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New York Times
2 days ago
- Politics
- New York Times
They Went to Syria to Fight With Rebels. Now Some Are Joining the New Army.
In the eyes of Syria's new leaders, the foreign fighters who battled alongside their rebel groups to oust the Assad dictatorship are loyal allies 'who have stuck beside the revolution.' For the United States, many of these fighters conjure images of terrorist groups like the Islamic State. Thousands of foreigners flocked to Syria to fight in the multi-sided civil war that began in 2011 and lasted nearly 14 years. Some joined rebel groups like the Islamist faction formerly led by Syria's new president, Ahmed al-Shara, and helped them to unseat President Bashar al-Assad in December. Now, the foreign fighters who remain in Syria have become a point of contention as the Trump administration takes steps to warm relations with the country. Over the past couple of months, American officials have variously suggested expelling them or excluding them from senior positions in the government and military. But as Syria's government rebuilds its military after the devastating war, it has already begun folding some of these foreigners into the army, according to government officials and some of the fighters themselves. The defense, foreign and information ministries did not respond to requests for comment on the matter. Mr. al-Shara's rebel group, Hayat Tahrir al-Sham, included many foreign combatants. He now finds himself in the difficult position of trying to balance his loyalties to them with his focus on establishing diplomatic relations with countries that want the fighters either marginalized or gone. Want all of The Times? Subscribe.
Washington Post
5 days ago
- General
- Washington Post
Returning to Syria to reckon with the ghosts of my father's past
In an Assad torture prison, I saw my father's poem still on the wall. As my father watched the news, his breath caught. A video of the inside of a prison cell was on the television. Tears streamed down his face. On one of the walls he could make out a poem, one he had written with his own hands. He watched as the Assad regime, which had imprisoned him in the notorious Palestine Branch, collapsed; watched as thousands fled the dungeons where Syrians had been starved, tortured, killed. These were memories I longed to forget: the days without my father, the stories of what he endured. But now, as a photographer on assignment in Syria, I had no choice but to confront them. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement The return I never imagined I'd return to Syria — especially not after my family and I left in 2004, and certainly not after the civil war. What began in 2011 as peaceful demonstrations — part of a broader wave of uprisings across the Middle East — was met with unsparing brutality by the Assad regime. The scars of its aftermath were everywhere. Crossing into Syria from Turkey, I felt disoriented. As I drove through the scorched countryside toward Aleppo — the first major city to fall in the final days of Bashar al-Assad's regime — we passed through towns that looked suspended in ruin. New revolutionary flags fluttered above the crumbling walls. Posters of Assad and his father, Hafez, had been torn down by those they had oppressed. Tanks and military uniforms were scattered along the road, evidence of a regime that had fled in haste. We drove past Aleppo, then Hama, where I remembered taking youth group trips to the old city. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement As we neared the capital, we stopped at Mezzeh military airport, once a tightly guarded area. During Assad's reign, approaching it had been unthinkable. Now, I walked freely through the wreckage there: destroyed helicopters, twisted steel, shattered cockpits — all reduced to rubble by Israeli airstrikes in the chaotic hours after the regime's collapse. Damascus, though, felt frozen in an earlier time: the narrow alleyways, the ancient stone, the scent of jasmine in the air. Here, I had walked as a boy, laughed with friends, built a thousand memories. But there were also pangs at what lay ahead — I knew had to see the Palestine Branch with my own eyes. The prison I found myself standing alone in a dark corridor. I walked through the cells, each more haunting than the last. The stench was suffocating. On one wall, a man had etched: 'I wish the reality was a dream, and the dream was a reality.' That man was my father. I had found his cell. More than two decades had passed, but his words remained — a haunting reminder of what he had endured. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement The Palestine Branch was one of the most feared security centers in Syria, infamous for its brutal interrogations, arbitrary detentions and systematic torture. For decades, it stood as a symbol of repression. My father was imprisoned there for seven months in 2000, at a time when Syria was gripped by paranoia and deep mistrust. We had come to Syria as refugees from Iraq, where my father had served in the military, which was mandatory during Saddam Hussein's rule. That was enough for the Assad regime to be suspicious. My father spent the first few months in Cell No. 4, a space meant for about three people. He recalled being there with 11 others. Later, he was moved to Cell No. 8, where he spent the bulk of his detention and endured severe torture. Living in Damascus After my father's release from prison, we settled in a neighborhood called Dwela, a modest working-class suburb of Damascus. I started sweeping up hair clippings and making tea at a barbershop nearby. Later, I worked in the basement of our building, where the landlord — a man named Abu John — ran a tailoring workshop. It was in that neighborhood that I experienced my first protest. The mass uprisings of 2011 were still years away, but you could already feel the growing anger. The government had announced plans to demolish homes in our area to make way for a highway and a bridge. One afternoon, we gathered in the street, chanting against the demolition. Riot police soon arrived, and before we knew it, we were surrounded by tear gas. