My Country, page 12
I flinched as I heard Assad’s artillery slam shells into the town behind me, and they did not even blink.
Suddenly the boy threw his chocolate on the ground, burst into tears and pointed animatedly at the kids on the street. The father stood and picked his son up, holding and playing with him until he started to laugh again, then put him down and said a few words that made him jump for joy and run inside.
I lowered my rifle.
I have often replayed that moment in my head, and to this day I do not know if I made the right decision. I would be lying if I denied that I desperately wanted to shoot that officer, but I could not stop thinking about his son. If the regime survives, he will most likely grow up to be like his father. That little boy has no idea how much he is being deceived. I’m sure the officer’s son has asked him many times about the awful sound of shells slamming into Moadamiya. No doubt the child wonders what has happened to all his friends who suddenly stopped coming to school in the early days of the revolution. I’m sure he has asked his father a million questions, just as I once asked my own baba a million questions. I’m certain that, unlike my baba, this officer did not tell his son the truth.
Humans are evil by nature. Allah said it, Freud based his theories on it, and the reality is clear: we all have a savage primal instinct, a drive to pursue our own basic urges regardless of right and wrong. But Allah also gave us the capacity to be noble, to control our basic instincts through legal codes, and to determine the most decent way to get what we want. Education goes a long way towards determining whether savagery or nobility wins out.
I used to wonder why all my Alawite and Shiite friends joined the army or security forces, while all my Sunni friends pursued careers in business. It once puzzled me that the Alawites and Shiites obtained so many leadership positions, even though 75 per cent of the Syrian population is Sunni. And why did the Alawites always live on hilltops, in the mountains and at the entrances to each city and town? Why did they never live in downtown areas, except in the Alawite heartland of Latakia and in the capital, Damascus?
If you want to win any battle, you have to control the resources and the terrain. Decades before the revolution began, the Alawites in Syria had already taken control of all the power: the guns, the money, the communications networks, the supply routes and the elevated areas. Government propaganda told us that these measures were necessary to fight Israel, but in truth the Syrian people were always the Assad family’s main target and the Alawites their willing tools. They might have been reluctant, they might have had their reservations and regrets, but at the end of the day most Alawites fell in line and played their parts in the Assad family’s murderous scheme.
When Assad’s supporters suppressed protests early in the revolution, they chanted, ‘Assad or we burn the country!’ while his Alawite paramilitaries later fulfilled this vow by destroying Syrian towns and villages. As they did so, they cried, ‘Syria is Assad’s!’ to let us all know that Syria belonged not to its citizens but to one family. While the Shabiha were brutal and savage, they were not crazy. Their parents had made up their minds to kill us years before they were even born.
Hafez al-Assad set the plan in motion when he seized power in the 1970s. He brainwashed thousands, perhaps millions of Syrians to hate all of his opponents and to annihilate anyone who dared question his rule. He then monopolized every means of power to ensure that the victims of his trained killers would never have the means to resist. When Hafez al-Assad passed away, he bequeathed this machinery of death to his son. All Bashar had to do was give the order, and armies of vicious mercenaries would rush to obey.
Perhaps it was out of frustration that we, the youth of Syria, had dared to hope and dream of a better future. Our parents had betrayed us by sleepwalking through their whole lives. They should have known after the Hama massacre of 1982 that the Assad family was too brutal to be allowed to hold power for another generation. They should have screamed their lungs out, fought tooth and nail, and struggled with all of their force after seeing what brutality the Assad regime was capable of. Instead, they kept silent as Hafez al-Assad set in motion a murderous plan to annihilate his future opponents. We, the youth of Syria, turned out to be those future opponents – and because our parents’ generation kept silent, we paid a price in blood.
Hunger diaries
October–December 2013
The war was edging into a third winter. The siege of Moadamiya had taken its toll – almost 80 per cent of the town was destroyed: infrastructure, roads, schools, hospitals and mosques. More than 800 people had been killed, over 3,000 injured and thousands detained in Assad’s prisons.
Starvation had sucked the life and hope out of everyone in the town, including me. But I couldn’t just give up. I racked my brain for a way to bring attention to what was happening to us – and that’s when I came up with the idea of a hunger strike. I might as well declare one; I was going to die from hunger anyway, so why not make it count? The world would be forced to confront our suffering. Some activists in the United States and Canada – Bayan Khatib and Mohja Kahf – helped me to get this idea off the ground. I had met them on Facebook as they were all following the revolution and had Syrian roots. Two American peace activists, Terry and Andy Burke were also involved in my hunger strike from its beginning. They advised me on the content of my blog and how to publicize the hunger strike through Skype group calls, and suggested calling for sympathy hunger strikes around the world in solidarity with Syria’s starving people. The solidarity hunger strikers would experience, at least for a day, what every Moadamiya resident went through on an ongoing basis. On the activists’ advice, I kept a public diary of my experiences during the hunger strike, throughout which I drank water and ate olives every few days. This is what happened.
Hunger strike day 1: Beginnings
Posted 26 November 2013
Today the hunger strike begins.
