Can a dish and a tale help Syria's displaced integrate?

 ' “Women of Aleppo had been strong, independent and right next to their man — particularly in the Syrian revolution,” said Umm Karamwa as she stuffed zucchini with minced meat and rice.

 “Aleppo women played a vital role in the revolution, alongside men. They worked in nursing and tended to the wounded from the Free Syrian Army (FSA). They participated in demonstrations and in civil, relief and educational activities under the banner of the Syrian revolution,” she told 20 women, all of whom are part of a project that aims to integrate internally displaced women into their new surroundings in Atareb, a town in the western Aleppo countryside.

 Born and raised in the neighborhoods of eastern Aleppo, Umm Karamwa, a housewife, was forced to move to Atareb in 2016 when the régime forces took over their area, which prompted thousands of pro-opposition civilians to leave their homes for the Aleppo countryside, under control of the FSA. She has been living in Atareb, 25 kilometers (16 miles) west of her city, since 2016.

 Umm Karamwa then knowledgeably spoke, with some nostalgia, to the women about Aleppo’s rich heritage including the Citadel to the covered market and other aspects of Aleppo's archaeological heritage. Some of the women were locals; others were displaced from different governorates.



 All participants tell their stories — often a mix of their personal lives, heritages and beliefs — in “A Dish and A Tale” sessions, which aims to integrate the newcomers with local women. The speaker often starts with an introduction then talks about all the things that interest her, from the role of women in the Syrian revolution to the traditions she grew up with. The displaced women have touching stories to tell on how they felt when they left behind their homes, such as what they could have taken with them and what they left behind. Others listen and ask questions.

 After or during the “tale,” each woman shows others how to make a special dish, which they eat together afterward. Umm Karamwa’s session was the second gathering of “A Dish and a Tale,” and she decided to cook stuffed zucchini (al-mahashi).

 “To talk and cook is a wonderful idea,” she said. “I got to make new friends and learn about different cultures in Syria. While I made al-mahashi, the others helped me to stuff zucchini with rice and meat. I found out we make stuffed zucchini differently from the women of Damascus and Homs. We add a lot of spices, while they just add mint to the stuffing."

 In the first session, held July 20, the speaker had been Umm Mohammad, a 50-year old housewife who lived with her grandchildren. They all came from Homs.

 “I was very happy to be part of this initiative. I had the chance to meet women from different Syrian governorates and we shared our concerns of displacement and the suffering we went through. I told them about our social customs in Homs, the way we make grilled kibbeh [meat patties], which is one of our specialties. They really liked it,” Umm Muhammad said.



 Lina Mustafa, coordinator of the initiative, told how food and conversation have built bridges among the women. “First, women introduce themselves and talk about their hometowns and their work. They also discuss the role of women in the Syrian revolution, their participation in the demonstrations, raising banners and other activities in their areas before they had been forcibly displaced.”

 “During the first session, Umm Mohammad talked about Homs — Syria’s third-largest city and a key battleground. Homs was dubbed “the capital of revolution” in the uprising against Bashar al-Assad. She showed the onset of the demonstrations against a backdrop of a slideshow showing photos and videos during the revolution in the squares of Homs, with a focus on women’s roles in helping the peaceful, wounded protesters. The photos depicted some of the customs and traditions in Homs, the city’s archaeological sites, and the famous dishes and ingredients. The attendees then joined Umm Mohammad in the preparation of grilled kibbeh (meat patties), and then [they all] lunched together,” Mustafa said.



 Muhammad Shakrdy, director of the Atareb Civil Center, said the "Volunteer to Build” team launched the initiative. “This social activity also seeks to help displaced women cope with the bitter reality of being away from their homes and adapt to a new social milieu,” he said.

 “The idea of the initiative came up as displaced Syrians from different governorates flocked into the FSA-controlled areas in northern Syria, particularly in the countryside of Aleppo and Idlib. We had to find a way to help women integrate into the hosting communities. We also wanted to challenge any stereotypes held by the locals in Atareb in the western Aleppo countryside vis-a-vis the displaced,” he added.

 “Twenty different women attend every session. They include both local and displaced women. A woman tells the story, customs and history of her hometown with a focus on the role of women in the revolution against the Syrian régime in every gathering. The meeting also includes a Q&A session. At the end, the attendees cook a meal, which would be the specialty of a Syrian town or village. We already held two sessions, one on the city of Aleppo and the other on the city of Homs. In the upcoming sessions, the attendees will talk about Damascus, Deir ez-Zor and Raqqa,” Shakrdy said.



 Hanan Orabi, director of the Office for Women and Child Welfare, a division of the Council of Free Aleppo Governorate, said she was also a guest in the initiative. “The idea is wonderful and aims to strengthen ties between locals and displaced women; [it] brings hope into the hearts of families who are still feeling homesick,” she said.

 Another invitee, social activist Asmaa Mohammed, agreed that the combination of food and conversation worked and could be a model for other towns that host displaced people. “This kind of initiative is very important for social integration in the hosting communities. Other towns in the Aleppo countryside should follow suit to help the displaced families feel more welcome in their new communities,” she said.'

Syrian father who lost twins to poison gas uprooted again

 'When Abdel Hamid al-Yousef lost his 9-month-old twins in the poison gas attack that hit the Syrian town of Khan Sheikhoun in April 2017, the world witnessed his heartbreak and grief in the video of him cradling their lifeless bodies in his arms, bidding them farewell in the chaotic aftermath of the attack.

 Determined to continue with his life despite the pain, he has since remarried, and now has a one-year-old daughter who brings much needed joy to what remains of the family. But tragedy keeps chasing the 31-year-old former shopkeeper.

 Many displaced persons like al-Yousef fear that a government win will bring little relief — or sense of closure.

 Al-Yousef recently fled Khan Sheikhoun again, joining tens of thousands fleeing heavy airstrikes and bombardment as government forces swept into the town, on the southern edge of the country's last rebel stronghold in the province of Idlib.



 He now lives among thousands of other internally displaced Syrians in a settlement near the Turkish border, worried he will never be able to go back to the hometown he left behind.

 "I buried the most important thing I have in my life there, my children and my siblings. I used to find some relief by visiting them twice a week at the grave," he said. "I cannot do that anymore."

 Most of all, al-Yousef fears the takeover by Bashar Assad's forces of Khan Sheikhoun means that any leftover evidence from the April 2017 toxic gas attack will now be erased forever.

 "The biggest fear now, after régime forces and the Russians and allied militiamen took over Khan Sheikhoun is that they will tamper with the evidence with regards to the chemical weapons attack and distort the facts," he said.

 The attack in opposition-held Khan Sheikhoun in the early morning of April 4, 2017 left residents gasping for breath and convulsing in the streets and overcrowded hospitals. Nearly 90 people were killed in the attack, one of the deadliest in years.

 Days later, the U.S. fired 59 U.S. Tomahawk missiles at the Shayrat Air Base in central Syria, saying the attack on Khan Sheikhoun was launched from the base. It marked the first western airstrikes on targets of Assad's government since the start of the conflict in March 2011.

 From his tent in the displaced settlement near the Turkish border called "Mokhayyam al-Karamah," Arabic for "Dignity Camp," near the town of Atmeh, al-Yousef recalls that fateful day when he lost his twins, Aya and Ahmed, his wife Dalal and 16 other relatives.

 It is a story he has told dozens of times, about how Khan Sheikhoun residents woke up at half-past six in the morning to the sound of explosions. How people started running out of their homes and onto the street, trying to help each other. How he told his wife to take the twins to safety outside. The people he saw foaming at the mouth and nose.

 He recalls how he ran to his brother's house to find him and his family dead. His other brother and nephew, also dead. His niece who was around 13, also dead. He lost consciousness and woke up four hours later to be told that his twins and wife had died. They were among the 89 people who died from what experts have determined was an attack using sarin, an outlawed nerve toxin.

 In footage filmed by his cousin that was widely circulated later, al-Yousef, 29 years old at the time, is seen seated in the front seat of a van cradling his twins, holding them in each arm. He stroked their hair and choked back tears, mumbling, "Say goodbye, baby, say goodbye."



 Al-Yousef keeps photos and videos of the attack's aftermath on his phone that he flips through from time to time.

 He sits on the floor and plays Lego with his 11-month-old daughter, whom he named Aya, after his first daughter. Her hair is in curly pigtails and she is wearing a sleeveless yellow T-shirt with the words "Love" printed on it and a heart in the middle.

 Al-Yousef said that after spending some time in Turkey for treatment after the gas attack, he then chose to return to Khan Sheikhoun, held by rebels.

 He decided to try and build a new life and a new home. He got married and had Aya. He gradually found some happiness.