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement When I returned to the neighborhood this year, the open fields where we once played were gone, buried beneath layers of concrete and makeshift buildings. Trash spilled into alleyways. After decades of war, residents' faces were etched with grief and exhaustion. The monastery One of the places I was most eager to revisit was the monastery where I had spent a significant part of my childhood — St. Ephraim, nestled in the village of Maarat Sednaya, just outside Damascus. We had lived in the capital for nearly a year when the government intensified its crackdown on undocumented refugees like us. Our Orthodox church stepped in, offering us shelter in the monastery. We spent about four years there. My parents helped with the cooking, and I worked in the fields alongside a monk named Hanna. Together, we tended to nearly a thousand olive trees that covered the hillside. Returning after two decades, I felt time had paused. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement I wandered among the olive trees that I had once watered, whose fruit I had once harvested and cleaned. I ate meals with the monks, joined them for morning and evening prayers, walked among the ancient books, and stood once again inside the small room where I had spent years of my life. A few miles away, across the mountain, a new monastery had been built. The Holy Cross Monastery reminded me of how the place once felt: sacred and untouched by the chaos below. When I visited, I was stunned to find Monk Hanna there. It was a bittersweet reunion. He barely remembered me. After my family left, hundreds of other Iraqi refugees sought shelter at the monastery. To him, I was one of many — a fading memory buried in decades of faces and names. When I showed him a photo of the two of us in the olive fields, something flickered, a faint recognition. I held on to that moment. I didn't need more. The departure In 2004, I sat in the departure hall of Damascus airport. We were leaving the home we had known for years. I didn't know if I'd return, but I still remember my heart pounding with excitement for what might come next. Two decades later, walking through the same halls, I was overwhelmed by a flood of memories — of uncertainty, of longing, of a younger version of myself who didn't yet know how long the journey ahead would be. As our plane lifted off, I looked down at the landscape of Syria — the cities and towns, the valleys and ridges, the scars of war and the quiet strength still holding the country together. I tried to stay in the moment, to reflect on everything I had seen over the past few months: the fall of the regime, the devastation, the resistance, the resilience. I thought of the people I was leaving behind — the shopkeepers, the mothers, the children, the former detainees, the elderly survivors who held their stories like heirlooms. They had endured so much under the iron grip of the Assad regime. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement I thought, too, about how rare it is for refugees to return. Most never do. But I had been blessed twice: once to return to my homeland, Iraq, and now to my second home, Syria.
Arab News
21-05-2025
- Politics
- Arab News
In Syria, a Shiite shrine and community navigate a changed landscape
SAYYIDA ZEINAB, Syria: At the Sayyida Zeinab shrine, rituals of faith unfold: worshippers kneel in prayer, visitors raise their palms skyward or fervently murmur invocations as they press their faces against an ornate structure enclosing where they believe the granddaughter of Prophet Muhammad is entombed. But it's more than just religious devotion that the golden-domed shrine became known for during Syria's prolonged civil war. At the time, the shrine's protection from Sunni extremists became a rallying cry for some Shiite fighters and Iran-backed groups from beyond Syria's borders who backed the former government of Bashar Assad. The shrine and the surrounding area, which bears the same name, has emerged as one symbol of how the religious and political increasingly intertwined during the conflict. An altered landscape after Assad's ouster With such a legacy, local Shiite community leaders and members are now navigating a dramatically altered political landscape around Sayyida Zeinab and beyond, after Assad's December ouster by armed insurgents led by the Sunni Islamist group Hayat Tahrir Al-Sham (HTS). The complex transition that is underway has left some in Syria's small Shiite minority feeling vulnerable. 'For Shiites around the world, there's huge sensitivity surrounding the Sayyida Zeinab Shrine,' said Hussein Al-Khatib. 'It carries a lot of symbolism.' After Assad's ouster, Al-Khatib joined other Syrian Shiite community members to protect the shrine from the inside. The new security forces guard it from the outside. 'We don't want any sedition among Muslims,' he said. 