Child Refugees Dream of Syria they Never Knew

Syrian refugee children run in a tented settlement in the town of Qab Elias, in Lebanon's Bekaa Valley, March 13, 2018. REUTERS/Mohamed Azakir
Syrian refugee children run in a tented settlement in the town of Qab Elias, in Lebanon's Bekaa Valley, March 13, 2018. REUTERS/Mohamed Azakir
TT

Child Refugees Dream of Syria they Never Knew

Syrian refugee children run in a tented settlement in the town of Qab Elias, in Lebanon's Bekaa Valley, March 13, 2018. REUTERS/Mohamed Azakir
Syrian refugee children run in a tented settlement in the town of Qab Elias, in Lebanon's Bekaa Valley, March 13, 2018. REUTERS/Mohamed Azakir

Mohammad is five years old, Areej six and Dalaa 10. Syrian refugees in Turkey, these children have inherited a yearning for a country they know little to nothing about.

More than 3.6 million Syrians have found shelter from the decade-long conflict in neighboring Turkey, including around 1.5 million children under the age of 15, according to official figures.

Mohammad and his parents Maher Imadedine and Rawan Sameh, originally from Aleppo, are among the 450,000 Syrians who have settled in the frontline Turkish city of Gaziantep, where the couple wed.

The little boy says he wants to "return" to Syria even though he has never stepped foot there in his life.

"Because it is beautiful, Syria," he says with a slight lisp. "Mum and dad told me so."

Mohammad's mother has secured a job teaching Arabic at Gaziantep University and his father works for a charity.

Although settled in a relatively upscale neighborhood, they still have their minds set on returning to Syria, where they joined demonstrations against Bashar al-Assad's regime at the start of the revolt.

But when might that be?

"When Bashar al-Assad is in prison," the little boy replies. "I don't like him because he kills people and puts them in jail."

Mohammad tells AFP he learned about these things from his parents.

"He has also seen it on television," his mother cuts in. "He watches the news with us. Some things are beyond him, but he gets a general idea of what Syria is going through."

The mother fears the pictures of destruction unleashed by the Syrian forces arouse "a desire for revenge in the little ones".

"Our role as parents is to channel these feelings into positive energy that can be used to help reconstruct the country," she says.

Six-year-old Areej Beidun had not yet been born when her father, who joined opposition fighter ranks, was killed in Aleppo.

Since turning four months old, she has been living in a dilapidated Gaziantep apartment with her grandparents, uncles and their families -- 13 people in all.

Her mother has since remarried and in Areej's world, "mum and dad" are her grandparents, who have been taking care of her.

With a mischievous eye and her hair pulled back by a golden Alice band, Areej speaks of Syria with an eloquence that belies her age.

"Over there, there is war everywhere. There are a lot of planes and bombs blowing up the city," she explains.

"Here, when I see dolls in the market, I ask mum to buy them for me and she says 'no' because we don't have any money," she laments.

"I would like Syria to be the way it was before, without bombs, so that I could go back."

Ten-year-old Dalaa Hadidi's family lives in the same decrepit neighborhood of Gaziantep.

Born 45 days before the start of the revolt, she was 15 months old when her parents fled Aleppo.

But she talks about the Syrian city as if she has lived there her whole life.

"I want to go back to Aleppo to find my home, my neighborhood and my loved ones. I wish Assad would die so we could come back," she says.

If the feeling of belonging to Syria is handed down to the children by their parents, it is reinforced by media outlets targeting the diaspora, especially in Turkey.

Himself a refugee, Mahmoud Al-Wahab, 14, presents a children's radio program called "I want to play" on Rozana, a Syrian radio station with offices in Gaziantep and Paris.

"We try to instill this attachment, but in an indirect way," he says.

"We broadcast information about children in Syria, but also the situation in Syria and how it was before. We also talk about the Arabic language to help the children keep their mother tongue," he says in his radio studio.

The station's director Lina Chawaf thinks "the dream of returning stays alive" even among those who manage to successfully integrate in their host countries.

"Parents instill their children with a nostalgia for their home, their land, their country," she says.

"As for us (at the radio station), we try to maintain it through culture, through the riddles and games that we played when we were in Syria."

The station's morning presenter Nilufer al-Barrak says he has agreed with a few of his listeners to meet up in Syria -- one day.

"I asked the listeners to describe their neighborhoods in Syria and everyone talked about how beautiful theirs was," the presenter says.

"So we agreed that when we return, we will invite each other over to our houses and see the places we talked about on air. And if they have not been rebuilt already, we will rebuild them together."



Long Silenced by Fear, Syrians Now Speak about Rampant Torture under Assad

People walk through a corridor of Syria's infamous Saydnaya military prison, just north of Damascus, Syria, on Dec. 9, 2024. (AP)
People walk through a corridor of Syria's infamous Saydnaya military prison, just north of Damascus, Syria, on Dec. 9, 2024. (AP)
TT

Long Silenced by Fear, Syrians Now Speak about Rampant Torture under Assad

People walk through a corridor of Syria's infamous Saydnaya military prison, just north of Damascus, Syria, on Dec. 9, 2024. (AP)
People walk through a corridor of Syria's infamous Saydnaya military prison, just north of Damascus, Syria, on Dec. 9, 2024. (AP)

Handcuffed and squatting on the floor, Abdullah Zahra saw smoke rising from his cellmate’s flesh as his torturers gave him electric shocks.