 But then government troops began an assault on Idlib and the nonstop bombardment of Khan Sheikhoun returned. A new wave of civilian displacement began. As the bombardment got unbearable and the troops encircled the town, he decided to leave, fleeing with the masses to safer areas near the Turkish border.



 "The final days felt like I was saying goodbye to everything I hold dear to my heart. I had already lost my children and now I've lost my country. My situation has become very, very tragic," he said.

 Al-Yousef wants the bloodshed to end. As a well-known witness and survivor of the chemical weapons attack, he says he gets frequent threats from the government side, but says he'll never stop talking about what happened. He wants accountability.

 "I want to send a message to Western countries to shoulder their responsibility and protect the lives of remaining civilians," he said.'

Ceasefire just gives régime a breather, say Idlib residents

Zouhir al-Shimale:

 'Residents of northern Syria say they have no faith in the temporary reprieve brought by a Russian-led ceasefire in Idlib as they say shelling hasn’t stopped and the memories endure of previous such deals in other areas subjected to government offensives.

 Many of the nearly 3 million civilians sheltering in Syria’s last rebel-held area of Syria were displaced from elsewhere in the country following previous government offensives.

 Those who lived through such fighting say that similar ceasefire deals made little difference on the ground as shelling continued and government forces used the brief pause to regroup and renew the offensive days later.



 “I do not know what to say,” said Sara Mawlawe, 29, a teacher in the Idlib town of Saraqib southeast of Idlib city. She was displaced from Eastern Ghouta, a suburb of Damascus, after the régime onslaught there in March 2018.

 “The Russian-Syrian régimes are playing with the international community and us like [we’re] dull. Attacking when they want to, ceasing fire to rest and reload their weapons whenever they want,” she said.

 Ms Mawlawe said Russian-backed forces would not stop until they recaptured the areas they wanted, regardless of the international community.

 “This truce is a setup scheme to orchestrate more attacks against civilians,” she said. “Since I came from Eastern Ghouta last year, the ceasefire and battles are almost identical.”

 She pointed to identical attacks against hospitals, infrastructure, civil defence centres and displacements camps.

 “Not only the attacks and ceasefires are the same since Eastern Ghouta or Aleppo, the world’s leaders and media coverage have also been the same,” she said.

 “Condemnation and draft resolutions against the Syrian régime always vetoed by Russia. Can anyone give me one reason to be optimistic or think this one will end our agony?”



 She added that while the area of Idlib where she is now sheltering was relatively peaceful on Sunday, they could hear warplanes overhead and explosions in the distance.

 “We do not know if the truce is still on track or it has been cancelled."

 On Saturday, the Syria and Russia declared the cessation of hostilities – the second since August 1 – but it was swiftly violated the Syrian military who announced on government media that they were starting attacks against “terrorists” in north Syria.

 Ms Mawlawe works with a relief organisation facilitating aid to internally displaced people in the region. She is a volunteer cook and distributes essential items with the local council of Saraqib.

 “Even though the truce will not last, the international organization ought to stand up for the hundreds of thousands of refugees who lost everything," she said. “Some families have not eaten a meal for more than three days, or are without shelter. The humanitarian crisis is at critical levels and needs the intervention of international organizations”.



 Sami Souqe, 33, is a carpenter but lost his home in the bombing of Aleppo three years ago. He has been living with his family of three children in the outskirt of Marat Al Noman, south of Idlib city.

 His house has been destroyed and his nine-year-old son, Khaled, is still in intensive care after suffering critical wounds to his back.

 His other two children and wife were displaced again now sleep under the open sky, homeless and without assistance while he waits near Turkish border hospital in Bab Al Hawa to hear news of Khaled’s condition.

 “We are defenceless and harmless, why are the same attacks and truces happening over and over,” he asked. “And there’s no response or movement whatsoever by the West to end the ongoing atrocities.”

 He too didn’t believe the ceasefire was an attempt to ease the humanitarian situation or stop the clashes.

 “The declared halt only serve the régime, to reorganize their fighters and move more militants and ammunitions towards Idlib’s frontline to destroy and recapture more towns. It has been happening for years,” he said.

 “In 2016 we had the same scenario when dozens of ceasefires were announced and broken again and again by the régime, fooling rebel forces and the international community with the fake willingness to [hold] peace negotiations.”



 Mr Sami took part in a protest on Friday at the Syrian border with Turkey, calling for Ankara to open the closed crossing to allow civilians to flee the grinding bloodshed of the Idlib campaign.

 "We are exhausted and need this war to come to an end, we pray for it every day to come true," he said.'

Idlib massacres echo in Istanbul

 'Syrian activists on Saturday denounced the massacres and violations by the Russian and Iranian occupation forces and Assad's militias in Idlib and condemned the negative attitude of the international community towards them, during a press conference organized by the "Arab Society" and the "Syrian League" volunteers team in the Turkish state of Istanbul.

 The dissident Syrian astronaut, Mohammad Fares, called during the conference for the international community to stand by the Syrian people and their revolution, urging the UN Security Council to intervene to stop the systematic killing against the Syrians, denying the existence of terrorists among the people of the Syrian revolutionaries, stressing that terrorism was fabricated under the Assad régime in trying to suppress the voice of freedom.

 Fares added that the Syrian revolution started peacefully and that its people took up arms only after it was imposed on them so that the "free people'' would not be annihilated by Iran, the Russians and Assad's militias, while urging the Syrians and the Turks to unite to confront the attempts to attack the two brotherly peoples.



 For his part, dissident Colonel, Ahmad Hamadeh said that the attitude of the international community is negative towards the massacres have been committing against the Syrian people, as the Assad régime, Russian and Iranian militias have been using all types of weapons, including internationally prohibited and chemical weapons, pointing out that Russia used 320 types of weapons, in the bombing of northern Syria, the latest the fighter jets SU-57 and SU-35.

 He added that the bombing is the only logic understood by the Russians, Iranians and Assad's militias, stressing that they destroyed more than 80 percent of the infrastructure of the areas that revolted against the Assad régime.

 Hamadeh pointed out that the Russians were the ones who failed the Sochi agreement by bombing northern Syria, stressing that the number of medical points and hospitals that were targeted in the last campaign amounted to 49 points, and the entire villages in Idlib countryside were exterminated, which forced the residents to evacuate and to move out into the open or areas.



 The number of victims during the military campaign on northern Syria reached more than a thousand civilians, including hundreds of children and women, and the bombing of communities resulted in the displacement of about one million people amid difficult humanitarian conditions.'

 Note 15/8/25, link broken.

I survived the 2013 chemical attack on Ghouta

 Ameenah Sawwan:

 'Six years ago, I was living in Muadamiyat al-Sham in the Damascus suburbs of western Ghouta, which at that time was under siege by the Syrian régime. My whole family of 12 had moved to the basement of our house due to the incessant bombardment by Syrian régime fighter jets and helicopters.

 It was early morning on the August 21, I couldn't sleep so I went online and started going through the latest news posted on social media. Almost immediately, I came across freshly uploaded videos from Zamlka, Ein Tarma and Irbin in eastern Ghouta showing people spasming and fainting, their eyes rolling back and foam coming out of their mouths. I couldn't believe it - this was just 20km away from my house.

 I woke my family up and told them the news. They began panicking and couldn't believe what I was telling them. They kept asking me if I was sure of what I was saying. Then, at about 5am, information circulated online that Muadamiyat al-Sham had also been attacked with chemical weapons. I told a friend: "That's not true, I live there, you must mean Eastern Ghouta." I was wrong. Chemical weapons had been dropped on my town and we had not realised because it was not that close to our house.

 We had heard whistling explosions, louder than usual, but thought they were ground-to-ground missiles. For two years we had been bombed with all sorts of weapons - how do you recognise the sound of a chemical attack?



 I decided to go outside and one of my neighbours told me that the news of the attack was true. I saw people running in the streets, shouting and crying, and trying to get those affected by the gas to the field hospital. I did not see the missiles that released the chemicals but I could feel the effect of the gas - my eyes began to burn.

 I went back to the basement and told my family there had been a chemical attack nearby. When my sister-in-law heard the news, she began to cry uncontrollably, clutching my one-month-old niece, and asking me, my parents and my brother to help her daughter survive.

 We had heard that chemical weapons are dense gases so we decided to go upstairs to the ground floor where we thought we would be safer. Then shortly after, a mortar shell landed in our garden, exploding and causing some damage to the house. The régime clearly did not want anyone to survive that day.

 We did not know what to do. Should we stay upstairs and risk being bombed, or should we stay in the basement and risk being gassed? There were no guarantees that we would be safe. We did not know if more missiles would come or even if it was possible to be affected and not realise. Everything was chaotic and no one knew what was happening.

