If my death had been optional, I would not have hesitated.
If I could erase my memory, I would do so.
And every night when I close my eyes, my nightmares—real ones I once lived—return, refusing to leave me even in my waking hours.
Once upon a time, my two children, my husband, and I lived with his family, which consisted of his uncle, the uncle’s wife, their two daughters, and their son.
I was pregnant with a baby girl when the revolution began. My husband participated peacefully in demonstrations, and I, along with the women of the neighborhood, supported them by chanting from the rooftops. When the regime began storming the area and attacking civilians, my husband—like many other men—volunteered to carry weapons in defense of the people.
My story truly began when my husband’s name was circulated at checkpoints on wanted lists. They raided our house the first time but did not find him. They returned a second time around eleven at night. My husband and I were sitting with some of his relatives in one of the rooms.
There was a knock at the door. One of the regime soldiers stationed at a checkpoint in front of our house in Homs introduced himself as “Abu Mahmoud” and asked for water to drink. He then asked our relative who opened the door for his name.
“My name is Fadi,” he said.
The soldier asked, “Who lives here with you?”
He listed the names of the men in the household, including my husband’s name, Omar. The soldier thus confirmed that my husband was inside.
He disappeared for ten minutes, then returned with a patrol consisting of an officer, a lieutenant, and five soldiers. They surrounded our house with their Russian weapons, fired shots into the air, stormed inside, and arrested my husband on the claim that he was wanted by one of the security branches.
My poor father-in-law searched everywhere for his son, without success. My husband’s brother managed to contact a security officer who told him that my husband was detained at their branch.
We were never allowed to see him. Visits were forbidden, and we could not even confirm his presence. No names were officially listed. Our only concern became whether he was still alive.
After three months of anxiety and torment, fate intervened and my husband was released due to a mistake in the names.
The very next day, a security patrol raided our house searching for him. To protect the family, we denied having seen him and told them he was still in their custody. To correct their “mistake” of releasing him instead of another person, they continued raiding and searching our house.
Since his release, my husband went into hiding in areas far from their reach. For two full months, they raided and searched our house day and night—three times a day—kicking the door open violently without permission, with no regard for the sanctity of the home or the women and children inside.
They entered mercilessly, hurling insults and degrading our religion, repeating phrases like:
“You filthy ones hiding your dirty morals under your hijabs and abayas.”
Each time they entered, my body would tremble, my face would turn pale, and I could not move. I struggled to conceal my fear so they would not see it. In that state, I went into labor and gave birth to my daughter, far from her father’s eyes and embrace.
Later, we learned that all our names had been circulated as wanted persons at checkpoints. My father-in-law decided to take us to Lebanon using forged civil documents. Early in the morning, we left in a small bus, carrying rugs, basic household items, children’s strollers, and bags.
At one checkpoint, we were stopped. We later learned that they had been informed by Hani—my husband’s cousin—who had longstanding disputes with my husband. The regime exploited these grudges and turned him into an informant. As soon as Hani learned of our plan through his mother, he reported us to security, saying we were leaving using forged documents.
At the checkpoint, they asked the driver, “Are you Ammar?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Do you have someone named Samir with his family?”
“Yes, they are seated in the back.”
The officer had a hideous face I will never forget. He came to the rear door of the bus and violently pulled it open, shattering the glass. My sister-in-law was sitting nearby. He yanked her by her hijab, exposing her hair, dragged her outside, and she fell to the ground. He screamed insults at her, accusing her of keeping them awake night and day.
She screamed, “It’s not me! It’s not me!”
“How is it not you?” he shouted. “Aren’t you Omar’s wife?”
She pointed toward the bus and said, “It’s not me—she’s inside.”
He kicked her away, then turned toward me. He grabbed me by my hijab, exposed my hair, and dragged me on my knees from the bus into the checkpoint building, while my two-month-old baby was still in my arms.
They forced everyone inside. My mother-in-law took my baby from me. I begged her not to—hoping they might show mercy for the child’s sake or be disturbed by her crying. But she took her.
Then he beat me with an “Ibrahimi”—a metal pipe wrapped in green plastic—until I lost feeling in my back. He threatened to disfigure my face. He struck my arm until my skin split open. When I tried to protect my face, he broke my tooth, split my lip, and my hands—still scarred today—were torn open. He slammed my head into the wall, screaming threats.
I drifted in and out of consciousness. He ordered another officer to film me and distribute the footage. He raped me while I was beaten, then ordered the lieutenant to rape me as well while he filmed.
My body was in agony; I could not tell which part hurt most. What terrified me more than the pain was the video they threatened to publish.
“We will show the world that Muslim women are whores,” he said.
I cannot describe the hatred in them.