Piece of paper: The Story of a Syrian Prisoner

A cry from the prisons of injustice to the diaspora of exile: My undying testimony.

By the grace of God, I attained my timid freedom after bitter suffering in the Syrian regime's prisons on November 27, 2013. Freedom at the time wasn't complete; it was more like a respite, a small respite of hope in a long tunnel of pain.

The moment of my release was like a miracle, achieved through God's help and through money, which, ironically, became the only means of escape from the grip of the executioner. The Syrian regime didn't just unjustly detain thousands; it turned the suffering of the victims into a source of profit, forcing their families to pay exorbitant sums in exchange for their release, after their bodies had been exhausted and their souls tortured.

How difficult those deadly moments are for families...

Hours pass like ages, and days go by like an eternity.

No sleep, no food, no peace of mind.

Only waiting, faint hope, and relentless fear.

Years of loss and deprivation, the depth of whose wounds cannot be described in words.

Loss... Anxiety... Struggle... Revenge... Patience... And painful silence.

From prison to exile

After my release, life was closed to me. I was prevented from completing my university studies and was persecuted by the regime's agents. I was forced to leave my homeland, the country where I had breathed despite all the pain. I fled to Lebanon, then to Belgium. It wasn't my choice; it was my escape, on a bitter journey to an exile unlike anything I've ever known.

Thus began the stage of forced exile, the cruelty of which is known only to those who have experienced it.

Exile was not merely a separation from the land, but rather an uprooting of the soul.

It was my exit from hell into the unknown.

A bitter journey into an exile unlike anything in my life,

To a place I didn't choose,

To a land I never thought I'd throw myself in search of safety.

I was living in a body that carried years of pain and oppression, and I carried on my back a bag too heavy to be seen...in it were the faces of those who had passed away, my mother's tears, the sounds of the bombing, and the smell of detention.

I wanted to bury the past, even temporarily, to move forward, but I was torn between a painful past, a dark present, and a future that knew no hope. My body was here, but my soul was always there, among my family and the homes of my country, gripped by fear of them.

Are they okay?

Did they pay the price for my freedom?

Was the regime arresting them because of me? Have they been targeted by a treacherous hand that does not differentiate between women, children and the elderly?

Forced Exile

How cruel it is to live in an expatriation you didn't create, didn't prepare for, and didn't choose the timing of.

Forced expatriation isn't just a geographical distance, but a harsh uprooting from everything you once called home: home, language, identity, embrace, or abode.

Forced expatriation opens your eyes every morning and says to yourself:

"I am here... but I'm not here."

My body is in Belgium, walking its streets, learning its language, and trying to belong.

But my soul is there... hanging on a wall in a half-demolished house.