When the People Overthrew the Regime - Memoir Essay

Half my life I’ve known I want to talk about Syria, I need to talk about Syria. I couldn’t. Until, yesterday morning, 08/12/2024, somehow, and in the blink of an eye, I finally gained freedom of speech. I finally became human. The walls no longer had ears. I no longer had to cushion and filter my words in fear of who might be loitering and listening. The egomaniacal, sadistic, psychopathic, coward escaped to Moscow and left his people for dead. I cried, tears of joy as I watched my people flood the streets of Syria, Europe and all around the world, singing, chanting, finally free. Waving the green flag of peace and freedom. Something no one believed we could ever have. But we did, and on our own. My Instagram feed turned green too. I could finally see who was with me all these years. Who was secretly wishing for the day they could speak. Who was silenced in fear. Who felt the ache, in me, to scream out to the world “fuck off and give me back what belongs to me!” Finally, we could speak. After fifty-four years of silence and fourteen years of war.

It started when I was nine years old, 2010, Damascus, I walked into the school cafeteria with my two best friends. An Egyptian girl, Hana and another Syrian girl, Lina. We got our lunch and sat down on one of the tables, the cafeteria loud with chatter. Lina looked at me and said, “my dad told me there’s going to be a revolution in Syria.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like Egypt and Tunisia” images from the news flashed in my mind and I found myself involuntarily thinking of war. It was a feeling I didn’t like, a feeling soon enough I’d grow accustomed to. Although, if I really think about it, the dread of war is something that’s followed me from a very young age. The Palestinian cause being drilled into our core and all. Her words stuck in my mind for the rest of the day, and as soon as I got back home, I rushed to my parents for reassurance.

“Who else did she say that to?” my dad asked, both him and my mum gave each other a look, I didn’t understand.

“Me and Hana, I just said that.”

“Hana’s the Egyptian one?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Did she say it to anyone else?”

“I don’t know, maybe, when she said it to me it was only the three of us. Is there going to be a revolution?” I asked, entirely lost on why their questions even mattered.

“No, but from now on, if anyone asks you what you think of the government or what your parents think, you say ‘I don’t have an opinion.’”

“She didn’t ask me anything, I told her there wouldn’t be a revolution.” 

“Okay, if anyone asks that’s what you say.” At that point, not a very difficult demand, as I didn’t have an opinion, nor did I understand any of what was going on. Eventually that would change, but knowing how strongly I held opinions, for a few years I would make a conscious effort not to have one. As my understanding developed, and a deep-seated anger grew within me, it became more difficult to deny that I have an opinion. I’m not entirely sure how I managed to keep my mouth shut through all these years, but the fear instilled in me outweighed everything else. I became anxious, scared of blurting out the wrong thing. Learned to think ten times before saying anything. Never fully trusted anyone, because anyone could be secretly entrapping me. It bled into all unrelated aspects of my life and clouded the person I truly am. I became someone else.

2011, the revolution began, I still barely understood what was going on. We would watch the news with my dad, hear the protesters and Pro-Assad demonstrators chant. My brother, being six at the time, and I, ten, found these chants catchy and fun to go along with. The full meaning of them, fully escaping us. It didn’t matter which side they landed on.

“Can we go to one of these demonstrations?” I asked 

“No”

“Why? Not the protests but the demonstrations, I know the protests are dangerous.”

“There’s no need.”

Although this was deeply disappointing to my ten-year-old self, on one occasion we did drive past a demonstration, on the way back from our grandparents’ house. My dad was driving, my brother in the backseat, and I in the passenger seat. Window open, the wind blowing gently. The sound of music from the radio and chanting from the streets. My brother got excited.

“The people want to overthrow the regime” he started chanting along. Wrong chant. As soon as he began, my dad quickly rolled the window up, turned and demanded he shut up and sit back down. I, not entirely grasping the gravity of the situation, laughed.

“They’re demonstrators, not protesters, silly. It’s ‘Allah, Syria, Bashar and that’s it.’” I exclaimed.

“it’s better not to chant anything.” My dad responded.

 So, we didn’t, but year after year the meaning grew and took shape in our hearts. No longer words we chanted, but words we felt. The people wanted to overthrow the regime, and so the people finally did.