At the time, Hasan was so worn down by his ordeals -- his hair was partly gray, his face thin and lined -- that I took him for a man in his forties. It was a shock to learn that he was only 25.
"Now I Can Go Home Walking, Laughing"
I've told Hasan's story in Map of Hope and Sorrow: Stories of Refugees Trapped in Greece, the book I wrote with Eyad, but suffice it to say that, after many years of struggle, Hasan is now living in Germany and, in the wake of the fall of Assad, is full of hope for his country.
"Today, I remember my brother, my three cousins, a lot of my friends who died," he told me. "Some were killed by ISIS, some by the Kurdish militia, some by the regime. They were killed by different enemies, but they were fighting for the same cause -- to free Syria."
After a pause, he added, "Yes, I have lost a lot of friends, but now I can tell them: rest in peace, Syria is free. I am proud of you and I know you are proud of me. I know you are watching me from heaven. And I am happy for us. We will join you later, but first we will make sure to build a safe place for every Syrian and a better, democratic future for our children."
I've long been aware that Hasan always wanted to go back to Syria. He has never stopped missing it or his mother, who died while he was in Turkey, or his family, his language, and the city of Manbij. So, in the wake of the fall of Assad, I asked if he plans to return now that so much has changed.
"Going home was always my plan, but I never imagined that Bashar al-Assad would be gone," he answered. "So, my plan was to write a letter to leave when I was dead alone somewhere in a room in Europe, asking that my body be sent back to be buried in my hometown. So that was my plan on how to go home -- in a coffin. Now I can go home walking, laughing.
"The first thing I will do when I get back to Syria is I will kneel and kiss the ground and thank God for being on our side. We are free! We are rising again! Now I can walk the streets and smell the jasmine flower. Yes, I am going back home soon!"
Then Hasan spoke with more hope than I had heard in the six years I've known him.
"Maybe I will go and see my mother's grave. See my old friends and start something good for my community. Maybe I will look for a job in the new government. Or work more on my English and open a small school and become an English teacher. It's not easy, but it's possible. I've learned in the last ten years that nothing is impossible. You just have to fight for it, stick to it until you get it."
"First We Wanted Freedom. Now We Want Justice"
For all his hopes for a new Syria, Hasan is deeply disappointed that, in the wake of the collapse of his dictatorship, Assad managed to slip away and claim asylum in Moscow. "I'm sad that we didn't catch him so he can go to trial," Hasan told me. "I promise he will get a fair one. He's going to spend the rest of his life in prison. If not in this life, definitely in the afterlife. One of the reasons I like to believe in God is because I believe in justice."
My friend and co-author Eyad Awwadawnan, who found asylum in -- of all places! -- Iceland after a long ordeal in two refugee camps in Greece, is also concerned about justice and what the future might bring to Syria. Eyad was forced to flee Syria with his family after his uncle and several friends were killed, an experience he wrote about in 2018 when he was 23. After Assad fell, he, too, stayed up all night watching the news. Yet, his joy was tempered by concern.
"I can say that my happiness is incomplete because, even in its worst times, the regime has always found a way to benefit from the situation," he wrote me, echoing the distrust of Assad and his regime felt by every Syrian I know. "There will be chaos now and the chaos could end up covering up Assad's crimes."
Like Hasan, Eyad does not want to see Assad and his henchmen, the torturers and murderers, get away without consequence. As he put it, "First we wanted freedom. Now we want justice."
We then discussed the happiness so many Syrians feel on seeing their loved ones released from Assad's giant complex of prisons, notorious for their horrendous brutality. Records show that more than 100,000 women, men, and even children were whisked off to those grim citadels without trial or reason, often never to be heard from again. In Samos, I met a woman from the Syrian capital, Damascus, who told me that she had been arrested no less than seven times by the regime, raped and tortured, all for speaking out against Assad.
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