A Wartime Education

My name is Razan. I was born in 1999 and spent my childhood in Deir al-Zor, where I completed elementary school. Afterwards, I continued my education in the city of Idlib for two years.

At the start of the second term in eighth grade, I took a break from school when my mother and I got involved with the demonstrations and started doing first aid training with the Red Crescent. The week-long training qualified me to teach others, so I was assigned to the Bilal mosque.

At the beginning of the Syrian revolution in 2011, peaceful demonstrations called for an end to the regime. After the massacres began, the demonstrators switched to calling for the death of Bashar al-Assad and his cronies. This is where my work began.

Every Thursday we had a family meeting to prepare for Friday’s demonstration, composing slogans and chants about events that had happened during the week. After Friday noon prayers, we would set out from the mosques and head towards the clock-tower, my brother Hashem chanting loudly.

Once, I decided to write a poem for the protestors. I told my brother Maan, so he took me up to the podium and I read it out in front of the people. It was indescribable joy, and I couldn’t control my emotions.

Much to my surprise, on our way home from the demonstration, a relative told me that I had appeared on a live TV broadcast. My happiness did not last long, however, since the following Friday we had to flee Idlib to seek refuge in the countryside. On Thursday March 3, 2012, the regime shelled and invaded Idlib province, and the previously peaceful protests turned violent.

It was then that I decided to return to school. I was surprised to learn I had automatically failed the eighth grade because my parents were pro-opposition. I decided not to repeat the year and instead chose to study the ninth grade curriculum on my own. This was not easy, as I was helping my mother cook for the rebel fighters and do their laundry.

So I divided my time between cooking and washing in the morning and studying in the evening.

We were living without electricity, around 20 people in one room, nine of whom were children. I studied by the dim light of a flashlight. I did not have private tutoring, as I had done in Idlib, and because of the violence teachers rarely showed up at the school where I sat in on classes.

I completed the ninth grade curriculum by staying up late studying on my own rather than in school.

When my brother Maan was martyred, it came as a massive blow to me. He was my rock. Before he died, he used to tell me that he wanted me to help his children get an education. Depressed, I gave up on my own studies until my parents managed to convince me to continue.

As exam time approached in May 2013, I went to Idlib in disguise and stayed at my grandmother’s, frightened someone would see me. I was in a terrible emotional state, terrified about sitting my exams.

I almost had a panic attack the first day. There were six supervisors in the exam hall of the law school building. I was questioned because I wasn’t carrying my personal ID and only had my family’s registration papers. One of the invigilators looked at my documents, put them down, then repeated the same process two minutes later. I was shaking, my heart was racing, and I didn’t know what to do.

Should I just pick up my pencil and ignore what was going on? Should I just wait and see what happened?

I worried that the invigilator had recognised my family. I finally mustered up the courage to ask her, “Is anything the matter, Miss?”

She moved closer to me and whispered, “Are Hashem and Maan your brothers?”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Answer me.”

I said yes.

“Don’t worry,” she replied. “My brothers are martyrs too. They were your comrades of your brothers.”

On the day of the maths test, another supervisor came up to me and asked me the same question. I told myself that this time I would be stronger. As soon as I answered, he shushed me and told me to continue my exam. When I handed my paper in, he took it and said, “God protect you and your family.” I knew he realised who I was, but he did not let on.

I left as soon as the last exam was over and travelled back to my family. Those were bittersweet days. Should I cry over what had befallen me? Or should I laugh for having survived, proud of my brothers and my family?

Luckily, I passed my exams.

At the start of the new school year, my brother Abdelkarim was wounded and my other brother Hashem was martyred. In June 2014, I decided to start studying for the science baccalaureate. I thought about going to Maara Masrin because of the excellent teachers there. Circumstances prevented me from going, since we lived in Bruma and had no transport.

My father decided to send me to the town of Darkush. I stayed with some relatives and took classes there, but I missed my family as I was not used to being away from them.

Then Jabhat al-Nusra closed down educational institutions because they were mixed-gender. My studies stopped and I went to the village of Kafr Jalis near Bruma, where the teachers were university students. I had no other choice. Even here my education is precarious.

I don’t know what the future has in store for me, but I will not let anything get in the way of my education. No matter how hard things become, I will never give up on it.