Third Testimony: He Told Me, “Don’t Swear by God—Swear by Something Else.”
My name is 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 he was arrested, 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 among the leading young men of the town in the peaceful demonstrations, chanting slogans. They ignited in me an irresistible passion, so I joined 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 killing—shooting at demonstrators and chasing them. Each 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 are still waiting to hear about.
By 2013, as the security siege tightened around us, Qatana would fall asleep to shelling and wake up to raids and mass arrests. Most of the young men left the town for Khan al-Shih, which had been liberated from the regime. I remained with my mother and sister, like many women, in our homes, waiting anxiously. One of my brothers would sneak in every few days to check on us.
One day, they raided our house. They broke down the door, pointed their rifles at us, ransacked everything, and turned the place upside down. They took our phones and IDs first. When they finished, 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 away.
I pleaded with them to allow us to change our clothes. The officer mockingly said, “Come as you are—that’s better.” After more pleading, he allowed us to put on outer garments 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 already wearing to cover our bodies.
It was the first time women from our town had been arrested. They took me and my sisters to a checkpoint. The first thing I saw upon entering was a small boy being beaten with military boots. His small body and bloodied face are still etched in my memory. They put me in one of their offices while the television was broadcasting street demonstrations. They scrutinized the faces, trying to identify people, hurling insults at those they called infiltrators.
As I trembled in fear for my fate—and even more for my younger sister, who was still a child—they separated me from her and dragged me into solitary confinement. Shortly after, they violently pulled me out and threw me onto the office floor. Then they brought my sister.
The officer began kicking me, shouting:
“Who is threatening to blow up the center? Are you his lover? Or… should I film you going to him so he can enjoy you?”
He kept repeating the question, and I didn’t understand what he meant—until he started reading messages from my phone. They were threats from rebels warning they would attack the center if we were not released.
I told him I had nothing to do with it. He beat me mercilessly—sometimes with his boots, sometimes with a green plastic baton known as the “green Ibrahim baton.” My sisters cried helplessly, unable to do anything for me. He ordered the guards to continue beating me and took my sister to another room. When he returned to interrogate me, my bones felt shattered from the severity of the beating.
He asked:
“What is your connection to the terrorists?”
I replied:
“I have no connection to them. I am a government employee, working to earn a living.”
He struck me again:
“You are helping them. You and your sisters are smuggling soldiers through the orchards. Where did you hide those who fled our checkpoint yesterday?”
I denied everything, confident in my answers—I had done nothing they accused me of. He repeated the questions in different forms. I realized he was trying to trap me, then understood he was trying 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 lies. He sent me back to solitary confinement.
The next day, he summoned me again, sat me on his desk, and said:
“I want you with me.”
I said:
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
He said:
“I will release you and your sisters. I will provide you with gasoline, bread, diesel—everything you need—on the condition that you come to me once or twice a week. We will spend some time together, and you will tell me the names of the terrorists in Qatana.”
I stared at him without saying a word. He understood my answer and beat me severely. As I endured the blows, I thought of my sisters, wondering if they were being treated the same way. I knew they were.
I was the strongest among them: the eldest was simple, and the youngest was fragile. I asked him to let me check on them before answering. He took me to them and left me there, saying:
“Be sensible so nothing happens to them.”
I was ready to endure any kind of torture as long as they were safe.
They took my older sister’s statement in front of me. She lived with her husband in Barzeh in Damascus and had nothing to do with any of this—she had only been visiting us when the raid happened. My younger sister was just a child, unable to answer clearly, stammering from fear.
I knelt before them, begging them to leave her alone, claiming she had epilepsy—a lie I made up 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 rebuked me, saying I was lying and that they knew where my brothers were. I replied:
“I am a government 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 do not listen to their families. What is my fault—or my sisters’?”
He left the room and returned with the officer, who said:
“You won’t understand,”
and ordered me back to solitary confinement.
The next day, the interrogation resumed. I was shocked that they questioned me about private matters only my family and neighbors would know. The same questions were repeated, with harsher insults and more brutal beatings than before, which caused my teeth to break.
Each day brought new sessions of interrogation and torture. I returned to solitary confinement without any pain relief or treatment for my infected wounds. My food consisted of boiled potatoes—still raw—with some olives, or bulgur with onions.
Alongside the physical torture, they waged psychological warfare, fabricating accusations to intimidate us. They claimed my brother had 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.
Although they proved nothing against me or my sisters, I remained steadfast, defying them.
At some point, I thought they were looking for a way to get rid of us. The rebels had created a balance of terror with them. After my release, I learned they had infiltrated the area several times, intensified their operations, attacked the site, and even kidnapped one of the militia members in retaliation for our arrest.
Until my release, I didn’t know why the officer stopped torturing me or why he seemed to be seeking a deal.
In the end, a brigadier came to the center, summoned us to the officer’s office, and spoke in a paternal tone. He told them we had nothing to do with anything and that we would cooperate with the state. If we cooperated, they would release us.
When he turned to question my younger sister, I intervened:
“Leave her. I will do whatever you want.”
The brigadier exchanged a vile 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 hold them accountable at the right time. He asked me to hand over three wanted young men. I agreed.
He asked me to swear. I swore by God that I would do what he wanted.
He laughed mockingly and said he did not believe in God to trust such an oath. He pointed to my genitals and said:
“Swear by this.”
He repeated his obscene demand until I complied.
He made me sit on the sofa and brought out a written pledge that I would work with them. He told me I had to come to him twice a week and contact him with information about the young men, and that he knew how to reach me whenever he wanted.
He summoned my sisters, brought blank papers, and forced the three of us to give our fingerprints. Then we were released.
At the gate of the center, I grabbed my sisters and pulled them home like a wounded bird—barefoot, my body ulcerated and weak. When my mother embraced me at the door, I collapsed. I stayed in bed for days. I don’t know whether it was my need to remain in her arms, the burden of protecting my sisters, my untreated wounds and malnutrition, or the neighbors’ looks—eyes wavering between suspicion and sympathy.
I fluctuated between pride and misery—sometimes proud of sacrificing my body to save my sister, and at other times blaming myself for responding to words that anger God. Above all, intense anxiety about what they were asking of me loomed over me.
I realized there was no way to deceive them—no solution but to leave. Yes, it was time to leave.
The interrogator did not stop calling, demanding that I fulfill my promise. I stalled him while arranging our escape—my mother, my sister, and I. Within days, my brothers arranged our departure to Khan al-Shih. The reunion was joyful.
They were grateful. They tried to mend my shattered spirit with pride in me and to heal my wounds.
When the criminals at the center learned of my departure, they raided our home and burned it with everything inside. Despite my sorrow over losing our home and memories, the shock was less than when they arrested my sister from her home in Barzeh in Damascus. We never expected they would reach her there. Her husband had cooperated with them.
I lived twenty days in unbearable torment, fully aware of their cruelty. My brothers and I paid everything we had to secure her release. She was released physically and psychologically broken, afraid 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 another catastrophe I lived through with what remained of my family.
I married a kind man, a friend of my brother, and together we tried to endure life’s hardships and the bitterness of loss. In Khan al-Shih, one of my brothers was martyred, another was severely injured and still suffers from disability. My first husband had been martyred before that, and another brother was arrested. My health deteriorated. We lost our home and everything we owned, until we became a devastated family.
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