Inside Bashar al-Assad's infamous Sednaya prison, the 'human slaughterhouse'

DAMASCUS

I LOOKED OUT of the window as my car slowly rolled out of Lebanon through the gates of the Masnaa border crossing. We were greeted by unmanned Syrian checkposts, and stared down at ripped off posters of a face that once instilled fear within these borders and beyond.

I live in Beirut, yet was always daunted by the idea of travelling to Syria, despite it being just a couple of hours away. The first reason was the paperwork; the second was a question to myself: should I be funding the dictatorial Bashar al-Assad’s government. When I found out that foreign journalists were slowly considering travelling to Syria, I booked a seat on one of the first sets of taxis.

In less than two weeks, rebel groups in Syria had ended the country’s 13-year civil war in a shock overthrow of the country’s longstanding president. Headed by Abu Mohammad al-Jolani, leader of the main rebel group Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), they first took over Aleppo, in the country’s northwest, then advanced south, taking over key cities Hama, Homs, and then finally Damascus.

Since Russia’s 2015 entry into Syria’s civil war, Assad had enjoyed the country’s diplomatic and military support, as well as that of Iran, and Iran-backed Lebanese group Hezbollah. However, potentially due to the war in Ukraine and the fragile Israel-Lebanon ceasefire deal, none of these groups could―or would―support the cornered Assad. Closed in on by different groups in Damascus, Assad fled to Russia, which says it granted him asylum on “humanitarian”grounds. The move marked an abrupt end to over half a century of the Assad family rule.

As our car drove further inland, we saw the remains of what was once a duty-free store. Bullet shells riddled the floor, as did shattered glass from the windows and smashed liquor bottles. The occasional group walked into what was left of the shop, carrying out cartons of whiskey and vodka. Nearing Damascus, we began to see the remnants of nearly six decades of military rule―abandoned tanks looming over us, and naturally more torn posters.

Al-Jolani’s HTS was formed under the name of Nusra Front as a branch of Al Qaeda in Syria. The United States has designated it a terror organisation. Over a decade ago, al-Jolani, now using his real name Ahmed al-Sharaa, defied Islamic State (IS) calls to merge and form the Islamic State of Syria and Iraq, and for years has put forth his group’s new stance as one that encourages diversity and pluralism, as opposed to a previous hardline, Islamist one.

The sound of bullets being fired into the air and the scent of gunpowder were ubiquitous. As we drove past rebels on the street, I’d point my camera at them and they’d usually pose, holding up either their weapon, a V-shaped peace sign with their fingers, or both. On the streets, one could see torn down Assad flags and new Syrian ones. I saw a group of men dancing, with one standing on a car holding up a huge flag, and often, large cars would whizz past you playing loud music, with jubilant Syrians looking out of the windows.

Standing outside a destroyed police station in the neighbourhood of Bab Touma, I spoke to Amir Al Adar, a 26-year-old anaesthetist who had been hoping to travel to Germany. He had applied for a passport, and was due to receive it in about a month, but the building that housed his documents was burnt down by the rebels.

“Over the past two days, I felt every feeling,”he said, with an expression of disbelief.

Anmar Murat, 27, from Suwayda, shared a similar sentiment.

“I can’t believe there’s no dictator,”he said. “I can say ‘F**k Assad’.”

One of the first places that our group went to was Assad’s infamous Sednaya prison, referred to as a “human slaughterhouse”. We drove near the top of the mountain on which it is situated, and the roads were lined with people in cars, vans, motorbikes or on foot, searching for loved ones. With the heavy traffic, our group got out of the car and split, ready to tackle the rest of the trip on foot.

As we were climbing, a man behind us stopped us. While covering the war in Lebanon, I was often stopped by authorities on the road asking me not to film, and have experienced hostile reactions to my being a journalist. Still accustomed to that perception of my profession, I wasn’t too friendly.

He asked us to film him. He told us that he had family in the prison, who had been detained since 2012, under what he says were false accusations of owning weapons.

“We call on international organisations and the Arab world to help us dig and find those trapped in the lower floors of the prison,”he said.

He was one of thousands. I saw countless people―some even children―sitting in vans, staring up at the large white building that might have once housed the ones they loved.

Raghda Mubarak Al Makouri, peering out of a van to talk to me, told me that her brothers had been taken 13 years ago. Later, she told me she wasn’t even sure whether they had been imprisoned in Sednaya.