 The régime continued to hit us with air strikes, mortar shells and missiles throughout the day.



 I had previously volunteered at the field hospital and knew they would need help, so at approximately 7am I headed there. It was not much of a hospital really - it was only a 300 square metre room in a basement, but it was all we had.

 I was barely able to make it because of the constant shelling. I was trying to walk close to the walls to avoid the shrapnel but every time a missile exploded, I would check myself to see if I was wounded.

 When I finally reached the hospital, I saw people lined up in the street in front of it. They were spasming violently, foaming at the mouth, and their eyes were rolling back. There was a man hosing them down with water but they looked like they were close to death.

 I went inside and started to wash people and take off some of their clothes. I was instructed to put towels soaked with vinegar and lemon under their noses. We did not know what we were doing and whether it was helping at all. All we knew was that something terrible had happened and we were alone, left to deal with hundreds of dying people.

 I still remember how helpless everyone felt. We were losing a lot of people, but we were still doing CPR and trying everything we could to save them. I saw a whole family die, one after the other. Eventually, the bodies of the dead had to be moved to nearby houses as there was not enough room for them, as casualties kept arriving.



 At some point, I saw a doctor standing in the corner of the room holding a 10-month-old baby. He handed the baby to me as he was struggling to stand. I tried to wash the baby, I tried CPR on him, nothing worked. It was the darkest moment that day for me. I wished that it was a nightmare and that I would wake to find out that it had never happened. The baby died along with his parents. We were all crying, looking around, lost, not knowing how this was going to end.

 The shelling was intensifying and we were starting to get dizzy from the secondary effects of the chemicals.

 One of the doctors asked me and another volunteer to go to the nearby house and give atropine injections to the people inside. The doctor said the inhabitants were presumed dead but perhaps they were still alive, perhaps the injections could help. When I arrived, the house was silent. I recognised many of the people lying inside. We were crying and giving them the injections one by one.

 They were dead, but I was hoping that maybe we were wrong, maybe they were in a coma. I was feeling dizzy, and my eyes were burning but I did not want to ask for medical treatment when people needed it more than I did.

 After we saw that we could not help those people, I went to other houses to try to save others. In one of the homes, I was shocked to find my best friend. He was alive but completely disoriented. He was hallucinating, trembling; it took him more than 10 days to come to his senses and realise what had happened.

 In the early afternoon, I walked home, unable to see as my eyes were still burning from the gas.



 That day a total of 1,127 people were killed in the attacks on Ghouta, an unimaginable war crime. People had gone to sleep the night before and never woken up. My family and I survived, but death continued to rain from the sky. Eight days later my brother, his wife and their son Ahmad were killed by a mortar shell.

 This week, we commemorate the sixth anniversary of the massacre; we mourn the dead and remember their families who still await justice. The attack on Ghouta was not the first and it was not the last. Despite the outrage and the mock chemical disarmament under the supervision of its ally, Russia, the régime continued to use chemical weapons against its own people with impunity. The Syrian Network for Human Rights has documented 217 such incidents between December 2012 and May 2019. The régime alsocontinues to use banned weapons in its offensive on Idlib.

 For those of us who have lost family members to the régime crimes, it has been incredibly frustrating to watch the international community ignore our calls for justice. It is high time it takes action to end these horrors in Syria. Until it does, we will continue to campaign and tell our stories.'

Syrians in Idlib baffled by offer of humanitarian corridor

 'As its bombardment of Idlib province continued on Thursday, the Syrian government announced it had opened a “humanitarian corridor” for civilians who want to leave the rebel-held enclave.

 Whether such an exit can transport Syrians to safety or not, however, is unclear; with many pouring scorn on the proposal as they flee the government's assault and shelter from its arsenal.

 Civilians would be allowed to leave Idlib’s southern countryside and the north of neighbouring Hama province through the corridor in the town of Souran, Damascus' statement said.



 However, Ahmed al-Sheikho, media director for Syria’s Civil Defence in Idlib, said that there are effectively no civilians left in Idlib’s southern countryside to use such an exit.

 “The majority of people who fled the Khan Sheikhoun and Maaret al-Numan countrysides have chosen to flee north, towards the Turkish border,” Sheikho said.

 Souran, located in Hama’s northern countryside, is considered the first line of defence for government forces stationed on the doorstep of the city of Hama.

 “The corridor is located in an area already void of civilians. How will the régime receive the people it’s been accusing of supporting terrorists?” activist Massoud Sayyah said.



 More than 80,000 people have been displaced from the Maaret al-Numan eastern countryside since Monday due to the government and Russia’s escalating violence.

 Abbas Jomaa, a civilian preparing to flee the Maaret al-Numan area, likened the current situation to “doomsday”.

 “I have not yet heard of the opening of a corridor. All we hear is the sound of bombings and warplanes,” Jomaa said.

 Like Jomaa, several displaced people were surprised to hear that a corridor had been opened up for them when the road to the exit has been cut off by pro-government forces in the first place.

 “How can I leave to the side of those who destroyed my village? Even if there were people who would have wanted to use the corridor, they can’t because the road is blocked,” said Jomaa.



 Pro-government forces have escalated their offensive over the past week in the last opposition-held bastion in Syria, and have steadily chipped away at towns and villages in Idlib’s south.

 Syrians in opposition-held areas are deeply sceptical and mistrustful of government corridors. Many doubt their security once in Bashar al-Assad-held territory. Others worry they will become moving targets as they make their way out of rebel areas.

 One civilian recalled how he chose to flee to Idlib when the government opened a humanitarian crossing in his native Eastern Ghouta during a punishing offensive last year.

 “And I would still choose to stay in Idlib today rather than go to a régime area,” he said, wishing to remain anonymous.

 The local councils of Kfar Zeita and Latamneh in northern Hama said in similar statements on Thursday that the offensive has emptied their towns of residents.

 “Government corridors are a farce and a publicity stunt. I never have and never will cross to régime areas,” said a displaced civilian, who wished to be named Abdel-Rahman Qaytaz for security reasons.

 Hassan al-Shawa, vice president of Idlib’s civilian council, echoed Qaytaz and said he believed that the corridors are “a message from the régime to prepare the world for a new wave of displacement, killings and destruction”.



 On Thursday, the government bombing campaign pounded towns east of the key rebel-held town of Maaret al-Numan, including Jarjanaz, Deir al-Sharqi and Tallmannis; where a man and a child were killed and 10 people were wounded.

 Opposition fighters on Tuesday pulled back from Khan Sheikhoun - one of the province’s largest towns - a strategic win for Assad's government that places pressure on Turkey, which has forces stationed in the nearby town of Morek.

 Morek has been cut off from its supply line after government forces attacked and paralysed the highly strategic M5 Damascus-Aleppo highway, down which a Turkish military convoy was heading to the town.

 Turkish state media reported on Thursday that Ankara had sent further reinforcements inside northern Syria.

 A military convoy was heading from Khirbat al-Jawz crossing towards a Turkish observation point in the town of Jisr al-Shughour in Idlib, Turkey's official Anadolu Agency reported.

 Earlier, two Turkish officials told the Reuters news agency that Syrian government forces opened fire on one of Ankara's observation posts on Thursday, without specifying which of Turkey's 12 posts in northwest Syria - set up under an agreement with Russia and Iran - was hit.'

Testimony of three detainees in Assad prisons

 'Mohammed Eyad, former Syrian detainee, has unveiled with a heavy heart the details of his suffering in the Air Force Intelligence prison in the capital, where he had been held for four years between 2012-2016.

 “They were very painful years,” says Mohammed, who preferred to use a pseudonym as his current circumstances do not allow him to reveal his real name. In one of our meetings with him in Muadamiyat al-Sham, the western suburbs of Damascus, Mohammed was not the only one to speak, joined by Marwan and Massoud, two other detainees who were united by the scenes of "unbearable cruelty" in the regime's jails.

 Massoud was arrested at Al-Arbaeen checkpoint on the eve of the outbreak of the major battle the regime launched against Darayya and Muadamiyat al-Sham in November 2012 and was released at the end of the fifth year of the revolution, too. Marwan, despite the short time he spent in prison (not more than two months), lived a bitter experience that made him think he spent more months in imprisonment.

 “In that prison, I got to experience the horrible method the jailers forced us into. It was painful and frightening at the same time,” says Muhammad Iyad, “In which the jailer orders two of the prisoners to torture one another by beating his face. Once a young man from the city of Darayya was the victim, one of his friends was forced to beat him in this way for hours until he died."



