Towards the end of apartheid

By Maryam Hasan

Last night, I had an unusual dream that, despite being pleasant, became a source of discomfort.

I saw families in the park enjoying themselves, while other children played in the streets. I was sitting with my mother on the balcony, watching people release their energy and emotions amidst the noise from the street that did not bother us at all. A young man plucked a flower and offered it to a girl. She accepted it and smiled back at him. My mother and I looked at each and smiled too, knowing that they were in love. Then my siblings joined us and we started chatting about our plans for the summer. The house was divided: some of us wanted to spend the summer vacation in Latakia, by the sea, while others backed mum in her decision to see her friend in Homs. While we argued, the phone rang. We were invited to a surprise dinner party in old Damascus. We happily sat with the hosts for hours, chatting about food, clothes, politics and social trends in Syria.

On the way back home around midnight, I saw people enjoying the pleasant spring, wearing white clothes and laughing loudly. Dead tired, I went to bed and woke up the next morning smiling, and kissed my mother. I then realised that I rarely start my day with a smile.

Still in the trance of my dream, I switched on the television to find myself facing a shocking and bitter reality. The amateur footage showed children and women who had been killed with sharp objects. It was the doing of the regime’s forces, which have been burning neighborhoods in Syrian cities and towns and raping the women they were supposed to protect.

“These women will give birth to the criminals’ children,” said my tearful mother, while I was still watching the footage in disbelief.

I felt ashamed of myself. While I was dreaming of a happy, peaceful and prosperous Syria, Bashar al-Assad’s thugs were raping these honourable women, killing them and their children and burning entire neighborhoods in Homs. I cried in pain as I realised that my rosy dream was just an escape from reality.

To my disappointment, nothing has changed in Syria since last March. The world is still lying to us; Arabs have given Assad more time to kill, Russia and China still support the minority ruling family to serve their own vested military and political interests. Iran is pursuing realpolitik, the United States is approaching the situation with Israeli interests in mind, while the Syrian opposition is scattered and inefficient.

For my family, as well as the majority of the Syrian people, the façade pretending the state is concerned with the welfare of its citizens has collapsed. Syria now stands exposed as the world’s biggest detention centre, where even dead bodies are desecrated.

Despite Syria’s wealth in natural resources such minerals and oil, as well as agricultural products such as olives and fruits, Syrians collect water from rainfall, and in many towns people can only afford one modest meal a day. As for the army, while we thought it was raised to regain the Golan Heights from Israel, in reality it has been involved in torture and assaults against civilians.

Though we have struggled for a year for the rights of the entire Syrian people, the regime has divided the country, pitting Sunnis against Syrians from the other sects. It’s a relief, however, to find people from different sects among pro-democracy protestors — Alawites, Druze, Copts, as well as Christians of various denominations. The blame falls on the ignorant Western media for spreading fear, which resulted in the relatively limited participation of non-Muslim minorities in the protest movement. Neither al-Qaeda nor Saudi-funded Salafist activists have been able to find their way into the Syrian street so far and will never be able to, God willing.

Although I am proud of the resilience people have shown struggling for their dignity and rights, I can’t help thinking of the old Syria that I once knew. I miss everything that the regime took away from us. I miss crowded Damascus. I want to walk in the quarters of old Damascus and see my friends there. I miss seeing people smiling and kids playing. Our streets have become so disturbingly quiet that you would assume nobody lives there nowadays.

I miss cracking jokes about people from Homs, or hamasna, as we call them. Once the subject of humour, the hamasna’s courage now leaves us crying. Homs is Syria, and it’s the cause of both our joy and honour.

I want to buy a colourful dress, not a black one. I want to attend weddings, not funerals. I even miss those social visits which my mother used to force me to go on with her. I want to enjoy eating without thinking that there are a lot of Syrian kids who do not have anything to eat. I wish I could stop feeling ashamed when I complain about the cold — many Syrians became homeless during the frosty winter.

I miss theatre, cinema and music. I want to sleep in peace without the fear of strange, ugly security agents knocking at our door. I want to stop reading the Quran in fear whenever one of my siblings decides to go out. I wish I did not smell death in the Syrian air that was once pure. I just want a normal life again. I want everything back, but without Assad, corruption or humiliation.

Syria will not be the same again, even if we win our freedom back. We have realised this after losing close to 10,000 brave and innocent people. Assad is killing our happiness. He kills us from deep within. We are overwhelmed with sadness that won’t vanish soon.

My lecturer in journalism wished that next year, March 15, would be celebrated as Syria’s national freedom day. Meanwhile, I want to ask the world for a wish: please give me back my life. I have not seen much of my newborn nephew because he lives in a city that is under the mercy of snipers. He may not even recognise my face or my voice. I want to live my dream. This nightmare should be over now. I wonder if anyone can make my dream come true. I fear that the world will ignore the Syrians’ wish again, and forget that we are dying for rights everybody else takes for granted.