Forty-Eight Hours in the War Zone

The events of June 28, 2012 are etched in my memory. They come back to haunt me every time I smell the stench of blood. 

Around that time, government forces in Damascus were stepping up their campaign against the city of Douma. Free Syrian Army (FSA) units were operating in a haphazard way, each unit taking on the defence of a particular area from the advancing army.

As for me, I was working with my friends to rescue the wounded and deliver food aid to the needy. I was also documenting the regime’s crimes and uploading images to social media sites as a record of its brutality.

On that Thursday morning, I woke up unusually late. I’d finished my university exams only two days before and I was soon to graduate. My friend called me to tell me that I needed to come down to the hospital, where the entire staff had been mobilised.

The regime had stepped up shelling from tanks and mortars, and FSA units had taken up positions to defend the city outskirts.

My fellow activists and I had rented a house together, as I had been forced to leave my parents’ home near the Tawhid mosque due to the heavy shelling there.

I left the house with my flatmate, and a driver called Abu Fares took us to the hospital. Once there, we found the few available resources were already thinly stretched. The night before, a mortar shell had hit the hospital’s fourth floor, and all the patients and medical equipment had been shifted to lower floors.

There was a lot to do. Screams could be heard everywhere as more and more wounded people were brought in. People were fleeing the city as the shelling intensified. Snipers on the outskirts shot anyone who fell within their crosshairs.

I remembered that I hadn’t spoken to my mother that morning to make sure she was all right. I quickly went to the payphone in the waiting room and began trying to call her. No one answered.

I tried all my relatives but no one had any news. I tried to calm myself and carry on work ing.

Two hours later, rescue workers arrived bringing three dead bodies. I ran to the lobby and saw that one of the dead was Abu Fares, the man who had driven me to the hospital that morning in his car. Now he was a corpse, his limbs torn to pieces.

I held back my tears and went on with my work. Seeing so much bloodshed had taught me patience and self-control.

I don’t know why, but my fears for my parents kept increasing as time passed. My friend Nur clasped my hand from time to time and reassured me that they’d be fine, they just couldn’t get to a phone to speak to me.

By seven in the evening¸ the sound of falling shells was slowly fading when suddenly the field ambulance crew burst in the hospital to report a massacre. Early reports indicated that government troops had stormed the Tawhid mosque area and killed at least 30 people from two families.

That was my family’s neighbourhood.

My team-mates gazed at one another. I can still remember the looks that passed among us. We needed to find a way to evacuate the dead and injured immediately, along with surviving civilians.

The FSA unit stationed in the areas had withdrawn and had been unable to bring any civilians out with it. But some fighters came to the hospital offering to carry out what was essentially a suicide mission to help the people who were still stuck there.

Abu Firas, the eldest of our team, said, “The snipers are still targeting the area. Anyone who wants to go in needs to know that they face a huge risk and are probably going to their death. The women should stay here and wait for us to come back.”

When the men left, the goodbyes were incredibly difficult.

At the door, I talked to Abu Shadi, who was like my brother.

“Abu Shadi,” I told him, “my parents are there in that neighbourhood. Please find a way to get to them. When you find out anything about them, let me know via the walkie talkie.”

“We won’t come back before we’ve got all of them out of there,” he replied.

I bade them farewell with a smile, feeling profoundly sad because I knew very well that their chances of returning were slim.

Half an hour later, Abu Firas came back to the hospital, alone and injured. Our crew felt more powerless than ever. We felt we were facing certain death. A mood of terror and panic prevailed at the hospital, and there were still so many bodies that needed to be buried.

Another hour passed. Suddenly Abu Shadi came through the door, carrying the corpse of someone else I knew. I ran to him, crying, “Please tell me something about my parents!”

“Don’t worry,” he said, “your parents are fine. The FSA evacuated them to Harasta. But the men of the Tohme family are all dead, God rest their souls, and the women have been taken to a nearby house. We’ll take you there in a while.”

DOCUMENTING THE DEAD

The Tohme family were relatives of mine. I was driven to the house where the women who had survived the massacre were sheltering.

As I ran towards the house, I stumbled and fell, bruising myself, before getting up and running on.

When I opened the door, I saw bereaved women and children wailing for their dead brothers and fathers. They were weak with hunger, having eaten nothing since morning.

One woman, Aziza, grabbed me and promptly collapsed. “They killed my children and my husband! They killed my brothers! They killed my twin brothers. Oh God, we did nothing to them!” she cried.

I tried to distract her by asking about my mother.

“Your family and mother are fine,” she said. “Nothing happened to them. They were all evacuated by the FSA.”

I tried to reassure her that we would get them all out of Douma at dawn.

When I went back to the hospital, there were many bodies waiting there. My camera battery had run out, so my colleagues and I began documenting the dead with our mobile phone cameras, despite the poor quality of the images.

I had known three of the female martyrs very well. Sana, the mother, Hanan, a senior in high school and her little sister Tuqa – we had celebrated many happy family events together. Now, I had to wrap them in the shrouds that would accompany them to their final resting places.

In war, you are forced to overcome your feelings. You must contain your anger and just perform tasks. You are beyond the realms of logic and humanity. You are in a war zone.

Later on, we all gathered in the hospital lobby. We decided we would not leave even if government forces stormed the city and overran it entirely. If we were to die and become martyrs, as we had discussed many times, then we would do it all together.

At dawn on Friday, June 29, 2012, I began helping bury the dead in mass graves. We were still trying to count the bodies, but there were so many that we could not be sure of our figures.

By 11 that morning, the security situation was much worse. Troops were advancing on the hospital, and the FSA ordered us to evacuate to save our own lives and those of the wounded. I left with my friend from the hospital and got into a car along with other colleagues, their bags already packed.

The driver asked us to recite the fatiha and shahada [prayers] as the last rites for our souls because he believed there was a very good chance we would all die.

As we drove down the street, a mortar shell fell right in front of us and two FSA fighters were killed.

We arrived in the Masraba neighbourhood of Douma. There I saw Abada, a colleague from the hospital, who told me his aunt had died in the massacre.

In Masraba, a local woman welcomed us into her small house. She said she was proud to be able to offer shelter to the revolutionary activists about whose bravery she had heard so much. She brought us some food, but we were too tense and fearful to eat.

When evening came, I managed to get my hands on a phone and called my family. As soon as I heard my mother’s voice, my fear melted away and strength returned to my exhausted body. I surrendered to sleep so as to continue with my revolution the next day.