 This talk of death led Massoud to recall another method that parallels it in brutality. "On holidays, the jailer would come in and mockingly wishes us happy holidays. ‘I will choose a number of you to get Eidiyah (gift as part of the celebration of Eid) he would say... choosing about 15 people… We were surprised by this apparent change in treatment. But, after only a quarter of an hour things started to get clearer. The poor young men were tortured, hit with a nylon hose on their feet until they all died."

 Marwan, who was imprisoned after the truce between the regime and the rebels of the Muadamiya early 2014, says his arrest was surprising. He passed through the Damascus barriers easily, but at the al-Jadida checkpoint near the capital he was arrested without any reason.

 “I stayed for 8 days in a solitary cell. Then they led me to a hall that was not more than 50 meters long, filled with dozens of prisoners. The surprise was not in the narrowness of the room, but in the prisoners. There were six bodies of detainees who died as a result of torture, malnutrition and disease.”

 "In fact, many of the internees were about to die as a result of medical negligence. For the rest of the time I stayed in the hall, other people died, the bodies living with us for several days, and when the number increases, the jailers come to take them away. It's been a terrible time, I can not imagine how I lived without going mad,” he continues.



 The three witnesses preferred not to publicize their real names because of their security conditions. Mohammad and Massoud recounted their experiences in the Air Force Intelligence prison adjacent to the cities of Darayya and Muadamiyat al-Sham. Marwan was detained in the 215th branch, one of the worst branches of the regime’s security, if not its worst.'

Assadist captured pilot says orders given to burn land

 'The Assadist pilot, who was captured on Wednesday (August 14), said, the task of his fellow Assadist pilots was to conduct the scorched land policy before the Assad ground forces could progress towards any town or village in the Idlib countryside.

 Speaking in pictures posted by Hayet Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), Assad Lieutenant Colonel Mohammad Ahmad Suliman, said, Russians gave orders and plans to Brigadier Suheil al-Hasan (The Tiger) to launch attacks on Idlib's town and villages.

 "Brigadier Suheil's campaign depends on the scorched land policy. When he intends to storm any axis or village, the task of the airforce is to burn that axis before he makes any progress. And thus he will advance towards a neutral land," the captured pilot said.

 HTS earlier on Wednesday posted footage of what its militants said was the Assadist pilot whose plane was shot down.

 "My name's Lieutenant Colonel Mohammad Ahmad Suliman. I serve in the Brigade 70. While I was conducting a "Ramz Bayreq Mission" in the east Khan Sheikhoun, my plane was downed. I'm now captured by the opposition fighters," he said.

 Hundreds of airstrikes were conducted on Idlib countryside, killing more than 1000 civilians, injuring dozens of thousands and displacing 400.000 of the population to the north of the major opposition-controlled area.'

Time Is Running Out for Syrians in Lebanon

 ' “They kill the kids. They kill everyone! We can’t go back!”

For Fatima, the idea of returning to war-ravaged Syria with her five children is laughable. Besides, what would she go back to? “We had a home, a farm,” she said. “All are destroyed.”

 Sitting outside her tent this spring, concealed from view by an olive grove in Lebanon’s northernmost province of Akkar, the Syrian border is tantalizingly close. “I want to go back,” she said. “But we can’t.”

 Yet a ruling by Lebanese authorities, along with growing hostility to refugees in both media and political circles, may soon leave her with no choice. This spring, Lebanon’s Supreme Defense Council decreed that any Syrian who entered the country without proper documentation after April 24 would be deported. The effect was immediate: On April 26, according to Human Rights Watch, at least 16 Syrians were summarily deported after arriving at the Beirut airport, despite most of the group expressing fears of torture and persecution should they return home. In total, according to Lebanon’s state-run National News Agency, 301 Syrians were deported from the country in May.



 Firsthand accounts of forcible deportation, obtained by the Access Center for Human Rights in Beirut, allege violations of the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights, to which Lebanon is constitutionally committed. Other testimony includes allegations of refugees being tortured and beaten by Lebanese security forces, denied access to legal advice and representation, and returned to Syria, despite the danger this may have posed to them. In one account, a refugee was reportedly handed over to Syrian authorities by Lebanese security forces, transferred to Damascus, and has not been heard from since.

 The threat of forced deportation looms large of the refugee communities. “[The returnees] are imprisoned, or killed,” Fatima’s husband, Muhammed, said. “I could be conscripted into the army if I went back to Syria.”

 Naama, a young Syrian activist and journalist originally from Homs, was imprisoned for speaking out against the Bashar al-Assad régime in 2014. Now living in the Lebanese city of Tripoli, she’s in no doubt of the fate that would await her if she were to return to Syria. “When I come back to Syria, they will take me to jail,” she later said. “I am back to death.” She believes that a similar fate would await many returning Syrians, “especially the activists and journalists.”

 Along with forced deportations, Lebanese authorities are also engaged in a more insidious campaign to drive refugees out of the country. For one, new work laws are making it harder for Syrians to live sustainably in Lebanon. In June, the minister for labor, Kamil Abu Suleiman, announced a government plan to impose harsh financial sanctions on any businesses that employ foreign workers without work permits, a plan that has led to the dismissal of workers across the country. Given that a permit can cost up to $1,200, work is simply beyond the reach of many Syrian refugees. The inability to provide for their families will put further pressure on them to leave.



 According to Amnesty International, there are over 900,000 Syrians registered as refugees in Lebanon. The Lebanese government counts a further 500,000 unregistered Syrians. Lebanese politicians have argued that such a huge influx of refugees is putting pressure on the economy and that Lebanese citizens are losing out on jobs to Syrians. New research from the Access Center has highlighted numerous instances of Lebanese politicians employing anti-refugee rhetoric in speeches and at rallies to turn public opinion against the Syrians.

 In June, Foreign Minister Gebran Bassil said that “the Lebanese are above all.” He’s argued that the “genetic distinction” of the Lebanese makes them superior to their Syrian counterparts. And, according to an Associated Press story, a rally organized by Bassil’s Free Patriotic Movement party under the slogan “Employ a Lebanese” saw protestors vandalizing a Syrian-owned shop and chanting “Syria get out,” as part of a wider campaign by the party to shut down businesses that employ Syrian workers.

 But according to Naama, the Syrians are just being used as scapegoats: “There is no education, there is no work or jobs for young people”—Lebanese or Syrian. She argues that joblessness leads to frustration, and officials encourage citizens to project their anger onto Syrians. “When you see all the tweets on Twitter from the political men, and you see how they deal with people and society, they play on people’s feelings,” Naama said. “‘You don’t have a job because the Syrians have taken your jobs.’ So the regular people will think that—‘Yeah, the Syrians are taking my job.’ But it’s not true.” According to statistics from the International Labour Organization, 92 percent of Syrian workers have no formal job contract, and less than a quarter earn a regular monthly wage. Most work in agricultural or domestic services, in jobs that, many of them argue, most Lebanese do not want.



 A recent survey by the Carnegie Middle East Center suggested that 96 percent of refugees fled Syria because of the deteriorating security situation there rather than for economic reasons. Many wish to return home when it is safe to do so. Some Syrians, like Mutasem, another refugee in Lebanon, understand the strain the large number of refugees places on Lebanese society. Overcrowding in host communities is leading to increased demand for public services, affecting both the accessibility and quality of health care and education, and rental prices have increased drastically in response to greater demand. Lebanon’s proximity to the Syrian conflict has damaged its tourism industry, and hundreds of camps are sprawled across its landscapes.

 From his family’s home, a U.N.-branded tarpaulin strung over a scaffold of wooden planks, Mutasem is aware of how he may be viewed by many Lebanese. But, he said this summer, he has no choice. “If I go back to Syria, I would be going to death,” he said. “If I’d get money, I’d go to Europe. But I will never return to Syria.”

 It’s not hard to understand why. He shows a recently received video on his cell phone of his old street in Aleppo. He won’t say who sent it to him. “In my city, there is no electricity, no water. Every building has been destroyed. There are no roads. There are no people,” he said.

 Like many here, Mutasem is aware of the Lebanese government’s efforts to push Syrians out of the country. His brother was killed in a Russian airstrike somewhere in Idlib, and he plans to defy the Lebanese government’s aims. “I’ve heard it, yes,” he said. “But I can’t put my family at risk. I can’t go back.”

 With fighting continuing in parts of the country, peace in Syria remains elusive. It is dangerous to send refugees back into the thick of a conflict, yet that is what is happening, with pressure on Syrian refugees in Lebanon increasing day by day.'

Artist's 'explosive' works convey hope amid death in Syria

 'A large missile incubator stands in the middle of the room that Akram Swedaan uses as his studio. In a few days, he will completely transform the weapon of war into a work of art with the strokes of his paintbrush.