'This is the most important message, especially in this period that Syria is going through.' Zeinab is a daughter of the first Shiite imam, Ali, cousin and son-in-law of Prophet Muhammad; she's especially revered among Shiites as a symbol of steadfastness, patience and courage. She has several titles, such as the 'mother of misfortunes' for enduring tragedies, including the 7th-century killing of her brother, Hussein. His death exacerbated the schism between Islam's two main sects, Sunni and Shiite, and is mourned annually by Shiites. Zeinab's burial place is disputed; some Muslims believe it's elsewhere. The Syria shrine has drawn pilgrims, including from Iran, Iraq and Lebanon. Since Assad's ouster, however, fewer foreign visitors have come, an economic blow to those catering to them in the area. The shrine's locale has faced many attacks Over the years, the Sayyida Zeinab area has suffered deadly attacks by militants. In January, state media reported that intelligence officials in Syria's post-Assad government thwarted a plan by the Daesh group to set off a bomb at the shrine. The announcement appeared to be an attempt by Syria's new leaders to reassure religious minorities, including those seen as having supported Assad's former government. Al-Khatib, who moved his family from Aleppo province to the Sayyida Zeinab area shortly before Assad's fall, said Assad had branded himself as a protector of minorities. 'When killings, mobilization ... and sectarian polarization began,' the narrative 'of the regime and its allies was that 'you, as a Shiite, you as a minority member, will be killed if I fall.'' The involvement of Sunni militants and some hard-line foreign Shiite fighters fanned sectarian flames, he said. The Syria conflict began as one of several uprisings against Arab dictators before Assad brutally crushed what started as largely peaceful protests and a civil war erupted. It became increasingly fought along sectarian lines, drew in foreign fighters and became a proxy battlefield for regional and international powers on different sides. Post-Assad, new tensions center on the shrine Recently, a red flag reading 'Oh, Zeinab' that had fluttered from its dome was removed after some disparaged it as a sectarian symbol. Sheikh Adham Al-Khatib, a representative of followers of the Twelver branch of Shiism in Syria, said such flags 'are not directed against anyone,' but that it was agreed to remove it for now to keep the peace. 'We don't want a clash to happen. We see that ... there's sectarian incitement, here and there,' he said. Earlier, Shiite leaders had wrangled with some endowments ministry officials over whether the running of the shrine would stay with the Shiite endowment trustee as it's been, he said, adding 'we've rejected' changing the status quo. No response was received before publication to questions sent to a Ministry of Endowments media official. Adham Al-Khatib and other Shiite leaders recently met with Syrian President Ahmad Al-Sharaa. 'We've talked transparently about some of the transgressions,' he said. 'He promised that such matters would be handled but that they require some patience because of the negative feelings that many harbor for Shiites as a result of the war.' Many, the sheikh said, 'are holding the Shiites responsible for prolonging the regime's life.' This 'is blamed on Iran, on Hezbollah and on Shiites domestically,' he said, adding that he believes the conflict was political rather than religious. Early in the conflict, he said, 'our internal Shiite decision was to be neutral for long months.' But, he said, there was sectarian incitement against Shiites by some and argued that 'when weapons, kidnappings and killing of civilians started, Shiites were forced to defend themselves.' Regionally, Assad was backed by Iran and the Shiite militant Lebanese group Hezbollah, whose intervention helped prop up his rule. Most rebels against him were Sunni, as were their patrons in the region. Besides the shrine's protection argument, geopolitical interests and alliances were at play as Syria was a key part of Iran's network of deterrence against Israel. Emotions can run high; for some, fears persist Today, rumors and some social media posts can threaten to inflame emotions. Shrine director Jaaffar Kassem said he received a false video purporting to show the shrine on fire and was flooded with calls about it. At the shrine, Zaher Hamza said he prays 'for safety and security' and the rebuilding of 'a modern Syria, where there's harmony among all and there are no grudges or injustice.' Is he worried about the shrine? 'We're the ones who are in the protection of Sayyida Zeinab — not the ones who will protect the Sayyida Zeinab,' he replied. While some Shiites have fled Syria after Assad's fall, Hamza said he wouldn't. 'Syria is my country,' he said. 'If I went to Lebanon, Iraq or to European countries, I'd be displaced. I'll die in my country.' Some are less at ease. Small groups of women gathered recently at the Sayyida Zeinab courtyard, chatting among themselves in what appeared to be a quiet atmosphere. Among them was Kamla Mohamed. Early in the war, Mohamed said, her son was kidnapped more than a decade ago by anti-government rebels for serving in the military. The last time she saw him, she added, was on a video where he appeared with a bruised face. When Assad fell, Mohamed feared for her family. Those fears were fueled by the later eruption of violence in Syria's coastal region, where a counteroffensive killed many Alawite civilians — members of the minority sect from which Assad hails and drew support as he ruled over a Sunni majority. Human rights groups reported revenge killings against Alawites; the new authorities said they were investigating. 'We were scared that people would come to us and kill us,' Mohamed said, clutching a prayer bead. 'Our life has become full of fear.' Another Syrian Shiite shrine visitor said she's been feeling on edge. She spoke on condition she only be identified as Umm Ahmed, or mother of Ahmed, as is traditional, for fear of reprisals against her or her family. She said, speaking shortly after the coastal violence in March, that she's thought of leaving the country, but added that there isn't enough money and she worries that her home would be stolen if she did. Still, 'one's life is the most precious,' she said. She hopes it won't come to that. 'Our hope in God is big,' she said. 'God is the one protecting this area, protecting the shrine and protecting us.'