Then it was Zahra’s turn. They hanged the 20-year-old university student from his wrists and electrocuted and beat him for two hours. They made his father watch and taunted him about his son’s torment.

That was 2012, and the entire security apparatus of Syria’s then-President Bashar Assad was deployed to crush the protests against his rule.

With Assad’s fall a month ago, the machinery of death that he ran is starting to come out into the open.

It was systematic and well-organized, growing to more than 100 detention facilities into which tens of thousands disappeared over more than a decade. Torture, sexual violence and mass executions were rampant, according to rights groups and former prisoners.

A blanket of fear kept Syrians silent about their experiences or lost loved ones. But now, everyone is talking. After the insurgents who swept Assad out of power on Dec. 8 opened prisons and detention facilities, crowds swarmed in, searching for answers, bodies of loved ones, and ways to heal.

The Associated Press visited seven of these facilities in Damascus and spoke to nine former detainees. Some details of the accounts by those who spoke to the AP could not be independently confirmed, but they matched past reports by former detainees to human rights groups.

Days after Assad’s fall, Zahra — now 33 — came to visit Branch 215, a detention facility run by military intelligence in Damascus where he was held for two months.

There, he said, he was kept in a windowless underground cell, 4-by-4-meters (yards) and crammed with 100 other inmates. When ventilators were cut off -- either intentionally or because of a power failure -- some suffocated. Men went mad; torture wounds festered. When a cellmate died, they stowed his body next to the cell’s toilet until jailers collected corpses, Zahra said.

“Death was the least bad thing,” he said. “We reached a place where death was easier than staying here for one minute.”

A member of the security forces for the new interim Syrian government stands next to prison cells at the Palestine Branch, a detention facility operated by the General Intelligence Agency during Bashar al-Assad's regime, in Damascus, Syria, on Dec. 14, 2024. (AP)

Assad’s system of repression grew as civil war raged

After he and his father were released, Zahra fled to opposition-held areas. Within a few months, security agents returned and dragged off 13 of his male relatives, including a younger brother and, again, his father.

All were killed. Zahra later recognized their bodies among photos leaked by a defector showing thousands killed in detention. Their bodies were never recovered.

Rights groups estimate at least 150,000 people went missing since anti-government protests began in 2011, most vanishing into detention facilities. Many were killed, either in mass executions or from torture and prison conditions. The exact number remains unknown.

Even before the uprising, Assad had ruled with an iron fist. But as protests turned into a civil war that would last 14 years, Assad expanded his system of repression. New detention facilities run by military, security and intelligence agencies sprung up in security compounds, military airports and under buildings.

At Branch 215, Zahra hoped to find some sign of his lost relatives. But there was nothing. At home, his aunt, Rajaa Zahra, looked at the leaked pictures of her killed children for the first time – something she had long refused to do. She lost four of her six sons in Assad’s crackdowns. Her brother, she said, lost two of his three sons.

“They were hoping to finish off all the young men of the country.”

A site believed to be a mass grave for detainees killed under Bashar al-Assad's rule is visible in Najha, south of Damascus, Syria, on Dec. 17, 2024. (AP)

Syrians were tortured with ‘the tire’ and ‘magic carpet’

The tortures had names. One was called the “magic carpet,” where a detainee was strapped to a hinged wooden plank that bends in half, folding his head to his feet, which were then beaten.

Abdul-Karim Hajeko said he endured this five times. His torturers stomped on his back during interrogations at the Criminal Security branch, and his vertebrae are still broken.

“My screams would go to heaven. Once a doctor came down from the fourth floor (to the ground floor) because of my screams,” he said.

He was also put in “the tire.” His legs were bent inside a car tire as interrogators beat his back and feet. Afterward, they ordered him to kiss the tire and thank it for teaching him “how to behave.”

Many prisoners said the tire was inflicted for rule violations -- like making noise, raising one’s head in front of guards, or praying – or for no reason at all.

Saleh Turki Yahia said a cellmate died nearly every day during the seven months in 2012 he was held at the Palestine Branch, a detention facility run by the General Intelligence Agency. He said he was given electric shocks, hanged from his wrists, beaten on his feet. He lost half his body weight and nearly tore his own skin scratching from scabies.

“They broke us,” he said, breaking into tears as he visited the Palestine Branch. “A whole generation is destroyed.”

Documents are scattered around Branch 215, a detention facility run by Bashar al-Assad's regime, in Damascus, Syria, on Dec. 17, 2024. (AP)

The mounting evidence will be used in trials

Now comes the monumental task of accounting for the missing and compiling evidence that could one day be used to prosecute Assad’s officials, whether by Syrian or international courts.

Hundreds of thousands of documents remain scattered throughout detention facilities. Some seen by the AP included transcripts of phone conversations; intelligence files on activists; and a list of hundreds of prisoners killed in detention. At least 15 mass graves have been identified around Damascus and elsewhere around the country.

A UN body known as the International Impartial and Independent Mechanism has offered to help the new interim administration in collecting, organizing and analyzing all the material. Since 2011, it has been compiling evidence and supporting investigations in over 200 criminal cases against figures in Assad’s government.

Many want answers now.

Officials cannot just declare that the missing are presumed dead, said Wafaa Mustafa, a Syrian journalist, whose father was detained and killed 12 years ago.

“No one gets to tell the families what happened without evidence, without search, without work.”