 Born Akram Abo Alfoz in Douma, eastern Ghouta, Swedaan, a self-taught painter, has made a name for himself in the last three years by transforming the remnants of shells, missiles and bullets he collects from the street in “defiance of the death plaguing Syria.”

 “Painting on instruments of death is no easy task,” Swedaan said, in his studio in al-Bab, in Aleppo’s eastern countryside. “It is not by coincidence or by sheer necessity that I use shells and missiles. Both are tools for killing. Rather, it is my attempt to convey a message to the world that the Syrian people love life and do not deserve such death and suffering. I convey that the Syrians can find life amid death and destruction and turn their sadness into art.”

 Swedaan started using missiles and shells as canvases in 2014 while still in Douma, which at the time was under the control of the armed opposition and under siege by regime forces employing air and ground bombardments.

 “I've been painting and drawing since I was a kid,” Swedaan said. “I loved drawing scenes of the old Damascus, streets with jasmine trees, as well as Damascus motifs.” While in Douma, he started the series “Painting on Death,” in which he painted Damascene and Oriental motifs against mostly bright backgrounds.



 In April 2018, Swedaan left Douma after a grueling Russian-backed government siege of more than five years against eastern Ghouta. Arriving in al-Bab, he began working on “The Returnee,” a series about his dream of returning home no matter how long it takes.

 “The paintings and the art pieces from ‘The Returnee’ are not that different from ‘Painting on Death’ in the sense that they both focus on the will to live,” Swedaan explained. “But the works in ‘The Returnee’ series are more nostalgic, longing for home and the city of Douma in particular.”

 Swedaan’s work is characterized by dark and sad colors, drawings of his comrades killed in Douma and inscriptions such as “O homeland, my beloved,” “Jasmine of Peace” and other expressions reflective of the longing for peace, home and life. The figures he paints on the missiles are of people who have died or have been detained or displaced.

 “The Returnee” aims to draw attention to the plight of displaced Syrians from Douma and elsewhere. One piece in the series is a Russian cluster incubator, or bomb tank, covered with the names of the Syrian cities and towns whose residents have been displaced due to operations conducted by or backed by the Russian military.



 Swedaan cites dates and specific events to highlight the plight of the Syrians. For the International Day of the Arabic Language, Dec. 18, 2018, Swedaan wrote the following in Kufic, one of the oldest calligraphy forms, on an empty incubator for a Russian-launched missile: “No to displacement, yes to home, no to arrest, yes to freedom, no to terrorism, yes to peace, no to murder, yes to life.”

 “These missiles kill Syrians and their children, demolish their houses, displace them and destroy [infrastructure, hospitals and] schools,” Swedaan said. “On these missiles, which I turn into art pieces, I write or sketch the disastrous consequences of their attacks. I also [paint] the names of the Syrian detainees in the prisons of the Syrian regime and those persecuted and displaced.”

 For Valentine's Day this year, Swedaan used ammunition to commemorate the occasion. “On Feb. 14, while the world was celebrating Valentine's Day, and Syria still suffered under war, I turned a collection of empty bullets into a red [bouquet], expressing love and life,” Swedaan noted.

 “One of the unique pieces that I made was a drawing of Damascene motifs against a black backdrop on a cluster missile incubator for the 8th anniversary of the Syrian revolution, March 18, and writing at the bottom ‘Revolution persists until victory,’” he said.

 During the holy month of Ramadan, Swedaan created “Ramadan Cannon” from an empty 23-mm machine gun shell. Muslims fire a cannon each day during Ramadan to signal the end of fasting. This past Ramadan (May 5–June 3) was the second Ramadan he had spent away from Douma.



 Abu al-Ala al-Halabi, a human rights activist in Aleppo, said, “Despite the tragedies Swedaan has suffered under displacement, he continues to document the revolution and the war in Syria. His works pay homage to his homeland and the artistic heritage of his country. He proves that art and beauty can resist guns, death and destruction, and he conveys hope, with art, to the suffering Syrians.”

 Somewhat unusual for a painter, Swedaan is reluctant to part with his works, saying they are too personal. “I received an offer to sell some of my work, but I refused,” he said. “I cannot sell the works that have become a testament to the most difficult stages of the Syrian revolution. I want to show my work in international exhibitions, but that is not possible at the moment.” '

Reporting on the War in Syria as an Unveiled Woman

 Zaina Erhaim:

 'Five long, shapeless tops; a pile of loose-fitting, dark-colored jeans; a knee-length coat; and a video camera. Those were the contents of my wardrobe for more than two years, when I lived in and reported on the rebel-held area of Aleppo, known as eastern Aleppo city. Few things changed between the seasons, as we had to dress conservatively year-round.

 In my “real life” — my life as a layperson and not a journalist — I have only two to three dark pieces of clothing in my closet, hidden among dozens of green, blue, pink, and red garments. When I reported from Aleppo, the hardest thing for me was putting on a dark headscarf just before leaving the house after I’d carefully chosen my outfit for the day.



 Back in early 2011, when the uprising erupted in Syria, I finally started to feel like I belonged in my own country. The anti-government demonstrations demanding democratic reforms from President Bashar al-Assad represented everything I’d long hoped for: freedom of expression, a free press, elections, and an end to fear.

 But even after experiencing all of that hope, I found myself fighting the same fight that I had won so many years ago: the fight not to wear a hijab.



 If you ask anyone why women in Syria should be covering their hair, they might cite the Qur’an. But why is this rule enforced so much more strictly now than it has been in the past? The answer is simple: many fundamentalist Muslims are now armed, giving them the unlimited power and impunity to suppress women, whom they believe to be the weaker gender.

 I come from a conservative community in Syria, in Idlib city, and my family had tried to force me to wear the hijab at 15 years old. I won that battle: I refused to cover my hair simply because I couldn’t see why “all the women in our town do” was enough of a reason for me to do so as well. I will never forget the shame I was forced to feel when I was harassed and called names on the streets. I can’t count the number of times I was groped while on my way to school, in broad daylight. Even though I had adamantly refused to put on the headscarf, I couldn’t help but feel responsible for being touched inappropriately. But I never gave up.

 After the uprising, 15 years later, I fought the battle again and lost. I had tried to resist. I had thought: I am not a foreign journalist who’s in Syria for a short trip to do some reporting before heading back home. This is my home, and I should force these people to accept who I am. I should once again fight the same battle I had fought as a teenager, this time with strange, armed men in a chaotic corner of my country, known as the most dangerous area in the entire world for journalists.

 But I and other women activists and journalists had become “minors” in Syria. Any man had the right to check the length of our sweaters, the color of our outfits, who we were moving around with, and who we were talking to. They even had the right to scrutinize the fabric of our pants. Jeans signaled that we were not locals, or that we were activists, since many consider them to be a Western form of clothing.

 I needed a man by my side to travel, to be able to move from one neighborhood to another. The chaperone had to be a mahram, meaning an allowable escort — a man who has a close blood relationship with me, such as my father or uncle. In my final couple of years in Syria, I had to fake having two brothers (I used their sisters’ IDs), four maternal uncles (my mother’s surname is not written on my ID, so this was easy), three cousins, and two husbands.

 I ran into trouble many times. At a checkpoint in northern Aleppo in 2014, when I was still refusing to wear a headscarf, a guard asked my male chaperone, “Who is she?”

 “She’s a Syrian journalist from Idlib,” my friend answered.

 “A journalist? From Idlib? Are you kidding me?” the armed man mocked. “She’s obviously a foreign journalist. We don’t have any women journalists here.”

 “Well, I’m from Idlib city — the Dabeet neighborhood, to be exact — and I have a heavy dialect, too. Here’s my ID,” I interjected, waving the document at him.

 “Wow, you speak Arabic well,” he said. “Where did you learn it? And this ID could easily be fake.”

 The idea of an impostor with fake Syrian identification papers who speaks in an authentic Idlibi dialect was, apparently, easier for the armed man to accept than the idea of an unveiled Syrian woman journalist.



 After a series of clashes like these with soldiers at checkpoints — many of which caused my male chaperones great distress — I decided to start covering my hair with the Palestinian keffiyeh, carefully wrapping it around my head in the way Arab men traditionally do to protect themselves from the desert sun. The change didn’t help to lower my profile, however, so in 2015, I started to arrange the keffiyeh around my head as if it were a full headscarf, covering my hair completely. By the time I left Syria for southern Turkey for good in 2016, I was wearing a long, dark coat along with a formal, regular hijab.

