lucky horse The Syrian Spirit That Does Not Submit To War

In Gaziantep province, nestled in eastern Türkiye, Lobna Helli’s restaurant, Lazord, serves as a culinary oasis. It’s more than just a place to eat; it’s a gathering spot, a testament to resilience, and a symbol of hope. Yet behind the success of Lazord lies a story of pain and survival.

In 2015, Helli’s husband was arrested and tortured by the Bashar al-Assad regime in Syria. Fearing for their lives, the couple fled to Türkiye under the cover of night. Now, with the fall of the Assad regime, she dreams of opening a similar restaurant in Damascus—a beacon of new beginnings amid the ruins of war.

“Every time I step into Lazord, I think of my husband,” says Helli. “This place is built on his dream for a peaceful life, and I carry that dream with me every day.”

The Syrian civil war, sparked by protests in 2011 as part of the Arab Spring, escalated into one of the most devastating humanitarian crises of our time. More than 6,13,000 lives have been lost, and half of the country’s population has been displaced. The Syrian Network for Human Rights (SNHR) estimates that since 2011, over 1.2 million Syrians have been detained or disappeared. The figures include at least 1,35,253 individuals, among them 3,691 children and 8,473 women, who vanished into the regime’s prisons. These numbers only scratch the surface of the broader human rights abuses committed under Assad’s rule.

Cities like Aleppo and Homs, once vibrant centres of culture and commerce, now stand in ruins. The stories of survival emerging from this chaos reveal not just the horrors of war but also the extraordinary resilience of the human spirit.

“It wasn’t just a war; it was the destruction of who we were as a people,” says Fadel Abdulghany, founder of the Syrian Network for Human Rights. “Every person you meet carries a story of unimaginable loss.”

One did not realise the enormity of this feat. Harmanpreet is basically a defensive midfielder in footballing parlance and to score 200 goals, is truly a great achievement.

As the Assad regime crumbled, its infamous prisons released thousands of detainees. These releases, far from being moments of unmitigated joy, brought complex emotions to families. Khalid, once a vibrant elementary school teacher, returned to his family after years of torture in detention. Officially declared executed, his reappearance was a shock, his body and spirit irrevocably scarred. Ali Hassan al-Ali’s release after nearly four decades in prison stirred a mixture of relief and heartbreak. His brother, Moammar, spent 30 years searching for answers, enduring contradictory information from the regime’s security branches.

“He has stepped out of prison as an old man,” Moammar shares. “When he comes home, we will have a big celebration. But until I can hold him and say, ‘Here he is, my brother,’ nothing feels real.”

The horrors of detention under Assad’s rule are epitomised by Saydnaya prison, described as a ‘factory of death and despair’. Amnesty International documented mass executions and inhumane conditions, with up to 50 people hanged at a time after sham trials. “We heard their screams,” recalls a survivor. “Every night, we feared we might be next.”

One of the darkest chapters of the war was the chemical attack on Ghouta in 2013. Over 1,400 people suffocated to death, including women and children, as Sarin gas filled their homes. This atrocity was one of 222 documented chemical attacks in Syria, 98 per cent of which were carried out by regime forces. Despite international outrage, the attacks persisted, underscoring the impotence of global powers to intervene meaningfully.

“We couldn’t breathe,” says a survivor of the Ghouta attack. “Children died in their mothers’ arms. It was hell on earth.”

Dalia, a refugee who lost her brother in Ghouta, says, “The chemical attack didn’t just kill people; it killed our faith in humanity.” For millions of Syrians, survival meant fleeing their homeland. Dalia, a farmer from southern Syria, sought refuge in Türkiye with her husband and children. A year after settling in Hatay province, her husband was killed during a visit to Syria. Left to fend for her family, she worked tirelessly to provide for her children. During a return visit in 2017 to her husband’s grave, airstrikes forced the family to spend seven days under a tree. Now, she works in a greenhouse, drawing on her agricultural skills to rebuild a semblance of stability.

“All I wanted was to keep my children safe,” she says. “We left everything behind, but we are alive. That is what matters.”

