We Crossed a Bridge and It Trembled

by Wendy Pearlman

  Iliyas, dentist (rural Hama)

  Syria had the appearance of being a stable country. But in my opinion, it wasn’t real stability. It was a state of terror. Every citizen in Syria was terrified. The regime and authorities were also terrified. The more responsibility anyone had in the state, the more terrified he was. Nobody trusted anyone else. Brother didn’t trust brother. Children didn’t trust their fathers. “Don’t talk, the walls have ears.” If anyone said anything out of the ordinary, others would suspect that he was a government informant just trying to test people’s reactions and gather a sense of what was going on.

  It is a regime based on command and obedience. If it gives to a citizen, it gives him more than he deserves. And if it punishes a citizen, it punishes him more than he deserves. The more corrupt a person is, the easier it is for the regime to use him as an instrument however it wants. And for that reason the more likely he is to rise through the ranks and obtain a high position.

  Every state institution re-created the same kind of power. The president had absolute power in the country. The principal of a school had absolute power in the school. At the same time, the principal is terrified. Of whom? Of the janitors sweeping the floor, because they’re all government informants.

  Fouad, surgeon (Aleppo)

  I graduated from medical school in 1982. I had very good grades and wanted to pursue PhD-level studies. The only way to do that was to go abroad. But to go, you needed approval from the security forces.

  One day I was in the cafeteria with a group of friends. Someone from the intelligence services approached us and said that he wanted to speak with me. The Baath Party had its own office in every department in the university, and he took me there.

  He said, “We’ll try to be nice. We won’t ask you many questions. Just be good with us. If anything happens when you’re abroad, let us know.” I told him that I didn’t want to be an informant. Later I got the news: they rejected my application. One of my dreams was broken.

  I spent the next four years doing my residency at a hospital in Aleppo. Then, to do general surgery, I was required to pass three exams. I took the written exam. When I came home I saw terror in my father’s face. He said that the Political Security Service had come by and asked for me.

  I went to their offices the next morning. They take your ID and then you sit and sit and sit. No one says a word to you. That’s the technique they use. After six hours, someone said that the officer wanted to see me.

  I went. He said, “Congratulations, you passed your first exam. When is the next one?”

  I said, “Next week.”

  He said, “I think you’ll pass that, too. We’re very proud of you. What’s your plan for the future?”

  I said, “Maybe I’ll open a clinic or work in the hospital.”

  He said, “That’s fine. We’ve heard that you’re a good person. . . . So we need you to work with us.”

  I said, “What sort of work?”

  He said, “It’s not about politics. You’re a doctor. Patients come to see you, you might notice something wrong. You can tell us the problems of the people.”

  I said, “But this isn’t my job. You have other people who report to you. You can get this from them.”

  He said, “We can’t get the right information from an informant who isn’t educated. You’ll have patients, friends, colleagues. You’ll be invited to social events . . .”

  I said, “But I’m just not that person.”

  He said, “Why are you being stubborn? Half of your friends write reports for us.”

  I said, “Okay, so why do you need me?”

  And then he said, “You know, I can leave you here for another week.”

  That’s when I realized that I was being threatened. I knew it would be easy for them to leave me for ten days or weeks or months . . . I could miss all the exams.

  I said, “You prevented me from going abroad to study. Many get permission to leave. They promise that they’ll return, but never do. I didn’t flee the country. I kept my life in Syria. I am useful for people. If you want to keep me here, I have no power to prevent that. But I won’t be useful for you or anyone else.”

  He paused and then threw my ID back at me, angrily. “Get out,” he said. “Just know that it will be difficult for you to find work with the government.”

  I left. And later I passed my exams.

  Salah, landscaper (rural Daraa)

  We don’t have a government. We have a mafia. And if you speak out against this, it’s off with you to bayt khaltu [“your aunt’s house”]. That’s an expression that means to take someone to prison. It means, forget about this person, he’ll be tortured, disappeared. You’ll never hear from him again.

  Tayseer, lawyer (Daraa)

  I was working as a government employee. At the same time, I was involved in opposition politics and human rights organizations. I was constantly under surveillance. My house, my phone, my contacts—I was always being followed. In 1987, I joined a new political party. And that year I was arrested.

  I spent the next eight and a half years in prison. For the first six months, my wife had no idea where I was.

  Prisons in Syria are among the most terrifying on the planet. The reason is simple: Human life means nothing to them. I was in a special wing for political prisoners and was harshly tortured from the beginning. We were completely disconnected from the rest of the world.

  The day began when they opened the door and we’d go out to a small yard for exercise. Then we’d read and do study sessions. If someone had studied English or French, he’d give lessons. Among the prisoners were many different professions: doctors, lawyers, engineers . . . it was like a university. Soon after lunch, they’d lock us up again, and that was it.