 The only way I could challenge those dim colors while living in Syria was by wearing bright underwear and colored pins on my scarf. They were tiny dots of color, yes, but they made me feel better. I didn’t quit using my expensive antiwrinkle cream either. “There’s a helicopter hovering above our heads and a barrel bomb could be breaking both of us into pieces at any minute, so why the hell are you worried about aging?” my husband at the time, Mahmoud, would ask. There’s a chance we may live through this war and come out of it in one piece, I thought. And if we do, all of the hard work I put into sustaining my skin’s elegance will have paid off. I want to live a long life and to write about what I witnessed so that no one will forget what happened here. And I want to have supple, crease-free skin, too.

 Helmets and bulletproof vests are common in my country: they’re used for protection by male reporters stationed at the front lines or as accessories for people to take photos with. Mine were mostly needed when I went shopping for groceries or when I filmed from hospitals and schools. Those were the most dangerous places to report from, because they were continually targeted by the Bashar al-Assad regime and its allies, the Russian forces.

 I have two particularly precious photos — souvenirs, you could say — of myself in a bulletproof vest. I was with my friend Hamoudi Bitar in the suburbs of Latakia. He was only 21 years old at the time, an ambitious architecture student, and he was acting as my fixer, helping me to arrange meetings and travel logistics. We’d just passed some extremist-controlled areas in the Jisr al-Shogour area. Even though we claimed we were cousins, we faced great difficulty when crossing through checkpoints. Hamoudi, in particular, had to bear the brunt of the questioning — why was he traveling on his own with a young woman?

 After we’d finished the reporting trip, we drove along the beautiful mountains of Akrad, but I started to feel overwhelmingly depressed. I was where I belonged — my homeland — but I could not accept that I had to be this dependent on someone else. I felt weak. Hamoudi sensed my sadness and suddenly stopped the car at the edge of the road. “Get out of the car and bring your camera,” he said firmly. I thought someone was following us or that he’d spotted a land mine, until he said, “Take off your headscarf. Enjoy the air in your hair and be yourself,” and began to snap some photos of me.

 Hamoudi was a conservative man from my city, Idlib. All of the women in his family were veiled, and he wouldn’t propose to a woman who didn’t wear a headscarf. However, in that moment, he supported me, risking his own life to give me a few precious minutes of relief.

 In September 2013, a year later, Hamoudi was killed while filming a battle on the outskirts of our city. The journalistic norm of “keeping a distance with your sources” is, to me, an abstract concept, as removed from reality as “living alone on an island.” My sources are my schoolmates, relatives, and family members. And those death counts flashing on your screens contain my first lovers, teachers, neighbors, and friends.



 After deciding to revolt against the patriarchal society I lived in, I had to deal with the consequences of my rebellion. There were many. “You will go to hell.” “Surely, you will end up a spinster.” “You will ruin the family’s reputation and destroy our honor.” “You will bring shame to the city of Idlib.” These are some of the attitudes that I had to fight.

 I have committed all the sins that could potentially be committed in such an awful war zone. I am a Syrian; a woman who lived in the most masculine of spaces; a journalist in a land of warlords; a secularist living among different kinds of extremists and foreign jihadists; and a human rights defender among war criminals, some claiming to be fighting for the other side, and some claiming to be pro-freedom, on my side. All of these combined meant I was far more scared of being assassinated than of being randomly killed by the Syrian army. I would be a great target, someone a fighter would be proud to have killed. After my murder, the killer would be guaranteed a place in heaven, where they’d be gifted with pretty girls. They would be a proud patriot because they would have eliminated a voice that threatened the image of Assad’s Syria.

 One of the few common threads that run through the different parts of Syria (including territories controlled by the Kurds, ISIL, the Assad regime, rebels, Turks, or al-Qaeda) is that if you are deemed a propagandist or a traitor, you must be killed. In my weakest moments, I couldn’t even share stories, photos, or bits and pieces of news on my social media accounts. I had to harshly censor myself. My loved ones volunteered to do so on my behalf as well. They would read what I intended to make public, then tell me to either publish or not publish the content. Then I started taking notes of the things that I couldn’t make public — at least for now. Over the past four years, I have barely had 10 articles published, even though I have written 80 pages of outlines and notes saved in a file on my laptop entitled “Can’t Be Published.”



 There were, nonetheless, advantages to being a woman journalist. If I wasn’t a woman, I wouldn’t have been invited to the closed segregated women’s community of Idlib. And I certainly wouldn’t have been able to film the women there moving about freely in their houses and as they worked. I was called hurma repeatedly during this time. This Arabic word carries with it multiple insulting connotations: haram, or “forbidden”; a form of weakness; someone who is dependent; a minor; a man’s tool for pleasure; his property; his possession; her gender role; and, finally, the eternal circle that a woman shouldn’t break — fertility and giving birth.

 Because I was given access to these women, I stopped being bothered by the word hurma. Instead, I was choosing to be hurma to be able to capture their stories. I was able to obtain access to a very private gynecological clinic in Aleppo city, which men are not allowed to enter. I went in with my camera, and I was terrified at first. It was a place where women covered themselves up in black from head to toe. And their male relatives could have had me killed for showing their faces on camera (to preserve their “honor,” women should be kept hidden from the public eye).

 While I was at the clinic, a 15-year-old girl wearing a black face veil walked in with her mother. She lifted her scarf to reveal the bright, youthful face of a teenager. Her mother then told the doctor that her daughter had been married for six weeks but wasn’t yet pregnant. She was worried. “What’s wrong with her?” she demanded. The girl started to blush and looked at the floor. Her mother requested a “pregnancy catalyst,” something that would “please” her husband.

 Another woman in her mid-forties visited the clinic with her pregnant daughter-in-law. She whispered to the doctor, “I want to have a baby, too. If I get pregnant, my husband will sleep in my house more, instead of going to his new, younger wife’s home.”

 These stories aren’t surprising to me, not only because I come from a community where such anxieties are common but also because I have witnessed firsthand that even empowered women activists who challenge the regime, their families, and tradition voluntarily turn into hareem (plural of hurma) after getting married.



 It’s been two years since I left that version of Syria, and I’m still struggling to find my voice and my freedom again. I’m a 32-year-old journalist, but I’ve reported freely for only two years of my life, between 2010 and 2012, as the uprising escalated into a brutal civil war. The years 2012 and beyond constitute an awful chapter of my personal and professional experience.

 I have survived extraordinarily painful conflicts — both external and internal — to be the woman I am today. A man would have been able to do it all quite easily, while I and other women have had to fight for our achievements. And I don’t want my daughter to have to do the same.

 To be frank, if I were sent back in time to the age of 15, when I had that very first argument about putting on the hijab, I wouldn’t do anything differently. I would choose to recommit all of the sins that have accompanied my being born into the original sin of womanhood. I would still choose to become a journalist, a secularist, and a human rights defender. I would choose to travel along this same path. Every thought I can change or eye I can open to help people see the difficult lives the women in my homeland live — and the inequality they experience — makes this battle a worthy one.'

The Evolution of Syrian Revolutionary Art

 'When protests broke out in Syria in early 2011, the demonstrators demanded the end of the national emergency law—in place for over 40 years—, and other basic democratic reforms. Syrian President Bashar al-Assad paid lip service to all of these demands well before 2011 so, in light of protests sweeping the Arab World, demonstrators must have felt that such requests were not especially outlandish.

 Then, in February 2011, a groups of boys scribbled anti-regime graffiti walls outside their school in Daraa. “It’s your turn doctor,” they spray painted, referring to Bashar al Assad, who was formerly an ophthalmologist. Graffiti certainly wasn’t rare, but the regime understood its possible implications to the point where ID was needed to buy spray cans if the government needed to find the buyers. The boys, who painted graffiti on their school as a lark, were arrested and brutally tortured. Disregarding the danger of dissent, the community came to protest in large numbers in the streets. As my interview with Dan Gorman, director of the Shubbak Festival said, “the curtain of fear had been pierced.”

 Perhaps, it is unsurprising then, that political posters and street art became so ubiquitous in the Syrian Revolution. The importance of graffiti, murals, and political posters is not unique to Syria or the Middle East. The Cuban and Russian revolutions produced iconic images synonymous with those struggles. The Vietnamese struggle against outside interference produced propaganda posters still sold in Hanoi today. Many of the political posters of the Syrian revolution actually seem inspired by the Palestinian struggle.

 As part of the public space, the use of graffiti and murals as a form of expression naturally connects with the general public more so than art hung in galleries. The internet amplified these images beyond their walls and shared their messages with millions of people, not just in Syria, but worldwide. It made street art—vulnerable to weather, bombardment, and whitewashing—permanent. When Abu Malik Al-Shami, the young street artist made famous by his murals in Daraya, was forced to evacuate to Idlib in 2016, he took pictures of his murals, which have since spread online.