Associated Press
21-05-2025
- Politics
- Associated Press
In Syria, a Shiite shrine and community navigate a changed landscape
SAYYIDA ZEINAB, Syria (AP) — At the Sayyida Zeinab shrine, rituals of faith unfold: worshippers kneel in prayer, visitors raise their palms skyward or fervently murmur invocations as they press their faces against an ornate structure enclosing where they believe the granddaughter of Prophet Muhammad is entombed. But it's more than just religious devotion that the golden-domed shrine became known for during Syria's prolonged civil war. At the time, the shrine's protection from Sunni extremists became a rallying cry for some Shiite fighters and Iran-backed groups from beyond Syria's borders who backed the former government of Bashar Assad. The shrine and the surrounding area, which bears the same name, thus, emerged as one symbol of how the religious and political increasingly intertwined during the conflict. An altered landscape after Assad's ouster With such a legacy in the background, local Shiite community leaders and members are now navigating a dramatically altered political landscape around Sayyida Zeinab, and beyond, after Assad's December ouster by armed insurgents led by the Sunni Islamist group Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS). The complex transition that is underway has left some in Syria's small Shiite minority feeling vulnerable. 'For Shiites around the world, there's huge sensitivity surrounding the Sayyida Zeinab Shrine,' said Hussein al-Khatib. 'It carries a lot of symbolism.' After Assad's ouster, al-Khatib joined other Shiite community members to protect the shrine from the inside. The new security forces guard it from the outside. 'We don't want any sedition among Muslims,' he said. 'This is the most important message, especially in this period that Syria is going through.' Zeinab is a daughter of the first Shiite imam, Ali, cousin and son-in-law of Prophet Muhammad; she's especially revered among Shiites as a symbol of steadfastness, patience and courage. She has several titles, such as the 'mother of misfortunes' for enduring tragedies, including the 7th-century killing of her brother, Hussein. His death exacerbated the schism between Islam's two main sects, Sunni and Shiite, and is mourned annually by Shiites. Zeinab's burial place is disputed; some Muslims believe it's elsewhere. The Syria shrine has drawn pilgrims, including from Iran, Iraq and Lebanon. Since Assad's ouster, however, fewer foreign visitors have come, an economic blow to those catering to them in the area. The shrine's locale has faced many attacks Over the years, the Sayyida Zeinab area has suffered deadly attacks by militants. In January, state media reported that intelligence officials in Syria's post-Assad government thwarted a plan by the Islamic State group to set off a bomb at the shrine. The announcement appeared to be an attempt by Syria's new leaders to reassure religious minorities, including those seen as having supported Assad's former government. Al-Khatib, who moved his family from Aleppo province to the Sayyida Zeinab area shortly before Assad's fall, said Assad had branded himself as a protector of minorities. 'When killings, mobilization ... and sectarian polarization began,' the narrative 'of the regime and its allies was that 'you, as a Shiite, you as a minority member, will be killed if I fall.'' The involvement of Sunni jihadis and some hardline foreign Shiite fighters fanned sectarian flames, he said. The Syria conflict began as one of several uprisings against Arab dictators before Assad brutally crushed what started as largely peaceful protests and a civil war erupted. It became increasingly fought along sectarian lines, drew in foreign fighters and became a proxy battlefield for regional and international powers on different sides. Post-Assad, new tensions center on the shrine Recently, a red flag reading 'Oh, Zeinab,' that had fluttered from its dome was removed after some disparaged it as a sectarian symbol. Sheikh Adham al-Khatib, a representative of followers of the Twelver branch of Shiism in Syria, said such flags 'are not directed against anyone,' but that it was agreed to remove it for now to keep the peace. 'We don't want a clash to happen. We see that ... there's sectarian incitement, here and there,' he said. Earlier, Shiite leaders had wrangled with some endowments ministry officials over whether the running of the shrine would stay with the Shiite endowment trustee as it's been, he said, adding 'we've rejected' changing the status quo. No response was received before publication to questions sent to a Ministry of Endowments media official. Adham al-Khatib and other Shiite leaders recently met with Syrian President Ahmad al-Sharaa. 'We've talked transparently about some of the transgressions,' he said. 