I vividly remember how I felt when I wrote my first article under my pseudonym “Carmen Karim.” I was trembling with fear, as if the interrogator were standing right behind the door, feeling both excited and hesitant at the same time. At other times, I wondered, “Is this worth it?”
I chose my pseudonym carefully. I had always loved the name Carmen; there’s an inexplicable inner feeling that tells you a certain name fits you and reflects your experience. Something deep inside led me to Carmen. But choosing the name wasn’t the hardest challenge. The real challenge began when I wrote my first article—things became much heavier on a psychological level.
In every article I wrote under my pseudonym, the shadow of Assad loomed over me, and the weight of fear settled on my shoulders, tormenting me relentlessly. Writing was never easy—not mentally, nor in terms of gathering information or communicating with sources. The constant fear of having my identity exposed haunted me at every turn.
The secrecy of my pseudonym didn’t shield me from the regime’s threats. Just the fact that I worked for a website labeled as “oppositional to the former regime” was enough to make me a target for direct and indirect threats. I even became afraid to appear in videos discussing ordinary topics like poverty in Syria. The regime’s dirty hands extended far and wide, reaching even into Lebanon, where I thought I might find some safety.
In Syria, I relied on simple methods to protect myself. Later, I realized how little I knew about digital security, something we were deprived of in Syria. Perhaps it was luck—or sheer coincidence—that saved me from the fate I feared.
I would delete my articles from my computer and store unfinished work on a USB drive that I hid in a secret place, avoiding leaving any trace on my personal device. Anticipating the worst, I had an emergency plan. I had a friend who worked for the regime under duress but secretly opposed it. I relied on him to inform my family or help me if I were arrested. I gave his number to my sister and told her, “If I disappear one day or the security forces take me, call this number.”
Eventually, I felt the country was rejecting me. One day, I was verbally harassed by regime soldiers at a checkpoint on the road connecting Aqreba and Jaramana. They demanded to search my belongings and almost inspected my computer, but for some reason—or perhaps due to their ignorance of how to look inside it—they let me go. That day, I hadn’t hidden the USB drive as I usually did, and it was left in plain sight. I also hadn’t deleted all my files from my computer. When I got home safely, I began seriously thinking about leaving Syria.
Between Manahil and Carmen
After the first article, then the second, and the third—Carmen’s name began to solidify. People started asking about her true identity. Several of her articles garnered high readership. One piece after another, the ceiling of fear began to crack, and I found myself raising that ceiling—the same one I had once been threatened under.
With Carmen, I experienced a sense of freedom I had never felt before. A new woman emerged within me, one I didn’t know existed—a woman with political opinions, analytical abilities, and sharp criticism. I wondered: Where had this woman been all my life, so removed from politics?
But over time, Carmen began to take too much liberty, to the point where she overshadowed Manahel. Manahel’s writings became less bold, lacking the courage to point fingers at those who deserved it. Manahel would circle around ideas without daring to utter the word “regime,” while Carmen lived her glory days. She embraced her freedom, mocked Assad, and exposed his crimes and corruption.
It didn’t stop there. Colleagues and collaborators often slipped up, calling me Carmen instead of my real name. That’s when I felt that “Carmen” was no longer just a pseudonym but was starting to steal my true identity. Even so, I didn’t resent her. I saw her as an independent persona, another woman entirely unrelated to me, yet a diligent journalist who had built her reputation and position. I even admitted that she had surpassed me, simply because she felt free—something I had never truly experienced.
Between Carmen and Assad
Later, I heard about a journalist being detained by the regime and questioned about whether she worked with Daraj, the platform where I am employed. That’s when I realized I needed to make things harder for the regime’s agents, to complicate their efforts to find me. I wrote an article titled “I Am the Reckless Boy Who Insulted Assad’s Regime” without specifying my gender, age, or city of origin.
In the article, I wrote:
“I am just a pseudonym here. You can’t confirm my identity. Am I a woman, a man, or an old sheikh? Am I even real? And why do I claim to be a woman when I could adopt any persona I choose, like that of a reckless boy?”
At one point, I tried addressing Syrian intelligence officers directly, even though I knew they probably didn’t read what I wrote. It felt like I was engaging in a debate with them.
“Every time I write an article, I imagine a new scenario of your efforts to find me. While reading my article, you’re seething with rage, wanting to punch the face of the person who dares to undermine the prestige of your regime. Perhaps you’re brainstorming ways to torture me if you manage to capture me. Are you debating over some clue to pinpoint my city, at least?”
Today, I laugh, as if those moments and days are distant, like a dream I can barely believe I lived—or maybe didn’t.
To avoid exposing myself in blog posts that contained personal details, I had to change certain aspects, such as locations, timelines, neighborhoods, or even gender. For instance, I didn’t write that I had moved to Beirut but claimed to have relocated to Europe. I didn’t write that my maternal uncle had been detained but said it was my paternal uncle instead. These changes were rooted in my unwavering belief that these measures would keep my identity safe.
Over time, my articles and reports grew bolder. I even discovered a political voice within me that I didn’t know existed. The regime had mastered the art of suppressing us to the point where we said: “Why bother with politics?”
From Hiding to Freedom
I never imagined I’d one day be able to declare my name and say, This is Carmen. This is me. For a long time, I thought I’d never get the chance to reveal my real name, and that was painful. I had even made plans for someone close to me to disclose the truth after my death. But Assad’s regime fell before I died, and I revealed my name myself.
Today, I can finally unveil my journalistic work, which I published under a pseudonym to protect myself and my family. Over the years, I wrote more than 150 articles, in addition to my daily work at Daraj producing videos and news updates. I thought this name would remain hidden forever. I penned dozens of investigative reports, rights-based articles, blogs, and opinion pieces both inside Syria and abroad, driven by the belief that the truth must be told, even if it meant staying in the shadows.
One of the most significant projects I worked on was my first investigative piece, produced in collaboration between Daraj, BBC, and OCCRP, titled “The Republic of Captagon: How the Vast Drug Trafficking Network Is Linked to Syria’s Presidential Palace”. The report provided evidence of the Assad family’s involvement in manufacturing and trafficking Captagon. Up until recently, I couldn’t take pride in this achievement or work on similar investigations.
Another report I’m particularly proud of was an interview with the son of Syria’s longest-serving political detainee, Raheed Tattari, who was released alive just days ago and is finally reuniting with his son. I also closely followed all matters related to Saydnaya Prison, from its infamous “salt rooms” to the architectural and administrative structure of what is arguably the most horrific prison.
Today, I am free, and Carmen is free. I fear nothing in saying: I am Manahel Al-Sahwi, not Carmen Karim. My only wish is never to have to write under a pseudonym again, and for no person or journalist anywhere in the world to ever have to hide their opinions out of fear for their life or the lives of their loved ones.
