A Bad Purchase

During the early years of Syria’s revolution, those of us who supported it took part in whichever way we could, be that political or social activity, fieldwork, or coordination. The only thing we cared about was serving the revolution, and sometimes we acted irresponsibly.

I chose to volunteer in hospitals in the government-held al-Furqan neighbourhood of Aleppo. I am no nurse, and I cannot stand the sight of blood, but somehow I found myself capable of transporting bags of blood and medicines from one location to another. Perhaps my resolve came from the knowledge that the blood and medicines were saving lives.

The hospitals these supplies were destined for were in located in opposition-held areas. I could not go there myself, so I would drop them off with a trusted person who could.

In July 2012, I decided to travel to Gaziantep in Turkey to get supplies. I travelled via the Azaz, a northern town that was under government control at the time. Back then, I wasn’t a wanted person, so I crossed through all the checkpoints and borders easily.

During my stay in Gaziantep, I caught up with a group of old friends who had supported the revolution from the start. These young men and women worked under cover, in silence and with complete dedication. They supported the revolution by donating their university tuition fees to treat injured Free Syrian Army members who made across the border.

I visited a number of these injured people in hospital in Gaziantep. One of them, Mahmud – a young man from Idlib – had been in critical condition, but made it back from near-death thanks to the help provided to him.

Another was a Palestinian young man from the Yarmouk camp. He was there with his 60-year-old father, who told me their story.

“I’ve never been involved in anything,” he said. “But the local petrol trader informed the security services I was a rebel.”

When they came to his house to investigate, security service officers found a hunting rifle and accused him of storing weapons.

“They beat me, and they also beat my daughter, my wife and my son,” he said. “Then they took my son and me away.”

The man trembled as he recalled his ordeal. “They took us to jail and blindfolded us, then threw us in to a tiny room with some other detainees. I called out my son’s name, and was relieved to hear him reply.”

The elderly man told how me how both he and his son were tortured. I couldn’t stop myself from crying as I listened. As he recalled the various methods of torture he shivered like a leaf and grew more emotional, finally breaking into tears.

I left them, fleeing from the calamity of what I had just heard.

I was due to return to Syria the following day, but the taxi driver who had brought me to Turkey could no longer take me back. He was supposed to help me smuggle blood and medicine across the border, and I couldn’t do it without his help. I felt that my mission had failed, and that my trip to Gaziantep had been a waste of time.

I found another taxi driver to take me home, and on our way back we stopped in Kilis, a small town just within the Turkish border. On a whim, I bought an electric stun baton. It was cheaper than those in Syria, and many people carried them for self-defence. I put it in my handbag, knowing that women’s purses were never searched.

After we crossed the Turkish-Syrian border, we were stopped at Bab al-Salama checkpoint. A soldier approached the taxi I was in and searched it thoroughly.

He suddenly turned to me and asked, “What’s in your handbag?”

I felt faint with fear, but I opened my handbag for him to have a look.

“What’s that?” he said, pointing to the baton.

I couldn’t answer, so he grabbed the baton and called out to his superior, “Sir! She has an electric baton”.

“What? An electric baton?” said the superior. “Show it to me!”

I had less than a minute to save myself. The real source of my fears wasn’t the stun baton, it was the memory card I had in my purse. It card was full of photos of the rebels and wounded people I had visited. I was an amateur photographer, and documented everything I could on my humble camera. The pictures I had taken would endanger not only my life, but also those of the strangers whose photos I had taken.

For several long seconds, all I could think about was the memory card sitting inside the pocket of my purse. My life depended on getting rid of that chip. In a flash, I took it out of my purse and tossed it away.

I tried to calm myself, as any punishment I might face for owning the stun baton was nothing compared to what I could have faced had they found the memory card.

The officer in charge began to question me.

“Where are you from? Where do you live? What were you doing in Turkey?”

He then went through my personal belongings, behaving in an extremely insulting manner. I felt humiliated, but could only stand there and watch.

He asked me why I had the baton. I remember saying I needed it to defend myself against armed gangs.

He moved closer to me and pointed the baton at my neck, then switched it on. I jumped away, holding my neck in pain.

The officer could barely control his laughter, “See how much it hurts?” he said, “I’m confiscating it.”

When I was allowed to get back into the taxi I had mixed feelings. I was shocked at what had happened to me, yet felt victorious because I hadn’t been arrested.

That night as I lay in bed, I couldn’t stop those terrifying thoughts. Such a fuss over possessing a stun baton. What would my fate have been if they had found my memory card?”

Reem is the pseudonym of a Damascus Bureau contributor from Aleppo, Syria.