'He promised that such matters would be handled but that they require some patience because of the negative feelings that many harbor for Shiites as a result of the war.' Many, the sheikh said, 'are holding the Shiites responsible for prolonging the regime's life.' This 'is blamed on Iran, on Hezbollah and on Shiites domestically,' he said, adding that he believes the conflict was political rather than religious. Early in the conflict, he said, 'our internal Shiite decision was to be neutral for long months.' But, he said, there was sectarian incitement against Shiites by some and argued that 'when weapons, kidnappings and killing of civilians started, Shiites were forced to defend themselves.' Regionally, Assad was backed by Iran and the Shiite militant Lebanese group Hezbollah, whose intervention helped prop up his rule. Most rebels against him were Sunni, as were their patrons in the region. Besides the shrine's protection argument, geopolitical interests and alliances were at play as Syria was a key part of Iran's network of deterrence against Israel. Emotions can run high; for some, fears persist Today, rumors and some social media posts can threaten to inflame emotions. Shrine director Jaaffar Kassem said he received a false video purporting to show the shrine on fire and was flooded with calls about it. At the shrine, Zaher Hamza said he prays 'for safety and security' and the rebuilding of 'a modern Syria, where there's harmony among all and there are no grudges or injustice.' Is he worried about the shrine? 'We're the ones who are in the protection of Sayyida Zeinab — not the ones who will protect the Sayyida Zeinab,' he replied. While some Shiites have fled Syria after Assad's fall, Hamza said he wouldn't. 'Syria is my country,' he said. 'If I went to Lebanon, Iraq or to European countries, I'd be displaced. I'll die in my country.' Some are less at ease. Small groups of women gathered recently at the Sayyida Zeinab courtyard, chatting among themselves in what appeared to be a quiet atmosphere. Among them was Kamla Mohamed. Early in the war, Mohamed said, her son was kidnapped more than a decade ago by anti-government rebels for serving in the military. The last time she saw him, she added, was on a video where he appeared with a bruised face. When Assad fell, Mohamed feared for her family. Those fears were fueled by the later eruption of violence in Syria's coastal region, where a counteroffensive killed many Alawite civilians — members of the minority sect from which Assad hails and drew support as he ruled over a Sunni majority. Human rights groups reported revenge killings against Alawites; the new authorities said they were investigating. 'We were scared that people would come to us and kill us,' Mohamed said, clutching a prayer bead. 'Our life has become full of fear.' Another Syrian Shiite shrine visitor said she's been feeling on edge. She spoke on condition she only be identified as Umm Ahmed, or mother of Ahmed, as is traditional, for fear of reprisals against her or her family. She said, speaking shortly after the coastal violence in March, that she's thought of leaving the country, but added that there isn't enough money and she worries that her home would be stolen if she did. Still, 'one's life is the most precious,' she said. She hopes it won't come to that. 'Our hope in God is big,' she said. 'God is the one protecting this area, protecting the shrine and protecting us.' ___ Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP's collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
BBC News
07-05-2025
- Health
- BBC News
The medics identifying remains from Syria's mass graves
'This will be the work of years': The medics identifying remains from Syria's mass graves Just now Share Save Tim Franks BBC Newshour Reporting from Damascus Share Save BBC Hundreds of thousands of Syrians were killed during 13 years of civil war "These," says Dr Anas al-Hourani, "are from a mixed mass grave." The head of the newly-opened Syrian Identification Centre is standing next to two tables, covered in femurs. There are 32 of the human thigh bones on each laminated white tablecloth. They have been neatly aligned and numbered. Sorting is the first task for this new link in the long chain from crime to justice in Syria. A "mixed mass grave" means that corpses were thrown one on top of another. The chances are, these bones belong to some of the hundreds of thousands believed to have been killed by the regimes of the ousted president Bashar al-Assad and his father, Hafez, who together ruled Syria for more than five decades. If so, says Dr al-Hourani, they were among the more recent victims: they died no more than a year ago. Dr al-Hourani is a forensic odontologist: teeth can tell you so much more about a body, he says, at least when it comes to identifying who the person was. But with a