I am a 28-year-old Palestinian Syrian who serves the civilian local council of Moadamiya, Syria, protecting my family by using the pseudonym Qusai Zakarya.
Moadamiya, where I grew up and live, has been under siege for over 365 days. There are still 8,000 civilians living here, and our food supplies have run out. As a citizen journalist, I am now documenting my townspeople dying of hunger. Seven children and four women have already died of malnutrition.
Numerous humanitarian organizations have pleaded to no avail with the Assad regime to break the savage siege against civilians in cities throughout Syria, including Daraya, Yarmouk Camp, eastern Gouta and Homs. Assad continues to use food and medicine as weapons of war.
I declare a hunger strike beginning on Tuesday, November 26, until the siege against the townsfolk of Moadamiya is lifted.
I call on people of conscience everywhere to pressure their governments to act to break Assad’s siege and let humanitarian agencies bring food and medicine into besieged areas.
Your support is my only weapon.
Hunger strike day 2: Remembering Rana
Posted 27 November 2013
I hold on . . .
It’s the second day of my hunger strike. The pain of hunger is with me all day but I’ve got used to hunger. Food supplies ran out about four months ago, after being under siege for over a year, and there’s been very little to eat ever since. I wake up to hunger. I sleep with hunger. Hunger is with me all day long. The hunger strike only intensifies the pain and adds exhaustion to the mix.
I talked to many journalists today. I’m so glad the story is getting out there. I hope that I will be able to make a difference. After a dozen calls with bad Internet connection and my stomach rumbling in constant reminder of my mission, I feel depleted.
There are moments when I feel weak. During those times I remember the children I watched starve to death. I remember little Rana . . . and I hold on.
Hunger strike day 3: Lost and distraught
Posted 28 November 2013
Today I lost consciousness. I’ve survived many bombings but the last one that fell close to our house three weeks ago sent me flying against the wall. I thought I was OK but then I started to have severe back pain. Yesterday the pain spread from my back down to my left leg. The pain is so bad that it overpowers the hunger.
I went to the doctor in our town. He said there’s nothing he can do to help me without the medical equipment he needs. Someone gave me four pills. Painkillers, I think. I took them. I got dizzy and blacked out, probably because I took the pills on an empty stomach. I woke up a couple of hours later feeling lost and distraught. I can’t remember anything. I want to keep track of which media I spoke to but I can’t remember.
Human Rights Watch called me today. That I remember. I hope they will be able to help.
My head hurts. The world is spinning. I am lying on the floor and I cannot get up. I have asked my friend to write this post for me today.
Hunger strike day 4: The regime tries to make a deal
Posted 29 November 2013
Instead of allowing food into besieged areas, the regime pressures Syrians to evacuate or face starvation, adding to the displacement crisis.
Today was another exhausting day. Problems keep piling up. This time the regime sent a committee of five people originally from our town but now living outside it to present a deal to us.
Starving a population is illegal. Food should have no preconditions. The regime proposes a conditional ceasefire with the FSA living in our town, but made ridiculous and illegal preconditions! They want us to raise the regime flag inside Moadamiya and they also want all those who are not originally from Moadamiya to leave the town. That means me too, because I’m originally Palestinian. Even though I grew up in this town, they don’t count me as a real citizen of Moadamiya.
Their demands are stupid and meant to strip us of our dignity and displace us. Displaced Syrians suffer unspeakable agonies. I don’t want to become yet another displaced Syrian – adding to my displaced history as a Palestinian.
In return for these ridiculous and racist demands, they agree to consider – only consider – allowing some food back into the town. They may allow just a little bit of food per day, maybe enough for one meal for each person. Basically, they want to keep control of food. Even if they agree to let some food in, they will do it in a way where they are still in control and can cut it off once again whenever they want.
The townspeople have not come to a decision. The regime made the offer in such a way as to cause problems between the people inside. There is heated debate among the people. Hunger makes people not think straight any more. I am afraid that the Council will decide to hand the regime our town on a silver platter. Regime forces have been trying to get into the town for months now, and we’ve been trying to keep them out. We know if they come in it means all of us will be slaughtered with knives . . . as this was the fate of several other towns in Syria once the regime was able to break in.
This whole negotiation is simply to add more pressure on the people to kneel to Assad’s will. They know how badly we are in need of food and medicine and they are manipulating our desperation, hoping we will give up on our demand for freedom.
In the midst of this chaos I hold on to my conviction in protesting against this oppression through my hunger strike.
After a long and tiring day, I lie on my mattress, aware that my weakened body is trapped under siege in Moadamiya, but a strange feeling overcomes me, a feeling that my spirit is free, free to visit all the places I love in Syria, to walk the streets where I used to work and where my friends and I hung out, free to go to Homs, where I went for university. This strange feeling leaves me happy.
My body is depleted and exhausted but my spirit is free and happy.
Hunger strike day 5: Her name is Sara . . .