 To the regime, nothing could be more horrifying than the ability to disseminate these images widely. This is why the instigators of these ideas were often eliminated. In October 2013, a Palestinian actor named Hassan Hassan, was taken by the regime as he was trying to leave Yarmouk Camp south of Damascus. Hassan had taped sketches of himself mocking the regime. His family was informed of his death two months later. In October 2015, Palestinian award-winning photographer, Niraz Saied, was arrested. Niraz had photographed the conditions of the government-imposed siege on Yarmouk. His images were shared widely around the world. At the end of 2018, his family was informed that he died in prison. These young artists challenged the regime’s narrative that it was the protector of the Palestinian struggle.

 The regimes of the Middle East knew the political potential for art. For this reason, it has always been closely monitored. Prior to the revolution, writers and artists in Syria were encouraged to join government-sponsored unions. Syrian dissident artists had to play a delicate balance between a desire to criticize the regime, the risk of publicizing genuine criticism, and the fear that their work would be co-opted as government propaganda, as what Miriam Cooke calls “commissioned criticism.” The regime expertly understood how small allowances of dissent improved their image without lobbing any real threat at the system. After the Russian Revolution succeeded, the Soviets too, understood the possible dangers of artistic free expression. To combat this, they strictly enforced socialist realism, their own brand of acceptable art. Anything that diverged was considered a threat. Sergei Parajanov, a Soviet film director and artist of Armenian descent, who invented his own unique cinematic style, was jailed for years along with other artists during the Soviet period; their work banned across the USSR. Others like artist Aleksander Drevin were killed for their work.

 The role of political art and murals may mean little to millions of IDPs in Syria and refugees today. Photos and paintings did not change the outcome for the victims of the Syrian war. Rather than instigating positive change, the protest songs and graffiti put a price on their heads. With Raed Fares and Abdul Basset al-Sarout, icons of the Syrian revolution, killed in just the past few months and the regime edging closer to its goal of taking every inch of Syria, the heady days of the Syrian revolution seem long gone.

 At the same time, Russia, the Syrian regime’s stalwart ally, is waging a highly effective international war on the cheap; spreading fake news to sow chaos in Europe, former Soviet republics, Syria, and the US. In addition to interfering with the 2016 US presidential election, Russia has spread misinformation on the Syrian war, suggesting that peaceful protestors were part of a global conspiracy, that the civilian victims of aerial bombardment are actors, and that search and rescue workers are terrorists.

 However, the Russian and Syrian regimes’ efforts in the media and online betray their desire to win, not just the military war, but the narrative war. In this respect, thousands of political exiles, artists, and cartoonists scattered around the world, have an important role to play along with archivists. Since 2011, various collectives have been archiving hundreds of images, from political graffiti to the infamous political satire posters from Kafranbel. The sheer number of images from across Syria demonstrate how widespread the revolution was and still is.

 Kesh Malek (meaning Check Mate) is a civil society organization that aimed to reach the world through its Syria Banksy initiative. Recently, they countered the regime propaganda, espoused by the musician Roger Waters against Syrian search and rescue volunteers, with a poster targeted to the Pink Floyd artist’s misinformed statements. The image in Idlib, Syria depicts Waters carrying an assault rifle with a caption that reads, “A message from Syrians in Idlib to Roger Waters: Hey you, don’t help them to bury the light,” referencing Pink Floyd lyrics.



 These images continue to be a part of Syria’s collective memory, a call to arms, and a venting of frustrations. As Malu Halasa, co-editor of Syria Speaks - Art and Culture from the Frontline, said, the Syrian revolution is a story of “how the street became visible.” In so doing, these works have leaked out of Syria onto our collective conscience, both as pieces of artwork and political expression. Even the establishment British Museum displayed various pieces of Syrian protest art as part of the museum’s “Living Histories” exhibit. The collection featured many works by the anonymous poster collective Alshaab Alsori Aref Tarekh (The Syrian People Know Their Way). The Creative Memory of the Syrian Revolution has also archived hundreds of images with statistics on the words used and the number of walls painted per month.

 As the situation grows to be more desperate in Syria and the regime continues to bombard marked hospitals without international interference, the number of political images emerging from Syria has dropped markedly since the first years of the revolution. For Syrians, it does not seem as though anyone is listening, but that doesn’t stop some from writing captions in English to reach a wider audience. There is still a movement to save those left in opposition-held areas from aerial bombardment, release prisoners, and find information on the disappeared. For Syrians in danger every day, the war is not over and the narrative war for the history of the revolution has just begun.'

Syrian Turkmen groups return to support opposition

 'Several Syrian Turkmen groups have relocated their headquarters this year from Turkey to Syrian areas occupied by Turkey and controlled by Turkish-backed opposition groups.

 The Syrian Turkmen Assembly (STA) political coalition met July 28 with members of the Turkmen Shura (Consultation) Council at the STA's new headquarters in al-Rai, Syria. The STA moved last month from Istanbul to the town in Syria's northern Aleppo province. STA leader Muhammed Vecih Cuma said that Syrian Turkmens are actively participating in the Syrian revolution against the régime and receiving support from the Turkish government, which encouraged the move to al-Rai, a town controlled by the Turkish-backed Free Syrian Army (FSA).

 Cuma said about the meeting, “Several issues were discussed, including the STA’s relocation to the liberated territories, its work method and how to solve the problems of the Turkmen community and alleviate its suffering.”

 He added, “The work plan for the next round of STA elections was also discussed, in addition to how the parties in the liberated territories will operate and how the meetings will be held. We also discussed the method of choosing candidates [and] the STA’s capacity as the political cover uniting all Syrian Turkmens under its wing."



 The STA's goals include returning Syrian Turkmens safely to their lands and guaranteeing their rights under a new Syrian Constitution through democratic and fair elections.

 On its Facebook page, the STA writes about how it consulted with experts to develop new by-laws that comply with international law. The by-laws are designed to facilitate STA management inside Syria, help Syrian Turkmens return and allow for representation of all Syrian Turkmens in the STA.

 The STA was established in 2012 in Istanbul, through direct support from the Turkish government. It was known as Syria’s Turkmen Association at the time, and was limited to independent members, most of whom were migrant Turkmens. The name was changed to STA in 2013 after other groups joined, including the Syrian Democratic Turkmen Movement, the Syria Turkmen Bloc and the Turkmen Development Party, along with FSA-affiliated armed Turkmen factions. It now includes independents, political parties and the armed factions. STA is the biggest Turkmen political assembly and includes most Syrian Turkmens.

 The STA is one of the components of the National Coalition for Syrian Revolution and Opposition Forces, also known as the Syrian National Coalition.

 The STA convenes every two years and is made up of a general secretariat and an executive office. There are 42 members in the secretariat, which elects the 14 members of the executive office. Parties are represented as follows: The Syrian Turkmen National Movement Party and the Syria Turkmen Bloc each has six members and the Turkmen Development Party has three, while the remaining seats are divided among independents and the FSA-affiliated armed Turkmen factions. Independents' representation in the STA is based on Turkmen population distribution in Syria.

 There are members from Aleppo, Damascus, Raqqa, Latakia, Hama, Homs and other provinces. The most active Turkmen groups are located between Azaz and Jarablus in Aleppo province, and they constitute the majority in al-Rai and surrounding villages.



 The groups' movement from Turkey is logical, Cuma explained.

 “There is a general inclination to move Syrian opposition institutions from Turkey to Syria," Cuma said. "The [Syrian] National Coalition, for instance, opened headquarters in northern Aleppo on April 24. As STA is part of the Syrian opposition, it was important to move [the coalition's] headquarters to the liberated Syrian territories.”

 The Syrian Turkmen National Movement Party also relocated last month from Istanbul to al-Rai. During its first meeting there, the group elected Ziad Hassan president to succeed Bassam Barq, and presented an overview of its new strategy, which generally aims to increase activity in the FSA-controlled areas in Aleppo. A movement member told Al-Monitor on condition of anonymity that the FSA-controlled areas in Aleppo are the natural places for its activities: "[The move] helps us get closer to our Syrian Turkmen fellows in liberated towns and cities. The [areas have] become free from terrorism, and it was the right step to move our party inside Syria.”

 Syria’s Turkmens consider themselves the second-most-dense population in Syria, after Arabs. There are no exact statistics on the number of Syrian Turkmens there, but there are unofficial estimates of half a million, constituting 3% of the citizens. Syrian Turkmens, especially in northern Aleppo, have protested the Syrian régime. They have also established political parties and opened Turkish learning centers in the FSA-controlled areas. Syrian Turkmen groups affiliated with several military factions also have been established.

