I woke up on the morning of Sunday, July 14, 2025, like any young man who has spent his recent years in exile, far from his family and his homeland. I didn’t spend the previous night alone; I spent it in conversation in a language that is not my own, though I spoke often of my culture and my country, and what was happening in my city, Suwayda.
When the clock struck midnight, I received a gift and some kisses, ending in a bliss that crowned a meager season of affection, an attempt to satisfy that accumulated feeling of loneliness. I turned off the TV, silenced the news, put on “Bʿid ʿAnnak” by Umm Kulthoum, and fell into a deep sleep.
The next morning, I began my usual holiday routine. I prepared a cup of mate, heated water, opened my laptop, and turned on the TV to the news, only to find that the clashes in Suwayda had escalated very rapidly.
I tried to contact my family, but the phone networks had failed me. They had been cut off since the previous night. I turned to social media, hoping to find any news to quench the thirst of my fear. This is the greatest worry of all migrants and refugees in exile: What if a family member is harmed?
Social media overflowed with videos and news full of violations and extremism: elders being humiliated, young people being killed, soldiers and jihadis threatening to butcher Druze, shops being looted, and thousands of families displaced. I quickly returned to try contacting my family via our WhatsApp group, but there was no response.
I decided to call my mother immediately. I opened our chat to find that she had written to me at 7 a.m.: “Happy birthday, my dear.”
And I asked myself the question I have always fled from: Could this be the last message between me and my mother?
In exile, the immigrant lives in a constant state of anxiety mixed with guilt toward their family. But in circumstances like these, these feelings are crowned by the most painful of all: helplessness.
One becomes bound-handed, captive to the screens, heavy-hearted, and alone.
Messages from supportive and sympathetic friends came pouring in. Everyone was asking about the situation in my city and whether my family was safe. But I had no answer, and the messages I sent to my family group elicited no reply.
I returned to social media and found a flood of messages, divided into two categories: one in French wishing me a happy birthday, and the other in Arabic wishing my family safety. And yet I still had no answer to either.
My adrenaline surged; my heart raced when I received a voice message from my mother. I didn’t hesitate for a moment to listen to it, but I had never feared any message in my life as much as I did that one. What news would she bring us?
I opened the message. Her voice was calm and steady, containing a firmness that brought the blood back to my veins. She said: “Don’t worry, we’re okay. The whole family has evacuated to our because they took all the surrounding villages. We’re the only ones left. Don’t worry, we’re fine. There’s no network, so I don’t know when this will end. Take care of yourselves, and say hello to all of you for me.”
And the messages started flowing in again, all at once. And I returned to my anxiety and my exile.
A few hours later, my mother and I got a new chance to connect, but this time, it was comfort that took the lead: we were able to speak via video.
My brother in Beirut and I saw our mother seated with her sisters on the balcony of their home, drinking mate and chatting confidently; my mother said that everyone who stayed inside was “depressed.”
She reassured us about the situation and lifted our spirits with her lighthearted jokes. Then we spoke to my father, and we ended the call quickly to conserve the phone battery amid the power outage.
He told us, “Thank God you’re not here. Happy birthday, Heddo.”
I burst into tears. How could I not, at age thirty, in a country of exile, far from all the violence, bombing, and terror, and yet my mother—right in the heart of violence—is the one comforting and calming my fear? How can I collapse when they remain steadfast? How can I lose hope when they are living it?
Hours passed slowly, darkness fell in Syria, and death felt even closer. Sleep deserted me.
Every scenario and nightmare visited me. And as dawn broke, I hurried to call my mother; she answered with a voice that barely concealed her tension, and said: “Don’t worry, everything’s fine, but don’t send anything to your dad’s phone anymore—the ‘Hay’a’ took it. I’ll tell you more later.” And the call cut off.
There was no blood left in my veins, no breath in my chest.
Did they take my father? Or just his phone? And now, making another call might not help my family. What if they’re surrounded? What if they came at an unexpected moment and my mother hid the phone immediately? Should I call? Should I wait? Should I wake my brother and tell him, or wait a bit in case she calls again?
So many questions, so few options.
I waited a little, then received a message from her saying: “The internet’s gone.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, woke my brother, explained what had happened, and we called them together.
My mother answered and said they had stopped my father and our neighbor, who had gone out on a reconnaissance trip in the morning to see who was in control after the intense clashes overnight, hoping to find a safe route for evacuation.
A group from “the Hay’a” stationed in one of the houses stopped them and snatched their phones, then released them.
My brother was not convinced by this story. He called again, insisting on speaking directly to my father and hearing the truth. My father was not there, the only thing remaining his heavy burden.
As it turns out, they did not release them. Instead, they ordered our neighbor to leave and kept my father. There were few of them, and they didn’t want witnesses. As soon as neighbor disappeared, he asked them who they were; they replied: “Hay’a.” Then the insults began to rain on him and escalated until they demanded he “bark.”
In a situation like this, it doesn’t matter if he was beaten or not. They humiliated him. There is no difference in their insult whether he followed orders or not, he was humiliated.
My father took advantage of their small number and their distraction: he jumped from behind their vehicle into a nearby house. They fired randomly, but he survived thanks to his deep knowledge of the area and his speed in hiding and escaping.
He returned to find everyone waiting for him in the house: “Did you find a route?” they asked him.
He recounted what happened and answered, “No route today.”
During the previous call, my mother said she was planning precautionary measures in case they attacked the house. She gathered possessions from those who had fled to them and buried them in different places in the back garden, including some phones and money, with notes bearing their owners’ names.
She completed the task and sent a voice message to the family group describing the locations of these “trust items,” ending her message with:
“If something happens to us, you will all return every item to its owner.”
My mother told me that the intensity of the shelling had decreased, the sound of gunfire had lessened, and the forces of what’s called the “Syrian Arab Army” were beginning to withdraw. But night was approaching, and what a feeling!
My family was in the “battle,” and I was in exile.
Despite the fear, nightmares, and inability to shake the thought that my father had almost been killed on the morning of my thirtieth birthday, tonight I will sleep as a witness to my parents’ heroism, resilience, and sacrifice.
At 5:23 a.m. the next day, I received a message from my mother that said: “Good morning. My darlings, the electricity came back and we are okay and safe. Praise be to God, we avoided and escaped death, mama. Thank goodness, my children.”