Siham’s story is equally disturbing. She witnessed her brother’s family being obliterated before her eyes in 2012, a tragedy that still haunts her. “I used to feel sad because I didn’t have children,” she says, her voice trembling as she recalled her brother’s comforting words. “He’d always say, ‘Don’t worry, my children are yours if you want them. Take them all!’ We’d laugh about it then.” But the laughter turned to heartbreak when Syria’s civil war brought devastation to their doorstep. In late 2012, a rocket fired from a government tank struck the van her brother and his family were fleeing in, near their village in Deraa, southern Syria. Her brother and sister-in-law were in the front seat with their youngest son, a two-year-old, while the other five children were crowded in the back. Siham, staying nearby, heard the explosion and raced to the scene. She found the van engulfed in chaos and fire.

She managed to pull five of the children from the wreckage, but her brother, his wife and their youngest child were gone. Among the debris, all she could recover was her brother’s house key—the one he always carried in his pocket. “That key is all I have left of him now,” Siham says, her eyes welling up. “But his children—they are my children now, just as he promised.”

At just sixteen, Nujeen Mustafa embarked on an extraordinary journey of survival and hope. Confined to a wheelchair due to cerebral palsy, Mustafa fled the war-ravaged streets of Aleppo in 2015, accompanied by her devoted sister. Together, they braved an agonising 3,500-mile odyssey across eight countries. Each step of the way—pushing, pulling, and carrying—her sister became her lifeline, proving that resilience and love can withstand even the harshest of circumstances.

The road to safety was littered with trials. As a Kurdish girl in Turkey, Mustafa faced layers of alienation—her ethnicity and her disability setting her apart in an already fractured society. Her longing for belonging was met with stark rejection. The sea crossing from Turkey to Greece became another chapter of despair. Crammed onto a small boat with 38 other desperate souls, she was one of eleven children who braved the perilous waters where countless lives were lost. For her, the danger was all too real.

Her arrival in Greece brought relief, but it was quickly overshadowed by tragedy. She was confronted with the haunting image of Aylan Kurdi, the two-year-old Kurdish-Syrian boy whose lifeless body was washed ashore the same day Mustafa’s boat landed. The heartbreaking thought—“That could have been us”—remains etched in her mind.

Her story is not just one of survival but also of transformation. A few years after her arrival in Germany, she penned The Girl from Aleppo: Nujeen’s Escape from War to Freedom. The memoir was more than a recounting of her journey; it was a call to humanity. Mustafa’s words aimed to dismantle stereotypes, urging readers to see refugees as people, not statistics. She wanted the world to understand not only the devastating losses she and her family endured but also the strength and dreams that carried them forward.

Today, she has become a powerful voice for change. As an advocate for disability and human rights, she works to ensure that no one is left behind, regardless of their circumstances. Her life, marked by unimaginable challenges, is now a beacon of hope and a reminder of the unyielding spirit that defines humanity.

Mustafa’s journey is a testament to courage—a story of how even in the face of overwhelming odds, the human spirit can prevail, urging us all to see beyond borders and differences to the shared humanity that binds us.

“We have been resisting racism and discrimination for a very long time,” says Ahmad Al-Safadi, a Syrian businessman in Ankara. “But now my son has thoughts of suicide because of constant bullying.” Al-Safadi plans to return to Syria, disheartened by the shift in attitudes.

Women were forced to adapt to blend into Turkish society, altering their dress to avoid standing out. Restaurants like Kafkas Mutfak in Kayseri had to remove Arabic signage and translate menus into Turkish to avoid local ire.

Reconstruction is not just physical; it’s also emotional and social. Communities divided by war must find common ground. The Alawite minority, whose ascent to power under the Assad dynasty exacerbated sectarian tensions, will need to navigate a new role in a post-Assad Syria.

“We cannot just rebuild buildings; we must rebuild trust,” says Fadel Abdulghany. “Without it, peace will only be temporary.”

The heart-wrenching stories of Syrian refugees highlight the indomitable spirit of the Syrian people. These stories, though born of tragedy, underscore a resilience that refuses to be extinguished. As the world’s attention shifts, these voices insist on being heard, reminding us of the profound human cost of war and the enduring hope for peace. “How can humanity sink so low?” asks Mustafa. “Sometimes, I think of Chengiz Khan and Hitler, and I realise they still exist in this century. We just call them by different names.”

In the 21st century, these stories challenge us to confront the depths of human cruelty. The Syrian refugees’ resilience and humanity serve as a beacon, urging the world to learn from history and strive for a future where such atrocities are never repeated

(Views expressed are personal)

Iftikhar Gilani is a journalist currently based in Ankaralucky horse, Türkiye