was from my village and was released before me and informed my family of what had happened. I do remember my cousin Rana comforting me. She believed she would remain behind and not be transferred with me to Palestine Branch; I believed the same. I remember when they transferred us—how they blindfolded us, handcuffed us, and put us in the vehicle. Everyone in the vehicle was crying with muffled sobs, unable to raise our voices for fear of being beaten. I recognized Rana by her crying voice and called out, “Rana?” She answered, “Somaya.” Our sobbing rose together. The guards shouted at us, and a female police officer struck me while insulting me. I felt both sorrow and relief—sorrow that my cousin was being taken to Palestine Branch, and relief that she would be with me.
When we arrived, I was horrified by the numbers. I felt as though all the women of Syria were detained in Palestine Branch—young girls, pregnant women, breastfeeding mothers, and others with small children. The sheer scale made my own suffering seem small, as I grieved for them: young, beautiful girls the age of my daughters—some school students, some university students, one engaged, others with their small children. I slowly regained awareness after As-Suwayda and began to adapt, feeling that I was not alone.
Palestine Branch is extremely brutal. The cell was filled with hair, blood, pus, and black filth. The walls were coated with a sticky layer of accumulated grime to the extent that I could not lean against them. The floor was revolting, brown from layers of dirt. Insects and lice crawled on the walls, rodents could be heard everywhere. The stench of dampness and rot was overwhelming. The female guards there were spiteful and treated us with cruelty.
Our cells were located along both sides of a long corridor, faintly lit at the end and dark elsewhere. We were behind heavy iron doors, barely able to see one another. There was no light or ventilation. The doors had a small window through which food was passed. Every three, four, or five days, we were allowed out under the sun into a yard behind the prison building, surrounded by tall trees. The guards would spread lavish food for themselves—makdous, cheese, labneh, eggs, hummus, falafel—reminding me of breakfast at my family home. Alongside hunger, I suffered the pain of longing and nostalgia, while the guards deliberately prolonged their feasts and drank hot tea during our brief outings. Our daily food was poorly cooked rice or bulgur, clumped like dough, tasteless and without fat or salt; or lentil soup consisting only of water and lentil skins; occasionally pasta smelling of tomato paste; or rice with peas, without meat, ghee, or spices. Food was served in a metal basin without spoons, with about two bags of bread meant to last a week—barely enough for a single day. The remaining days, we ate hard bread to fight hunger. Rarely, they would “honor” us with a boiled egg, five olives, or some jam. During my first month, I nearly died of hunger because I naturally eat slowly; later, I trained myself to eat quickly—a habit that remains with me to this day.
Bathroom access was determined by schedule, not need—three times daily, at the guards’ discretion. We were lined up and taken in groups. Bathing and washing clothes were allowed once or twice a week. Our clothes deteriorated from repeated washing and wearing. Fortunately, I had been wearing an abaya over trousers and a blouse at the time of my arrest, which allowed me to alternate washing my undergarments while wearing the abaya until they dried. UNICEF and ICRC aid was stolen; even sanitary pads were withheld—we received one box every two or three months. Soap and cleaning supplies were scarce, leaving us unable to properly clean ourselves or our belongings.
Diseases were widespread. The cold was relentless and deadly. I was arrested at the end of summer in light clothing and endured harsh winter months in detention. Rheumatism pains intensified as we sat on the damp floor. I would wedge myself among the women to draw warmth from their bodies, easing my joint pain. All of this was minor compared to what happened in interrogation rooms. Fear never left us as we awaited our numbers being called, sensing death approaching—electric shocks, burning, rape, murder—and when one of us returned, the marks were evident.
To protect myself, I resorted to pretending I had contagious diseases, including scabies. Whenever my number was called, I would rush out in terror, inadvertently stepping on others’ bodies. Each time, the interrogator repeated the same questions about my personal life—my name, age, education; my father’s name, age, education; my mother’s name, age, occupation; where we were from and lived; where I worked; my husband’s name, age, and education; details about my family and his; and especially about wanted individuals from our area. I had to know everything and answer without hesitation, as stammering would result in severe beating from behind—often while blindfolded, unable to see how many were beating me. Different interrogators asked the same questions with different methods of torture, interrupting answers and extracting confessions through pain. I learned to anticipate their demands, even answering things I did not know with what they wanted to hear.