  We were about four hundred prisoners spread out over seven rooms. Health conditions and food were terrible. The prison guards used to manipulate us, especially during visits from our families. They’d extort money from our relatives and steal the gifts they brought for us.

  One of the most painful things for me was missing my son’s childhood. He grew up seeing me only through wire netting during visits. It’s hard to see your son and not be able to embrace him. Not be able to ruffle his hair or give him a piece of candy. You can’t take him to school or sit him on your lap. When my son was four, he broke his leg and was in a cast. I wasn’t allowed to give him a kiss.

  These little details mattered a lot.

  My brother died while I was in prison. Other relatives died, too, and I wasn’t able to see them. My father became ill, and I couldn’t take him to the hospital. Holidays, marriages . . . they’d come and go and you weren’t there. No cinema, no theater, no personal security. You miss everything that is beautiful and you experience everything that is ugly. In eight years I didn’t see a tree.

  It was years before my case went before an extralegal security court. The judge passed rulings on thirty people in fifteen minutes. There was no trial, no lawyers. There were no specific charges, except for those that they always had on hand: organizing a secret organization, spreading false information about the regime, attempting to change the regime, publishing and disseminating rumors, or undermining the authority of the government. They sentenced me to five years for some charges; since I’d already served those years, the sentence was dropped. Other prisoners and I were granted a pardon for the remaining charges.

  I returned home. My absence had been so absolute. It was like a caveman coming out into the light. I didn’t recognize anything anymore. The country had changed. Kids who were little when I left were teenagers when I got back. My own son had become a young man.

  My ability to travel was severely restricted. My brothers and sisters were interrogated and also forbidden from traveling. Some people were afraid to have any sort of relationship with me because I remained suspect in the eyes of the regime. For any small thing I wanted to do, I had to get the approval of a security agency. My house was under surveillance, my phone under surv
eillance. I moved from a small prison to a big one.

  Ghayth, former student (Aleppo)

  You’re twenty years old and at the peak of your potential, and you have to do two years of compulsory military service. You don’t go forward with your life, and in fact are pushed backward. It’s a system designed to crush and destroy you.

  When my oldest brother did his military service he got a bacterial eye infection. The army hospital didn’t know how to treat it, and it worsened to the point that he couldn’t see out of one eye. He still doesn’t see well until today.

  When my other brother was doing his military service they had to do drills where they crawled on the ground in the heat. He got a splinter in his foot and it got infected and swelled to twice its size. Later, an Alawite supervisor found a Quran among his personal things. This was prohibited in the army. The supervisor put him in jail on charges that he was part of the Muslim Brotherhood. My parents only got him out by paying a ton of money.

  My parents suffered a lot from all of this. So when it came time for me to do my military service, they immediately sent me out of the country. If you work abroad for five years and then pay a fee of $8,000, you can be exempted from the army. So my parents said, “That’s it, you’re leaving.”

  Hadia, therapist (Damascus)

  I went to a private Christian school, but even there you could see the government’s power and control. We had Hafez al-Assad’s picture on our notebooks. People felt scared to draw on them. Sometimes by the end of the year you’d see a mustache or funny face. But it had to be a really old book, one you didn’t show in public.

  Under Hafez, headscarves weren’t allowed in schools. I had to take mine off when I reached the door. Both private and public schools required military uniforms. As girls, we wore this long shirt and military belt, and special shoes, like in the army. From first to sixth grade, you wore this bandanna around your neck, with a little clip that showed that you belong to the Baath Party. In elementary school you were a member of the “Baath Party Scouts,” and in middle and high school you became an actual member of the party.

  We had to line up in a certain way, like at military attention. The idea was that we were living under an Emergency Law, and we had to be ready to defend the country at all times. Every single morning we’d repeat, “Our pledge is to stand against imperialism, Zionism, and backwardness, and to crush the criminal apparatus of the collaborationist gang, the Muslim Brotherhood.” They made the Muslim Brotherhood into this very, very scary thing. Even saying the name was scary.

  The hardest thing was when they’d tell us that there was a pro-regime march the next day. Sometimes you’d think you should stay home sick, but they’d tell you that if you weren’t there, they’d come to your house and get your father. They wouldn’t actually say that, but we felt like that was what would happen. That was the atmosphere: They will come for us.

  You had to get security approval even to have a wedding. You couldn’t do anything without feeling that they’re controlling it. You knew that the garbage man or person selling fava beans on the highway until two o’clock in the morning were there because they’re intelligence agents.

  I remember how there were some books that my dad used to hide. He’d say, “Don’t ever tell anyone that we have books by these authors at home.” I didn’t understand. Every year we’d go to the Damascus book fair, and we’d know that some publishers kept books hidden. The books weren’t even necessarily political. There was just a cloud of scariness around us, like they wanted you to feel uncomfortable with what you were doing.

