Reflections of a Long Awaited Change in Syria

The?recent news of the Assad regime’s downfall has stirred memories I’ve carried for over a decade, memories?that are deeply personal that now I feel is the right time to share.

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Let me start by saying this: my relief at this change has nothing to do with politics. Instead, it comes from a deeply personal place, rooted in my experiences during the early days of the Syrian uprising, a time when my life and the lives of so many I cared about were irrevocably changed.

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In 2010, my life was in Damascus. My daughter had just been born in the French Hospital, and I was raising her and my son (pictured above) in a small village on the outskirts called Drosha. Life was peaceful then. My days were spent in our villa that I had poured my heart and soul into refurbishing, caring for stray dogs, and raising my children alongside the four children of our maid (Ahmad, Munira, Qasim and Farah) and her husband, who lived on our land. They were incredibly kind and humble people. I was never comfortable having a maid and would often invite her into our home to use our washing machine and just talk and cook (outside of her duties???). She actually taught me the most Arabic I’d ever learned (more so than the Berlitz) as she didn't speak a word of English! Her name is Um Ahmad.?

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We often visited my (then) mother-in-law in Muhajreen, a stone’s throw from Bashar al-Assad’s palace. I never imagined how close I was living to the epicenter of what would become one of the most devastating conflicts in recent history.

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When the Arab Spring began in North Africa and spread to Syria, my family back in the UK started voicing concerns. They watched the news with growing unease, but I didn’t believe it. I even travelled to the centre of Damascus and filmed the bustling streets to show them everything was fine. I thought it was all propaganda. I still have that video. It's haunting. As are the videos of my children playing with all the other local kids in the park. The laughter, the families - not a care in the world. Just living.

Then, everything changed.

One day, after leaving my mother-in-law’s house, we drove back to our villa and found the streets lined with tanks and men carrying AK-47s. The air was tense in a way I hadn’t experienced before. When we arrived home, our maid and her husband were hysterical. They had just learned that their siblings on another farm, had been killed nearby.

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The very next day, the sounds began. Gunfire. Explosions. The violence that felt so distant on the news became terrifyingly real.?

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I didn’t want to leave. I had built a home there. I loved the life we had created for the kids and the people who surrounded us. But as the violence escalated, it became clear that we had no choice. My (now) ex-husband’s visa was about to expire from our Christmas trip to the UK, so we packed up whatever we could and left within days or he too would have been stuck there.?

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The trauma of that experience is hard to put into words. When we arrived in the UK with nothing but suitcases, and nowhere to live - but a caravan, (which is in my eyes a blessing compared to how it could have gone) I found myself unable to watch the news. Every image of children's bodies washing up on shores, (looking just like the children I was surround by daily) every story of families torn apart (in-laws included), felt like a knife to the heart. I thought of the people who had been so kind to us, the ones who had treated my children like their own, who had taught me Arabic, who would have given me their last piece of bread when they had nothing. I couldn’t save them or their children, or the dogs I had rescued. We had to jump ship and abandon. Devastating is an understatement. But nothing compared to what the people who had no choice had to deal with.?

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For 14 long years, I’ve carried the weight of those memories. The war has destroyed so much: lives, homes, families, and the innocence of an entire generation.

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When I heard that the Assad family’s grip on Syria had finally ended, it brought a glimmer of hope. It doesn’t erase the past or bring back the people we’ve lost. But maybe, just maybe, it marks the beginning of an end to this long, horrific nightmare.

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To those who have suffered, lost everything, and continue to endure unimaginable hardship, my heart is with you. You are not forgotten.

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And to the people who opened their homes and hearts to me, who showed me the beauty of Syria before the war: I will always carry your kindness with me. You made me a better person and because of you, I’m trying to improve an unjust world.?

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Change has been a long time coming. I can only hope it leads to healing, and while times are uncertain, I hope a better future is in store.

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When it’s confirmed that it's safe to do so, I will bring my children back, and we will help you rebuild what you once lost. ?