Posted 30 November 2013
Today my back pain was severe again. I decided to go to the field hospital and see if they could give me anything to help with the pain. When I walked into the hospital, I heard a girl crying and screaming. I ran to where the noise was coming from and found a little girl in the emergency room. The minute I saw her, I forgot my own pain.
The girl’s name is Sara. She’s five years old. The doctors were changing the bandages on her burned face. She was burned by one of Assad’s bombs. Two weeks ago she was asleep in her home when a bomb fell on her house. I grabbed a camera and filmed Sara. I wanted to show the world what Assad was doing to the children of Syria. After seeing Sara, I walked back home in a daze. There were bombardments all around but I didn’t seem to care.
I’ve been meaning to make a video to share on my blog . . . seeing Sara gave me the energy I needed to get up and get it done. I asked my friend Anas to help me. He followed me around so we could describe the destruction of our town. Damn Assad.
I can’t get Sara’s burned face or her screams out of my head. When will the world ever wake up?
Hunger strike day 6: Fantasies and death threats
Posted 1 December 2013
‘Patience and endurance.’
We will endure. We will overcome.
Today I fantasized about abandoning my hunger strike and slaughtering a donkey like some men here in Moadamiya did a few days ago, feeding as many women and children as possible with it. A full meal and a cigarette, how good that would feel! I’m happy that my hunger strike touched so many people around the world, that it raised awareness about Assad’s use of food as a tool of war, and so I won’t let these thoughts go further than fantasies and words. God has blessed me, and my friends, with endurance we never thought possible before the revolution.
Our town was chaos today. The townspeople were in upheaval about regime negotiations and the potential ceasefire. Even while five men sent by the regime sat among us, selling the regime’s story, the regime was shelling our town. Yes, even as they tried to convince us to take their dirty deal, illegally placing conditions on food reaching civilians, the regime once again attacked our town using ruthless military force. Only in the twisted mind of the regime could this behaviour make sense.
Our biggest fear remains that the regime will be able to get in . . . as this means certain death for the activists in Moadamiya. They will slaughter us with knives like they did to many innocent civilians before us. I often think about the many ways I can avoid this fate.
After much thought, I decided to make a video detailing something I had refused to speak about before, which is that I’ve been receiving death threats from people inside and outside Moadamiya. I don’t want to write in detail about it here, as it may further endanger my life, but I feel better knowing that I have sent this video to my friends here and abroad, so that if something does happen to me, they will know the circumstances and understand who is responsible.
While my body aches with hunger and pain and my mind swirls with worries of regime invasion and death threats, inside I feel at peace. I am ready to accept whatever God wills for me.
Hunger strike day 7: Overshadowing pain
Posted 2 December 2013
My slipped disc caused me unbearable pain today. I wanted to scream, hit my head against a wall, anything to ease the pain. The pain travelled to my left leg and I cannot move it. There’s so much going on in the town, but the pain overshadowed the commotion around me.
If I wasn’t in so much pain I might worry about having to leave town in a few days if the townspeople are forced to give in to the regime’s illegal conditions for the ceasefire. It seems this might happen soon. Among their arbitrary conditions, before they implement the ceasefire, they want everyone who isn’t originally from Moadamiya out. That’s right, this regime wants to throw me out of the town I grew up in and love, because I’m of Palestinian origin.
I don’t know where I’ll go if that happens. I can’t think that far ahead right now. I’m sorry I can’t write much today. Hopefully tomorrow the pain will subside and I can explain more about what’s happening here.
Hunger strike day 8: What dreams may come
Posted 3 December 2013
I spent most of the day in bed, but I had sweet memories to keep me company. Last night, after taking a strong painkiller, I slept for a long time and had a strange yet wonderful dream. In my dream I walked around our town, stopped by the corner shop, the one my neighbour owns, and it was stocked full of food. Sweets mostly. Biscuits and chocolates of every sort! I grabbed a pack of cookies off the shelf, ripped it open and gobbled down as many as I could. I devoured one cookie after another, and the shop owner stared at me with a ‘What on earth are you doing?’ expression on his face. But I didn’t care. The pleasure of feeling those cookies fill my stomach was so good.
Next thing I know, I was at the border of Moadamiya and Daraya at my favourite fast-food restaurant, where my friends and I had eaten hundreds of meals. I walked in and told the owner to make me one of every sandwich on the menu: burger, chicken kebab and crispy. Crispy was my favourite sandwich. It was made with crispy fried chicken breast. And some fries too, I told the guy, and of course lots and lots of soda.
Next, I was at my friends’ and my favourite pastry shop. My best friend showed up. He hadn’t seen me in a long time so he wanted to greet me with the Syrian customary kiss on each cheek, but I was like, ‘Hey, man, get me some hareesa with semna (buttery ghee) and ‘ishta (clotted cream). We can greet each other later!! There’s hareesa in there, and I want it.’
I slept for a long time last night, longer than my body usually allows me to sleep, maybe because of the painkillers or maybe because I was getting to eat all my favourite foods, and that’s not the sort of dream you want to wake up from.
