Surgery Under Fire in Aleppo

I live in Aleppo, in an area under regime control where it is hard to move around and working for the revolution.

People say Aleppo was late in responding to the uprising, but that wasn’t the case at all, at least from my perspective.

I am actively engaged in relief work, women’s rights and peaceful protests. My home in Aleppo is my little hideaway, where I write banners and print out pamphlets which are distributed around the city in the utmost secrecy.

I used to carefully sneak out of my neighbourhood and make my way to parts of the city that were hotbeds of activism, like Bustan al-Qasr, Marjeh and Tariq al-Bab. I would seek every opportunity to circumvent checkpoints and travel with the pamphlets either folded into my clothes, concealed inside greeting cards or hidden on compact discs and flash drives. Preparing them took several days and sleepless nights of covert work, in which exhaustion was mixed with fear.

I was terribly afraid of giving away my location, especially because of my responsibility to my two children. Their father is dead, and I am their sole carer.

My husband’s family is extremely loyal to the regime and remains fiercely supportive of Bashar al-Assad to this day. But I believe in the revolution, I believe it is time for the ruling powers to leave, I believe in rejecting oppression and dictatorship, and I believe in demanding freedom and dignity.

I felt defiant towards my in-laws and other loyalist residents of the neighbourhood, and defiant towards the numerous regime thugs and security forces in the area.

Some time ago, I decided to travel to Manbaj, a town in Aleppo governorate, in order to bring news and material from the city and coordinate with other female activists. Tense and anxious, I managed to pass through the checkpoints safely, finally arriving at my friends’ house in the town.

The place where I was staying had been very heavily targeted because it was located above a hospital whose basement was used to treat wounded members of the Free Syrian Army and other rebel groups.

Government MiG planes thundered overhead non-stop that day. They bombed several areas, killing more than 20 civilians. Two hours later, they attacked again, and then again after four hours.

We all went to the scene of the attacks to help the wounded, remove the dead and console their families.

I suffer from gallstones, and I began to feel spasms of pain convulsing my body, worse than I had ever experienced before.

In Manbaj, there was a warning system in place that sounded as soon as a plane flew overhead. These sirens created more terror and tension in me than the aircraft themselves. As soon as I heard them, the spasms and pain began increasing.

At first I was embarrassed to reveal that I was in pain given the catastrophe we were witnessing. People there had lost sons and husbands and fathers and brothers. But eventually I was no longer able to hide it.

At five in the evening, I was hit by a spasm which got worse and worse. My friends drove me around to try to get me a painkilling injection, which is available in only four pharmacies in the city. We managed to get one, but it dulled the pain for no more than half an hour.

The only doctors available were in the field hospital that was being targeted by the regime, so that is where we went.

A doctor there decided that I needed to undergo emergency gallbladder surgery. I quickly put on a hospital gown and lay down on the gurney in the operating room where they anaesthetised me immediately.

I remember the doctor saying, “Count to five”, and then I passed out. After some time – I couldn’t tell how long – I began regaining consciousness and I could hear the doctors around me.

“Get the generator, quickly, the electricity has gone off!” one said. “Turn out all the visible lights so the plane doesn't bomb us,” said another. “Quickly, give me another anaesthetic injection, she’s beginning to wake up!”

I started to feel pain, with something digging into my stomach. It felt as if my body had become massively swollen. Above me, the doctors seemed tense and worked quickly.

I could hear fresh bombing from the planes. I was told later that I began to mutter meaningless words.

“The plane is here,” I said, and then passed out again.

The surgery was completed. They removed my gallbladder and I went home with a bag full of medication.

The next day, I felt an intense pain in my back. I looked in the mirror and saw a burn there, about ten centimetres long and five wide. That really scared me. It turned out that after the electricity cut out and the generator was turned on, a surge in current caused the burn.

I can remember those events with complete clarity. To this day, I have a scar on my back. I see it as a scar of the revolution. When I pass my hand over it, I am exhausted by memories and feel emotional pain.

After I recovered, I resumed my work with the women’s organisation. I will continue to the end, despite the difficulties, the pain, and the sense of impotence, in order to honour those who left us.

Again and again, I repeat to myself, “The people demand the fall of the regime.” That is what I still believe.

This story was produced by the Damascus Bureau, IWPR’s news platform for Syrian journalists.