When Emad Mahou tells the story of being imprisoned in Syria during the 2011 revolution, his voice has a heaviness.
“Syria today is a country torn by civil war and I hate to say that,” Mahou said. “To leave my town, you have to go through a checkpoint where there is a tank and they will pull you over if you’re wanted, and they will shoot you on the side of the road like a dog. Who lives like that? My cousin was pulled out of a bus and shot. That’s the Syria I left.”
Mahou and his father were part of the rebellion during the Syrian revolution, which started roughly in February 2011 with the early stages of protests against Syria’s government, which was led by President Bashar Assad. The rebels, as they called themselves, were taking to the streets to object to the authoritarian tactics of Assad’s régime, which was known for its pervasive censorship, surveillance and brutal violence against those who disagreed.
The uprising was noncombative at first, Mahou said, but by March, hubs of protesters were frequently met with heavy military weaponry.
Mahou said he and his family always had a target on their back, dating to when his paternal grandfather refused a high-ranking government appointment by Assad’s father. Mahou said his father was arrested several times for protesting, as was he.
During a raid toward the second half of 2011, military police came looking for Mahou. At that time, Mahou’s resistance entered a new phase. He was tapped by media outlets, likely because of his strong English skills, and became sort of a “boots on the ground” source, though his face and name were hidden anytime he was on air with reporters.
Mahou was hiding at a distant cousin’s house. She was a widow without children, therefore her home was an unlikely place for police to come barging in.
“But somehow they got a tip that I might be hiding in this area,” Mahou said. “I was watching from the third-floor window and thinking ... there’s no way I’m making it out of there. I see a truck full of army men coming and I’m like, ‘Oh my God, what am I going to do? I’m gonna get killed.’ From the roof, I jumped from her building onto the building next door and twisted my foot.”
Mahou hid in a water tank until the sounds of footsteps and clunking AK-47s subsided.
“It’s like a movie — you won’t believe what happened to us. And this is a story out of millions of stories similar to this,” he said.
Mahou said from 2011 to the present day, he lost several loved ones.
Sitting forward in his seat, Mahou starts counting on his fingers, his immediate family members who died in protests, run-ins with military police and in jail.
He shows eight fingers. He then starts counting extended family, but quickly stops. “I’ll get to like 50 people if I keep going,” he said.
His father, upon hearing the names of those who died, starts crying again.
Mahou’s memories of some of his arrests are blurry, except for one in which he was detained and tortured for three months. In June 2011, he said he spent 100 days in an underground cell the size of a rug. He didn’t know it when he was thrown in, but this would also be the last time he’d be imprisoned.
“The torture was really over the limit at that point. I was really struggling with the pain,” Mahou said. “It was daily, continuous, degrading. One day in particular, they took turns urinating on me. It got to a point where mentally I was broken. You smell yourself and I felt really, really bad. I am used to a nice life. I showered daily. I was in college to be an architect.”
Mahou stops and reminds himself that he had a full life in Zabadani, Syria, before the revolution. They all did.
“At that point, I was almost done with college and I had a whole future ahead of me. And I just looked at where I am now. That day was my weakest day mentally. I was shattered. The humiliation went too far — like they’re using you as a toilet ... so I banged my head on the wall.”
Mahou recalled falling to the ground after that and feeling the door open.
He felt a breeze. He remembered his cat, Sasha; he visualized the marble tiles of his family’s home, the comforting chaos of his kitchen, his mom cooking a meal. “It was a message that I shouldn’t be dying here today. And I didn’t die. I made it all the way out of Syria and I made it to Chicago,” he said.
“We all have those moments when you remember something and it saves you,” Mahou said. “I don’t think God talks to us directly but I think God can guide us somehow. I think that was probably my guidance that, you know what, you’re not dying here.”
That’s when he was released from prison. But knowing that he could get picked up again by another security branch, Mahou, like many others in the rebellion, needed an escape.
Syrian security services began to increase pressure on activists and crack down on protesters. With the help of fellow rebels, Mahou was escorted to the southern border of Syria, where he fled to Jordan.
“I have been struggling with what is home for the past 12 years,” Mahou says. “How can I define home? Where can I find home? I can’t say my daughter is my home because she’s just too little to carry that burden. ... I have a passport that has the United States of America on it, I have my picture, my name — everything. And I still feel I’m not from here. Is there a point when I am no longer not from here?” '