I prepared my answers carefully, aided by what I had heard from my brothers who had experienced detention and from fellow detainees sharing their stories. I avoided mentioning God, lest I meet the fate of “Um Qa‘oud,” a woman from al-Midan whom detainees said was killed under torture for merely saying, “God is greater than you.” Even the words “revolution” or “revolutionaries” could lead to death. We used their terminology—“events,” “crisis,” “armed groups,” “terrorists,” “gang clashes.” They limited themselves to beating, insulting, and humiliating me. I remember the interrogator Haidara Na‘man—his beatings and what I witnessed before me. If I had him today, I would tear out his throat with my teeth. I saw him interrogate a woman from the al-Ghab plain named Suheila Alwan, speaking to her in an Alawite dialect, throwing her to the ground, stomping on her until she lost consciousness, then having guards drag her away. I trembled, awaiting my turn. He asked me about officers who were friends of my brother in Ghouta. I truthfully said I knew nothing. He slapped my face repeatedly, slammed it against walls and cabinets. When I cried, my voice irritated him, so he beat me more until I was silent. The marks on my face lingered, as did bruises from batons and kicks on my back and head. Worse than the physical pain was the humiliation—the harassment, obscene language, mocking blows to my chest and buttocks. Pretending to have a contagious disease and visible swelling may have spared me worse. I recall a girl interrogated before me: with each answer, the interrogator exposed part of her body, cursed her obscenely, and when she pushed him away, he called the guards to take her—they assaulted her like rabid dogs.
Despite all this, we were considered “fortunate” compared to others, as we were detained in what they called “Task Prison” on a basement level; other sections were deeper underground—the more serious the accusation, the lower the level. Task Prison was designated for detainees with wanted relatives or those accused of humanitarian aid.
After about a month in Palestine Branch with my cousin, they took me alone to Kafr Sousa Branch, leaving Rana behind. From the darkness of Palestine—ironically named—to the blinding lights of Kafr Sousa used to deprive us of sleep, where cameras monitored us and anyone who slept was dragged by the feet. When drowsiness overcame me, I would rest my head on a cellmate’s legs under the pretense she was removing lice from my hair, covering my eyes with my hair to sleep for half an hour. I remained there about ten days, then was transferred to the Air Force Intelligence branch in Mezzeh, where I stayed a month and a half. The suffering was the same. To them, we were insects. I often wondered why they hated us so much—a housewife like me who had never harmed them, who supported the revolution peacefully, only verbally, not a leader or active organizer—like most detainees. Where did they find such darkness in their hearts?
My family was my greatest concern—my children, parents, siblings. I wondered what they thought of me, how they imagined me, knowing what detainees endure. I thought of my husband, expecting him to blame me for going to the doctor; all I hoped was that he would care for our children. My heart ached for my daughters—how they were without me. I had left my pampered little Mariam in seventh grade; how would she feel growing into adolescence without me? My youngest son was still very young. I called out their names in my sleep. Fellow detainees learned my children’s names from my delirium. I blamed myself for subjecting them to grief and deprivation.
In detention, we consoled one another. Each woman forgot her own wounds to support another in collapse. Among us, there was always a heroine bearing much of the burden of comfort—while the regime planted an informant among us, whom we called “the hen,” moving her between cells to report to officers.
“Um al-Noor” from Hama is dear to my heart. She understood my longing for my family and my pain as dampness intensified my rheumatism. With limited space and cold floors, I rested my legs in her lap while she gently massaged them.
We nicknamed one officer “Um Zeus,” a woman in the Air Force Intelligence with an officer rank who treated us better than others. One day she summoned me along with Sara and Noor, detainees from Raqqa accused due to relatives’ alleged affiliation with ISIS. I panicked, thinking we were being taken for summary execution, only to find ourselves at the storage office receiving release papers along with five other women. It was February 12, 2016. From above the branch gate, I rode a yellow taxi with Sara and Noor, got off at Bab Musalla to take buses to Daraa, and—wearing tattered summer clothes and looking strange—boarded a bus to Al-Sanamayn. Before boarding, they collected IDs from passengers to pass through checkpoints. At Jisr Sahnaya checkpoint, my fear proved justified: the driver returned with an officer who called my name and ordered me off. I said I had release papers. He told me to shut up and ordered the bus to leave. I broke down again, screaming until a senior officer came over. I handed him the release paper, begging him to let me go for my children’s sake. He looked at me mockingly, tore the paper, and said, “Drink its water.” Soldiers aimed weapons at me and put me in the back of a vehicle. My joy vanished, my freedom vanished, my dignity vanished. I realized there was no safety with them in one homeland.
