In my twenties, I was born twice.
The first time was when I visited the Holy House of God.
The second was upon my return to my country, when the voices of young people rose, chanting for freedom and filling every place. My soul was irresistibly drawn to join them with happiness and enthusiasm. One day, I broke through fear and my mother’s warnings. As I had planned, I left the women’s hair salon where I worked, wearing a abaya so no one would recognize me, roaming freely through the streets of freedom and the most beautiful days of life.
Those days did not last long. In February, the security grip tightened on Zabadani. Bullets and shells rained down on its people, leaving new victims every day. I became a nurse after completing a brief training course. Then, after shelling destroyed many homes in our neighborhood, my brothers forced me to leave with my mother, while they stayed behind.
We stayed in Bloudan for weeks until the shelling ended—or so we thought. We returned to our home, what I believed was our safe haven, never imagining it would no longer be safe, that basements would become our shelter. The shelling resumed, the smell of death returned, arrests resumed, and once again we thought of leaving.
I packed my belongings with my family and headed to Damascus, to my married sister’s home. My other sister, who lived in Kuwait, sent a visit request for my parents so they could stay with her, but they postponed it because of me, waiting for my answer to a young man from Zabadani who proposed to me. I agreed to reassure my father.
I drew a beautiful dream in which I returned to Zabadani—my beloved homeland—and built a warm nest with my husband who had stayed there. In my dream, I wore a white dress, styled my hair as I had done for hundreds of girls at the salon, and walked in my wedding procession to my husband’s home, the Damascene ‘arada and drums leading the way. Moments later, I awoke to the sound of shells raining down again. I was a bride without a veil, riding a minibus toward my husband, and toward the unknown.
We did not build a peaceful home. Shelling destroyed the first house we lived in. Fear was constant—raids, arrests. I became pregnant. My greatest fear was for the fetus in my womb. Hunger exhausted him as we lived under siege—no bread, no water. I was forced once again to leave the city with the women. I bid farewell to my husband, who stayed behind. I carried only a blouse and trousers, hoping the separation would not last long.
I went alone to Madaya and stayed at my cousin’s house, which was also shelled. She fled to Lebanon, and I had to search for another home amid shelling, siege, and soaring prices. I could neither reach my husband nor survive alone.
My greatest tragedy was in my womb. Labor began in my seventh month. There was no midwife or doctor in the area. They directed me to a veterinarian, who agreed to perform a cesarean section. He told me the anesthesia was expired. He did his best, but my child died. I wished I had kept him in my womb, breathing, so my dream would not die.
I hemorrhaged severely after the surgery due to remnants left in my uterus. They gave me IV fluids and a bag of blood and told me I needed more, but it was unavailable. I spent five days without food, consumed by hunger. Food was sold by the spoon or piece—one spoon of jam for 1,000 liras, a piece of cheese for 2,000. Like everyone else, I waited for relief, sustained by hope.
News came that the UN would evacuate detainees and wounded people from Madaya. I was on the list due to my postnatal condition. I hesitated between Damascus and Idlib, but chose Damascus to stay close to my husband.
They distributed the wounded to two hospitals in Damascus. I was taken to Ibn al-Nafis Hospital. I thought I would receive proper care, but I soon realized we were in a place resembling a detention center. My sister came to visit but was denied access. We endured neglect and mistreatment for days before being loaded onto a bus full of women, children, and the sick.
An officer told us our status would be “settled” because we came from a hot area. They took us to a place called Maher al-Assad Shelter Center. There were others there, sharing rooms and bathrooms. Some had been there for over a year. When I asked why, they said it was their choice. I did not believe them. I wondered about my fate—would I remain here? Was this the end, or the beginning of new misery?
I contacted people from Madaya and told them what happened. They asked me for the names of those with me to inform the UN in an effort to secure our release. I began writing names, but a woman warned me about informants in the center and that someone might write a report against me. I tore up the paper and deleted all messages from my phone. I had already sent the information earlier, gradually.
I had not recovered. Due to fear and malnutrition, I suffered repeated severe drops in blood pressure and was taken unconscious to the hospital. There, I received good news: a decision had been issued to release us. All we had to do was take our documents and leave.
I told my husband to send a car to take me to him. He was then in Wadi Barada. I returned to him and tried to find a gynecologist to continue my treatment but failed, so I decided to go to Damascus.
At a checkpoint on April 19, 2016, on my way to Damascus, I listened to music through my headphones. I was not worried—they were checking IDs, and I had left the shelter after my status was settled. Suddenly, tension rose. I noticed all passengers looking outside. I turned off the music and removed my headphones. I heard an officer shouting my name: “Where is Rima?” Terrified, I said, “I am.”
Another officer came, shouting my name again, cursing, and grabbed me like prey, dragging me off the bus. I tried to ask the driver to contact my husband. I stepped down without knowing what awaited me. My phone rang—it was my sister—but they did not allow me to answer.
They put me in a small room and said, “The security car is on its way to take her.” My strength collapsed. I felt severe head pain and screamed. One officer gave me a pill, saying it was for the headache. After taking it, I felt as if I were in another world. Fear deepened, and I tried to focus.
They took me to the branch. They confiscated my belongings, leaving me only a bag of sanitary pads. They asked if I was married. I said no—our marriage was not registered, and my husband was wanted. I feared for him and myself.
I had $100 hidden in my bra for treatment. I hesitated to hand it over, but the officer threatened me. I gave them the money. They put me in a cell with ten women. The cell leader, named Marah—a folk dancer and singer—interrogated me. Exhausted, I fell asleep.
I awoke to interrogation. They asked if I was married. I felt they knew everything. Under the effect of the drug and exhaustion, I confessed. They knew details about my work, nursing, charity work in Madaya, and the people I worked with. I just wanted to return to the cell and sleep.
I learned I was in Patrols Branch 216 in al-Qazzaz. Women comforted me. Marah spied on us, reporting to officers. I stayed there 11 days, time moving painfully slow, haunted by memories—my mother, my husband, my martyred brother, my detained siblings. I wondered if they were nearby.
On the 11th day, they told me to take my belongings. I thought I was being transferred—and I was. We went to al-Khatib Branch 251. They photographed me and put me in a crowded cell. Psychological and physical abuse became reality.
During interrogation, they beat me, accused me of smuggling weapons and money. Blood came from my mouth; my teeth broke. Women tore pieces of their headscarves to stop the bleeding.
They threatened to strip me and throw me to a tuberculosis patient. In terror, I falsely confessed. They made me sign blank papers.
I remained in detention, transferred again, abused again, starved, denied prayer, surrounded by filth, lice, and humiliation. I wrote my name on the cell wall and counted the days.
After months, transfers, courts, bribes, betrayal by my husband, illness, surgery, and loss, a judge finally ruled to prevent my trial for lack of evidence—nothing had changed except the money my family paid.
It was freedom—after nearly a year stolen from my life. I cried, unsure if from joy, grief, betrayal, or farewell to the women I loved like sisters.
Later, I learned my husband had abandoned me, taken the money, joined the regime forces, and betrayed us all. Knowing the truth freed me.
I rebuilt my life alone, worked with organizations, endured loss after loss—including my mother and my unborn children. I underwent nine surgeries. I was diagnosed with secondary infertility.
I told myself:
“Nothing is difficult. The hardest has already passed.
In my womb is my homeland—heavy like me.
I am, like it, a giver of life.
And I will remain.
I will give birth to life again.”
ds