Revolution: A Syrian Memoir of Defiance and Loss
Nothing truly prepares you for the harsh realities of living through extreme upheaval. In July 2012, as Damascus descended into chaos, I discovered the complex truth of being a revolutionary. It wasn’t the heroic narrative often portrayed, but a smaller, more sorrowful, and profoundly human experience. The constant fear fractured relationships and didn’t erase our inherent flaws.
That summer marked a year into Syria’s democratic uprising and its brutal suppression. Armed militias clashed with the national army, and the city was gripped by escalating violence. I found refuge in the studio of my friend Amer, a Christian painter who had quietly resisted the government long before the conflict erupted. Each night, the distant rumble of bombs and the crackle of gunfire filled the air. The mountain overlooking the city – once a haven for coffee shops and panoramic views – became a restricted military zone. Protests dwindled, and people began to disappear, either fleeing the country or vanishing without a trace.
Security forces initiated mass arrests and summary executions. Horrifying stories emerged from the city’s hospitals – tales of injured patients chained to beds while security forces inflicted further harm, and doctors forced to torture detainees. Many wounded individuals, fearing such atrocities, sought treatment in makeshift field hospitals, where amputations became commonplace and procedures were performed without anesthesia. Amer’s refrigerator, once filled with summer’s bounty, became a makeshift cooler for vials of tetanus vaccine. I didn’t question their origin, suspecting they came from hospitals, perhaps smuggled out by doctors complicit in torture to maintain access.
My mission was to distribute the vaccine to neighborhoods housing these field hospitals. I concealed the needles in a bag under my seat on the public minibus, knowing I could be searched at any checkpoint. If discovered, I could disclaim ownership, shifting blame to a fellow passenger. My Alawite identity, listed on my ID, and my family’s connections to President Assad’s inner circle offered a degree of protection.
I had arrived in Damascus five months prior, compelled to confront a painful truth: the regime I’d been taught to trust was, in fact, the source of the oppression I witnessed and felt. I was ready to challenge my upbringing and question everything I’d been taught as an Alawite. I cautiously entered early protest circles, relinquishing the privileges my name once guaranteed, but aware that my family’s name could also be a liability. An Alawite protester I knew had been shot in the leg, detained, and subjected to horrific torture, including threats against his sister. He ultimately betrayed others under duress, believing he was saving her, only to discover she hadn’t been imprisoned at all.
I consistently delivered the vaccine to a small shop in the Barzeh neighborhood, owned by a man we called Al Hakeem. “I’m returning this,” I’d say, placing the bag in an ice-cream freezer adorned with a snowman. One day, his young son clung to his leg. “I am doing this for him,” Al Hakeem said – his only words to me. He disappeared shortly after, and I felt a strange relief that I hadn’t revealed my identity.
A stark contrast existed between the suffering in the outer neighborhoods and the relative normalcy of Bab Sharqi, the city’s ancient core. Hookah bars filled with fragrant tobacco, fountains splashed, jasmine bloomed, and art galleries transformed into clandestine speakeasies. At Abo Elia, a rustic bar, my friends and I often ended up, enjoying cheap drinks and the owner’s generosity. Abo Elia claimed he kept the bar open as an act of patriotism, lamenting the “terrorists” who threatened normal life. We’d dutifully echo his sentiments, clinking glasses and enjoying free drinks, all while knowing we were on opposite sides of the conflict. It was a compromise of our morals, fueled by vodka and grapefruit juice.
One morning, I woke up disoriented and fully clothed, my phone dead. A message from my friend Walaa urged me to call immediately. She arrived at my house, furious. Alcohol had been a part of my Alawite identity for generations, a way to blend in during times of oppression. I had overindulged the night before, and Walaa warned me I was endangering myself and others.
My friend Amer and I met with another friend, Samar, who was preparing to leave for Germany on a scholarship. Amer, however, seemed unwilling to consider leaving, questioning the value of exile. He resented those who left and posted about Syria from abroad, accusing them of seeking validation. The conversation escalated into a heated argument, culminating in Amer slapping me. I fled, feeling utterly alone and betrayed.
Years later, I realized that the pressure of the revolution brought out the worst in people. Relationships crumbled under the strain of fear and uncertainty. The hope for a better Syria faded, replaced by heartbreak and loss. I understood that true freedom wasn’t just about overthrowing a regime, but about confronting the darkness within ourselves.
This article is adapted from Loubna Mrie’s new book, Defiance: A Memoir of Awakening, Rebellion, and Survival in Syria.