femur the lab workers in the basement of this squat grey office building in Damascus can begin the task: they can learn the height, the sex, the age, what sort of job they had; they might also be able to see whether the victim was tortured. The gold standard in identification is of course DNA analysis. But, he says, there is just one DNA testing centre in Syria. Many were destroyed during the country's civil war. And "because of sanctions, a lot of the precursor chemicals that we need for the tests are currently not available". They've also been informed that "parts of the instruments could be used for aviation and so for military purposes". In other words, they could be deemed "dual use", and so proscribed by many Western countries from export to Syria. Add to that, the cost: $250 (£187) for a single test. And, says Dr al-Hourani, "in a mixed mass grave, you have to do about 20 tests to gather all the parts of one body". The lab relies entirely on funding from the International Committee of the Red Cross. The new government of Islamist rebels-turned-rulers says that what they call "transitional justice" is one of their priorities. Many Syrians who have lost relatives, and lost all trace of them, have told the BBC that they remain unimpressed and frustrated: they want to see more effort from the people who finally chased Bashar al-Assad from power last December after 13 years of war. During those long years of conflict, hundreds of thousands were killed, and millions displaced. And, by one estimate, more than 130,000 people were forcibly disappeared. At the current rate, it can take months to identify just one victim from a mixed mass grave. "This," says Dr al-Hourani, "will be the work of many, many years." 'Mangled and tortured' bodies Eleven of those "mixed mass graves" are slung around a beautiful, barren hilltop outside Damascus. The BBC are the first international media to see this site. The graves are quite visible now. In the years since they were dug, their surface has sunk into the dry, stony earth. Accompanying us is Hussein Alawi al-Manfi, or Abu Ali, as he also calls himself. He was a driver in the Syrian military. "My cargo," says Abu Ali, "was human bodies." Abu Ali thinks he transported lorry-loads of civilian corpses under the Assad regime This compact man with a salt and pepper beard was tracked down thanks to the tireless investigative work of Mouaz Mustafa, the Syrian-American executive director of the Syrian Emergency Task Force, a US-based advocacy group. He had persuaded Abu Ali to join us, to bear witness to what Mouaz calls "the worst crimes of the 21st Century". Abu Ali transported lorry loads of corpses to multiple sites for more than 10 years. At this location, he came, on average, twice a week for roughly two years at the start of the demonstrations and then the war, between 2011 and 2013. The routine was always the same. He'd head to a military or security installation. "I had a 16m (52ft) trailer. It wasn't always filled to the brim. But I'd have, I guess, an average of 150 to 200 bodies in each load." Of his cargo, he says he is convinced they were civilians. Their bodies were "mangled and tortured". The only identification he could see were numbers written on the cadaver or stuck to the chest or forehead. The numbers identified where they had died. There were a lot, he said, from "215" - a notorious military intelligence detention centre in Damascus known as "Branch 215". It is a place we will re-visit in this story. Abu Ali's trailer did not have a hydraulic lift to tip and dump his load. When he backed up to a trench, soldiers would pull the bodies into the hole one after another. Then a front-loader tractor would "flatten them out, compress them in, fill in the grave." Three men with weathered faces from a neighbouring village have arrived. They corroborate the story of the regular visits by military lorries to this remote spot. And as for the man behind the wheel: how could he do this for week after week, year after year? What was he telling himself each time he climbed into his cab? Abu Ali says he learned to be a mute servant of the state. "You can't say anything good or bad." As the soldiers dumped the corpses into the freshly excavated pits, "I would just walk away and look at the stars. Or look down towards Damascus." 'They broke his arms and beat his back' Damascus is where Malak Aoude has recently returned, after years as a refugee in Turkey. Syria may have been freed of the chokehold of the Assads' dynastic dictatorship. Malak is still serving a life sentence. For the past 13 years, she has been locked into a daily routine of pain and longing. It was 2012, a year after some of the people of Syria had dared to raise a protest against their president, that her two boys were disappeared. Both Malak Aoude's sons were disappeared under Assad's rule