“I don’t even know if they’re dead or alive,” she admitted.

Trudging up the dirt path of the mountain, I was reminded of my uphill climb to the Sabarimala temple in Kerala with my father. This time around, it wasn’t a pilgrimage for me, but as I spoke to the people with me, I realised that for them it was an endeavour in love and hope.

The ground rattled and I heard a large rumble. “Sonic boom or airstrike?”I asked someone.

“Airstrike; Israel,” came the reply.

Since the takeover, Israel has conducted over 350 airstrikes in Syria, allegedly bombing weapons to avoid them reaching the hands of the rebels. They conducted airstrikes including near the Mezzeh air base and are also hitting the country’s naval capabilities, with attacks on the ports of Al-Bayda and Latakia. On foot, they have inched further into the country, taking up new positions beyond a demilitarised zone in the Israeli-occupied Golan Heights.

Entering the prison, I photographed the thousands of people who were flocking in large groups, some staring at the bulldozer that was burrowing through the floor, as people sought hidden doors. Others used more rudimentary methods―pickaxes and the like―to break through the walls.

A 30-year-old rebel named Mohammed, who later told me he liked Bollywood icon Salman Khan, offered to show me and a Brazilian journalist I was with, around the prison. He helped us down tunnels of sorts, created by breaking the floor, and enthusiastically led us into the prison cells they had found. Some contained shoes and clothes, and most walls bore etchings of people’s names, addresses and calendars to mark the time they had spent in jail. He led us to a room containing piles and piles of prisoners’clothes. It was eerie.

As the three of us traversed through the throng, Mohammed kept his hand over the muzzle of his rifle, which he had slung over his back. I was constantly aware that one wrong shove could lead to faouda―Arabic for chaos―a word I heard innumerable times at the prison. I must admit that a lot of our conversation was lost in translation; with my basic Arabic and his sparse English, we made a great pair.

Mohammed then showed us the human iron press allegedly used to kill prisoners. As he explained its mechanisms, I thought I saw him tear up a tad and his voice crack. Later, we went to the room where the bodies were allegedly dissolved in acid―the acrid smell and the plastic bags in which the bodies were put were all that was left of the horrors that the room had witnessed.

With us most of the time was a 16-year-old rebel called Omar. Donning a camo jacket, he was shorter than me (I’m 1.6 metres) and I’d have taken him to be a couple of years younger. Mohammed walked my colleague and I down nearly halfway from the prison, and hesitant to leave two foreign women journalists alone, later sent Omar to walk us to our car.

Omar had a pleasant demeanour, but I couldn’t see him as just any teenage boy, knowing that he’d seen all the things I’d just seen, and probably even worse. In the room, he had been the one who poked the plastic bags to check if they contained corpses. When I said goodbye to him, I did wonder what would happen to him, and whether we would cross paths again.

“Israel’s been bombing us lately,”he said casually.

“What do you think of Israel?”I asked him. He responded with a tilt up of his head and raised eyebrows―a common gesture in both Lebanon and Syria, often used to signify defiance.

“So you’re not a fan of Israel nor Assad,”I said.

He laughed and said, “I was in Lebanon before this,”by way of explanation.

Omar used to live in Dahye, a southern suburb of Beirut that was subjected to heavy Israeli bombing. “I came back to Syria during the war,” he said.

I asked him why he had joined the rebels.

“Well, my family was part of the group, and they asked me to join, and I said okay,”he said.

Fear lingers among the populace about what the future holds for the nation. With the appointment of Mohammed al-Bashir as interim prime minister by the rebels, and the gradual re-establishment of a system by way of border control, things seem to be on a path of order and stability. However, Bashar al-Assad, too, once brought hope that he would be a reformist, after taking over the presidency from his father Hafez al-Assad.

Leaning against my car, I asked Omar if he missed Lebanon.

“Very much,” he said, earnestly. “All my friends are there.”

I asked him if he’d return.

“Yes, after the revolution,”he told me.

“And when will that be?”I asked.

He shrugged.

“It will finish when it finishes,”he said.

We stared up at the white building, and the row of people still climbing the hill to reach it.

“Hopefully soon,”he added, with a slight smile.

The writer is a multimedia journalist with an interest in politics and society. She has worked in Hong Kong, Lebanon and Syria, with media outlets including AFP, Anadolu Agency, DW, El Pais, NBC and CNN.