 Cuma said, “Syrian Turkmens are preserving the national project of the Syrian revolution, and they are seeking, alongside the remaining Syrian constituents, to reach a free Syria, without Bashar al-Assad and his régime. We want Syria to be united and democratic and to respect people and their rights, while respecting its neighbors and abiding by international norms.” '

Ceasefire gives wary Syrians in Idlib respite from strikes

 'Shopkeepers and residents in Syria’s Idlib city have found relief from air strikes but remain wary after a ceasefire halted fierce government bombing against the rebel foothold.

 For three months, an army offensive backed by Russia has killed at least 400 people in northwest Syria and uprooted more than 440,000.

 Since Damascus declared a ceasefire on Thursday night, its warplanes have not mounted air strikes.

 Idlib lies in the last major chunk of territory rebels hold after facing defeat across much of Syria at the hands of Damascus with its allies Russia and Iran.



 At the weekend, the streets of Idlib city buzzed with cars and people. Some stopped by market stalls to look at clothes, while others lined up at kiosks to buy juice.

 “Before, there was panic. Every time the warning sirens rang, the market became empty right away,” Mhamad al-Omar, who sells cold drinks, told Reuters. “Now that there’s a bit of calm, there’s traffic today Praise God... People are tired.”

 Air strikes have hit schools, hospitals, markets and bakeries in the latest assault, U.N. human rights chief Michelle Bachelet said last week.

 “The ceasefire is good for everyone. But we don’t know what’s waiting for us,” said Munaf Daher, a college student in Idlib. “We hope it will be good and people will keep coming back to their homes, this is the biggest joy.”

 Hasan Abdelallal, a local aid worker who was displaced from his city of Aleppo in 2016, said people had started returning after weeks of living in olive groves near the Turkish border.

 “But we don’t know what will happen under the table,” he added.



 Other residents also said they remained cautious after a series of truce deals or Russian-Turkish talks that have failed to end the fighting.

 Under its deals with Moscow, Ankara has forces stationed on the ground in the Idlib region at a dozen military positions.

 Rebel factions have agreed to the latest ceasefire while reserving the right to respond to attacks.

 The dominant force in Idlib is the jihadist Hayat Tahrir al-Sham. HTS has rejected conditions of the 2018 “de-escalation deal” such as relinquishing its weapons. Its leader Abu Mohammad al-Jolani was cited on Saturday night as saying his fighters would not withdraw from that zone.

 Ahmed Hmeid, who owns a vegetable shop, said the ceasefire would at least let people enjoy the upcoming Muslim Eid al-Adha holiday.

 “People had been scared of the bombing on the markets the most, the massacres,” he said. “Now there is some safety, one percent safety, people are coming out, seeing each other.” '

Death and fear rule areas forced to 'reconcile' with Assad

 Akram Touma:

 'Since 2016, the régime of Bashar al-Assad, with the help of its Russian and Iranian allies, has employed indiscriminate attacks and siege warfare to negotiate surrender of several areas formerly held by opposition forces.

 Many of these negotiated surrenders have included so called "reconciliation deals" mostly offered to people formerly affiliated with the opposition forces, but in some cases to the entire population who chose to stay after the area was retaken by the régime.

 These "reconciliation deals," whose implementation was supposed to be guaranteed by Russia, nominally envisaged that those who stayed in the areas retaken by the régime would, in exchange for detailed "confession" of their affiliation with the opposition forces, have their rights restored, be free from persecution, harassment and, importantly, from the forced recruitment into Assad's forces for at least six months.

 The régime's propaganda has hailed these agreements as a model for return of the displaced Syrians, often tricking some of those most desperate, living in the increasingly difficult conditions of displacement, to return.

 The Syrian Association for Citizens' Dignity (SACD) has repeatedly warned that the "guarantees" given under "reconciliation deals" are worthless and that people in these areas are facing daily threats, arbitrary arrests, enforced disappearances and death.

 The research shows that one of the greatest sources of danger, and fears facing people in "reconciliation areas" is that of forced recruitment into Assad's military.

 Numerous reports and testimonies gathered by SACD for an upcoming report on the security situation facing returnees and people who stayed in reconciliation areas, speak of the widespread practice: People who have entered "reconciliation agreements" and their families are wanted by both the security branches for being "connected to anti-régime elements", and by the military for deployment to the most dangerous frontlines in Idlib and Hama regions.

 Once they are recruited, they are immediately shipped to these frontlines where they often die at the hands of their former comrades or in murky circumstances away from the frontline itself.
Forced recruitment has become a way for the régime to obliterate what it sees as anti-régime elements standing in the way of its vision of demographically engineering a loyal and obedient population.

 Examples testifying to this method of retaliation against the people who "reconciled" are numerous.



 SACD has just published research documenting hundreds of deaths of forcibly conscripted youth from "reconciliation areas" at the hands of régime loyalists in retaliation for their desperate attempts to escape from the frontline or at the hands of their former comrades and relatives in battles in the north of Syria.

 The moral and existential dilemmas imposed on the people from these areas are titanic and heartbreaking.

 Some activists blame the young people who signed the reconciliation agreements for having chosen to settle with the régime in order to stay in their homes.

 Others sympathise with them, knowing the difficult circumstances they suffered and the almost certain prospect of enforced disappearance if they fail to report when they are wanted for recruitment.

 Caught between a rock of forced recruitment and a hard place of arrest by Assad's security if they refuse to report, the outcome for many is dire, regardless of the choice they make.
The testimonies of victims' relatives and close friends, and the profile of the victims and their trajectory during the last few years, clearly show that some of them used to fight with the armed opposition, while others just returned to régime-held areas lured by régime propaganda and Russian promises of safety, unfortunately sometimes amplified in the narratives of some international organisations working on Syria.



 Russian guarantees, which were the decisive factor to convince many of those who stayed in areas covered by the "reconciliation agreements," are now literally claiming lives.

 There are a number of cases of men from "reconciliation areas" who refused to join the military service - relying on the Russian guarantees that they will not be forced to Assad's army for at least six months after the agreements were signed - being arrested, disappeared and killed by the régime's security forces.

 At the beginning of March 2019, in the countryside of Homs Ibrahim Obaid, Tariq Zakur and Mohammad Tariyah, were all killed and their bodies sent to their families after they were arrested for refusing to be recruited less than three months after the start of the reconciliation agreement secured by Russia.

 Dozens of other people from the northern countryside of Homs who signed up for the settlement and refused to report to the army on the basis of Russian guarantees are detained and still in Assad's prisons, their fate unknown.

 The situation of the northern Homs countryside is not unique, as the people of eastern Ghouta received 4,000 summoning reports ordering them to report to the units to perform the military service immediately after the "reconciliations".

 This summons were issued despite the explicit provision in the agreement that gives those who stay a period of six months before they can be called upon to join the military service. Large number of young people who remained in eastern Ghouta opted to obey the orders to avoid the arrests that began to take place against some who refused to report.

 Daraa's various cities and villages are also subjected to dozens of cases of forced recruitment and detention that are all in violation of what has been agreed upon between the areas that have been "reconciled" on the one hand and the Russians and the régime on the other.

 The régime's security forces in Daraa are apprehending people who have "settlement cards" every day. The Ahrar Houran group has documented 683 cases of arrests since the agreement was signed in July 2018.

 The only option for the vast majority of youth from "reconciliation areas" is to flee. To Lebanon, north of Syria or anywhere else where they will have a chance of surviving.

 But, with the Russian assault on Idlib intensifying, and anti-refugee sentiment in Lebanon and Turkey on the rise, they are finding their prospects of reaching safety dwindling. What was supposed to be a model for return of the vast numbers of displaced Syrians has now become yet another driver of displacement.

 After almost a year since the last reconciliation agreement was concluded, we can clearly see that Assad's régime was able to benefit from the youth who remained in "reconciliation areas" by forcibly recruiting them and deploying them on the most violent frontlines.

 The most energetic part of the population in areas which could have provided some sort of resistance to his policies is effectively being obliterated in this way.

 At the same time, the régime's security forces continue to arrest and kill persons from these areas whom it regards as a direct threat to its power. Such arrests and killings are being carried out in direct contravention of the terms of the agreements, which Russia had guaranteed, and testify to the retaliatory policies of the régime targeting anyone formerly affiliated with the opposition.

 "Reconciliation agreements" areas are today among the most unsafe territories in Assad's failed state.

 Arrests, enforced disappearance and forced recruitment which often amounts to a death sentence are a daily occurrence.

 Far from being a model for return of millions of displaced Syrians, they provide for a warning to the international community that any solution which will bring a hope of a lasting peace in Syria must include a robust international mechanism to monitor and ensure the rights of all Syrians, and particularly those who were already on the receiving end of Assad's criminal conduct.'