“She Gave Me Strength”

Homs joined the Syrian revolution three days after the non-violent demonstrations began in the city of Daraa.

On March 18, 2011, protesters filled the streets of my city in solidarity, chanting,  “Daraa have no fear, we shall sacrifice our blood and souls for you.”

Soon after, the words of this slogan became a reality, and blood was indeed spilled on the streets of Homs.

As military action against civilians escalated, the armed resistance was born. The gates of hell opened.

I came to understand that participating in demonstrations was no longer enough, and decided to do more to support the revolution. I joined a small team of volunteer nurses in my neighbourhood of al-Khaldiya, and began to learn how to administer first aid.

Paramedics were urgently needed in al-Khaldiya. Hospitals were reluctant to admit the wounded, as staff feared arrest for treating so-called terrorists.

I started my fieldwork on a Friday. A demonstration had just ended during which government soldiers fired live ammunition on protestors. Many people had been killed or injured.

The wounded were taken to a private home for shelter and treatment, but there was no medical equipment. All we had was the first aid material our trainer Abu Rami had in his backpack.

When we walked into the house, I froze in horror. Teenagers were screaming, elderly people were weeping and the men were biting down on their clothes to prevent themselves from crying out.

I stood there for a few moments and recited a silent prayer, then began to put in place the basic skills I had acquired.

I cleaned men’s wounds, gently wiping off blood, and I filled syringes with antibiotics. As I worked I realised how urgent it was that I broaden my nursing skills, and that I do so quickly.

Soon after, a supervisor told me one day at work that he wanted to introduce me to a trainer named Abu Abdo, who would teach me paramedic skills.

“I would prefer to be trained by a woman,” I replied.

“Abu Abdo will be your trainer,” he chuckled, “You will meet him tomorrow”.

The following day I was introduced to my new teacher, and found out why my supervisor had been laughing. Abu Abdo was actually Um Abdo, a beautiful woman who had been given a male honorific to indicate she was just as capable as any man.

When I met her I realised how important the role of women was to the revolution. It was just as important as the role of men, if not more.

Um Abdo became my mentor. I would accompany her when she visited patients and watch closely, trying to learn from her expertise.

One of the many home visits we made was to a patient who lived in Cairo Street, widely known as Death Street. His house faced a government checkpoint, and was also in the line of fire of a local sniper.

We did all we could think of to avoid attracting attention. We wore nice clothes, and linked arms as we walked along, chatting in a carefree manner. Our medical equipment was in a red paper gift bag covered in flowers and hearts.

Our patient turned out to be in very bad shape. Some stitches that had bound the wound on his stomach had fallen out. Unfortunately, we hadn’t brought a suture kit with us. I had to go out to a field hospital and bring one back, hidden underneath my clothes.

Once Um Abdo’s work was done it was time to face the checkpoint soldiers again. This would be the fourth time I walked past them that day. Would they grow suspicious? Would they stop and search me? I recited a few verses from the Koran asking God to shield us from harm.

Um Abdo and I repeated the act we had put on when arriving. When we finally walked out of the area I burst out laughing. I had just realised how brave we both were.

Our work for the day was not over yet. My mentor had another patient to visit, in yet another dangerous area.

“Are you ready to die with me?” she asked.

“Let’s go!” was my reply.

I continued training with great enthusiasm until I had mastered first aid.

The very night I completed my course, there was a massacre in my neighbourhood.

At 11pm, government aircraft pounded al-Khaldiya killing almost 100 people and injuring 200.

No field hospital or house could hold the vast numbers of wounded, so our local mosque, al-Iman, was turned into a makeshift clinic.

I rushed to the mosque to help, and was shocked by the horrific scene that met my eyes. I stood there looking around me, not knowing where to start, until another nurse shook me and urged me to do my job.

I spent the night moving from one patient to another, sewing wounds, securing broken limbs in casts and connecting IV drips.

When we finally finished tending to the wounded, my brother who had been watching, came over to me and hugged me tightly. He was weeping, but I couldn’t shed a single tear. I was still in shock.

The following day, al-Khaldiya was in mourning. Even Mother Nature seemed to be grieving; the skies were full of grey clouds, as if in solidarity.

When the medical team reviewed their performance a few days later, I was commended by one of the doctors.

“Sima was a source of strength and inspiration to me,” he said. “Every time I looked towards her, I would find her concentrating on her job, moving from one patient to another. I saw some male nurses cry, but she held herself together and didn’t shed a single tear while on duty.”

The doctor’s words were a huge boost to my confidence. I felt immensely happy with the way I had performed my duties, and became more determined to focus on the humanitarian work God had entrusted me with.

Sima al-Khaldi is the pseudonym of a Damascus Bureau contributor from Homs. When the revolution started, the 28-year-old abandoned her English literature studies and dedicated her time to serving those in need, despite being detained by government forces at one point.

Read the Arabic version of this article here