  Sana, graphic designer (Damascus)

  Teachers taught us that the Palestinian cause was the most important thing: that we have to forget our rights and all the problems in our country so we can fight Israel. My father always said those two things were not related. We can stand with Palestine and have a good country, too. I’d get very upset because what I heard at home was different from what I heard in school, but I couldn’t say anything about it.

  There were about four hundred girls in school, so I thought that no one would notice once when I didn’t sing along with the national anthem. One teacher did. As punishment, she forced me to crawl on my elbows and knees all over the school grounds. I was bleeding and she called me names, like “vile” and “despicable.” I’ll never forget that.

  The school was very dirty. When I was fifteen, two friends and I formed a cleaning committee. The principal got angry. She sent for my father and asked him who was behind this idea and what kind of books I was reading at home. My father told them that I was just a kid and there was no reason to worry.

  Around that time, the school stopped art and music classes. Instead, they gave us three hours that they called an “empty period.” I’m convinced that the regime chose that word intentionally. It was an “empty” period, not a “free” period. What they wanted was for us to empty our heads. For them, it was better that we do nothing than do something that would make us think or dream. Their goal was to make sure that people’s only interest was eating, drinking, and making sure their kids were safe.

  Ayham, web developer (Damascus)

  Basically the brainwashing process starts when you go to school: We love the leader, we love the regime, without them the country will collapse . . . You grow up with that in the back of your head, constantly reminding you that we are living due to the grace of the Assad family.

  But even as an innocent child you see that the whole system just reeked. It fed on corruption and grew and grew. If you want to get a passport you have to bribe this guy and that guy, and kiss that guy’s ass—excuse my language. It was a vicious circle of corruption. From when you’re little, you’re taught that this is the only way to survive in this country. As an active member of the ruling party, you’re going to get better grades and better chances for better schools or jobs. Everything is handled by how loyal you are to the regime, so you’re raised on the principle that you have to show your loyalty.

  At the same time, we were injected with this hatred of public enemies, even if we didn’t really know what that meant. A lot of people thought that by defending the regime they were protecting the national interest. It was like, “I know the regime is corrupt. I know that my kids will have a shitty future under this system. I know that security forces can break down my door and take me to prison and torture me anytime. But I’m not going to be a slave to imperialists and capitalists!”

  It was impossible to form any sort of a social bond outside the circles that the regime allowed. School, sports clubs, cultural houses . . . they controlled every place where people could interact and potentially “conspire” against the regime. You couldn’t have a normal conversation without being afraid that the guy you met two weeks ago might write a report on you. The regime had eyes and ears everywhere. It might sound unbelievable, but it just became part of our lives.

  So everybody blended into the system and became part of it. Everyone was either scared or corrupted or benefiting in some way. All of this generated a kind of creative chaos. The result was that should things collapse, people were likely to turn against each other.

  Adam, media organizer (Latakia)

  As a child, you’re afraid all the time. You fear the dark, what’s under your bed, whatever. But you’re not used to grown-ups being afraid.

  I remember the first time I truly understood what fear is. It was 1995 and I was six or seven years old. It was the period when they were promoting Basel al-Assad, Bashar’s older brother. The expectation was that he’d take up the mantle after his father. I used to see him on TV doing horseback riding and stuff like that. I thought he was a cool guy.

  That day my dad and I were going out to play soccer. He was waiting in the doorway when I heard from one of my friends that Basel al-Assad had been killed in a car accident. I shouted, “Hey, Dad, Basel al-Assad died!”

  My dad’s face changed color. He grabbed me inside the house and locked the door, without saying a word.

&n
bsp; There was no need for any explanation. Somehow the way he behaved conveyed the message to me: This is something that needs to be kept silent. The way he snatched my arm, the way he took me inside, the way he closed the door, the way we weren’t going to play soccer anymore.

  That is when it clicked for me. It crystallized in my head forever. This family, these people in high authority . . . We can’t even utter their names. Even their death is scary. Welcome to Syria.

  Part II

  Hope Disappointed

  Abdel-Naser, manager (Douma)

  Bashar came to power and he said that he was democratic and different than his father. We politically minded people knew that he was lying, but we didn’t want it to be recorded in history that there was an opportunity for change and we didn’t take advantage of it. As Jean-Jacques Rousseau said, freedom is something that you take, not that you’re given.

  This opportunity was the “Damascus Spring.” We took those lies that he fed us and we created something called the “Forum.” We were an oasis of discussion and debate. We started discussing important issues: education, illiteracy, the relationship between Syria and Lebanon, freedom of political activity . . . We’d meet in private houses and bring in a lecturer and sit and talk. We didn’t have formal government approval, but we’d send announcements to the Baath Party and invite them to join us. They’d refuse.

  The regime tolerated us for a while, but then got worried. More and more university students were attending, and the regime thought we were poisoning the minds of the young generation. So they banned us. All of a sudden, they called us spies and threw us in prison. Security cars started following my wife and me, and then forces broke into my house at 5:30 in the morning and took me away.