They took me to Military Police detention—bad, but better than intelligence branches. After three days, an officer ordered my number to be checked. When I eagerly said I remembered it, he shouted at me to shut up and ordered, “Find her number so we know where to dump her.” I was returned to the same Air Force Intelligence cell without interrogation. Despair spread among detainees—we felt we would remain forever, even if released, always at risk of re-arrest. Oppression consumed me until God answered my prayers; after five days, I was released again—this time with Um al-Noor. She did not leave me, taking me with another survivor from Bab al-Hawa to her sister’s home, saying, “Come rest and change clothes, then we’ll plan a safe route to your family.”
At her sister’s home, the joy of reunion was indescribable—long embraces, tears, joy and sorrow—yet they cared for us: a clean bath, hot tea like the guards drank before us, simple delicious food, warm clothes. I insisted on finding a way to reach my family. They advised me to go to my brothers in Ghouta via underground tunnels dug by rebels. Despite coffee and comfort, my heart could not wait. Um al-Noor accompanied me in a taxi along side roads to the Qaboun tunnel entrance, walked with me to the point, watched me until I disappeared, smiling and urging me on.
At the tunnel entrance, rebel youths questioned me; I told them I had just been released from detention. Their voices rose in praise of God as they rushed to help me. They contacted my brothers in Arbin, an active combat zone, and escorted me through the tunnel—this time weapons were for my protection. At the exit, my brother met me, shouting in joy, “By God, it’s Somaya—she’s alive!” We embraced and cried for nearly an hour. He drove me to my parents, shouting ahead that I had arrived. My family shared my photo with my daughters and siblings to announce my survival. Later, I learned my brothers had sold cars and property to secure my release, and that after taking the bribe, the intelligence officer told them that my cousin and I had died of kidney failure. They failed to recover my body despite millions paid. They hid the news from my parents and sisters, telling only my husband, who prepared the children to live without me. When I returned from hell to life, separation followed—seven years without seeing them due to sieges, displacement, chemical attacks, forced evacuation to Idlib, and danger. My daughter, whom I left at twelve, is now nineteen. Reuniting them with me in Idlib was perilous, but necessary. When they arrived, my joy rivaled the day I survived detention.
Despite some stability and happiness now, prison memories remain a nightmare. How can they leave me when I left Rana—my soulmate—behind? I blame myself for her accompanying me for treatment to As-Suwayda, entering detention with me, but not leaving with me. She was twenty-seven then. Her heart burned for her children. Pain and anxiety overwhelmed her. She suffered from kidney ascites; guards denied her bathroom access, worsening her condition. They mocked our pleas. Deprivation of basic human needs was torture. I left her in Palestine Branch when I was transferred to Kafr Sousa. Family efforts to free her failed; her fate remains unknown. Her children grew up without her, their pain turning into rage—only accountability can heal it.
How can I forget, when families still knock on my door asking about missing daughters? The numbers are overwhelming. One day a man showed me a photo of Maram, twenty-one, arrested because her husband defected. She was tortured, placed in solitary confinement like a toilet, given a piece of bread daily, and under torture confessed that her husband fought with Jabhat al-Nusra in Ghouta. Her husband asks me about her repeatedly—are you sure it’s her? Is she alive? Was she tortured? Raped? How was her health? His strength fails him as he weeps.
How can I forget, when smells still linger as if I am there—life in death, or death in life? Many of my family remain missing: my brother Hamed disappeared after two visits in 2013; some say he was executed in 2017. We found my cousin Rami among Caesar photos, but not my brother. My elderly uncle Eid reportedly died under torture. Bassam was arrested and disappeared. Ali accepted reconciliation in Daraa, yet was later arrested and executed. How can I forget when my family faces annihilation—yes, annihilation—killed because we are Sunni.
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