How a Syrian War Criminal Was Brought to Justice — in Germany

January 25, 2022

When refugees won historic convictions against the Syrian torture regime, they also opened a new front in the global fight for human rights.

On the night of July 20, 2021, Ruham Hawash lay awake unsure of where she was, mistaking her hotel bed in Koblenz, Germany, for the cramped and filthy cell in Damascus where, in 2012, she was detained and brutalized. The next day, in a German court, she would see and testify against the Syrian colonel who oversaw her torture.

The trial was history-making. Two Syrian state-security officers had been arrested and charged in Germany for crimes against humanity, including torture, murder and sexual assault. It was the first time anyone from the Syrian regime would be tried for its crimes. [full story]

Her New Life Started With a Robbery on a First Date

This is the fourth dispatch from a project following a mother and her four children who fled Syria in 2015 and are now rebuilding their lives spread across four European cities. Read more about the project here.

On Maisam and Marvin’s first official date in June 2016, they were so at ease with each other that they fell asleep together on the riverbank in Heidelberg, Germany; neither of them woke as thieves robbed them in the dark.

Maisam, then 20, and Marvin, 21, had watched the sunset at the Neckarwiese, a riverfront park with a view of the picturesque city and its ruined castle, talking into the night. For Maisam, a Syrian who had arrived in Germany only nine months prior, and Marvin, a German from nearby Hoffenheim, English was their common language. (Out of concern for her family’s security in a new country and the safety of her relatives in Syria, Maisam asked to use only first names.) [full story]

War Made Her a Refugee. Now She’s ‘Home,’ in Amsterdam’s Counterculture.

In late June, Souad, 27, was looking for a spot to watch from as she wove through the crowd that showed up for “The Cunnilingus Comedy Show (Vol. 1)” at Amsterdam’s famed Vrankrijk, a former squat turned cafe and event venue. Any proceeds were going to a collective run by and for queer refugees. First to the mic was the organizer Mikaela Burch, 28, a financial compliance officer who hoped to become a professional comedian. As Souad listened, Burch told the audience that because she was a “poor black lesbian from Detroit,” she was officially President Trump’s worst nightmare. “He’s not going to come grabbing on this [expletive]!” she said to laughter. Burch was followed by acts that included comedians from around the world; the sole Dutch performer used a wheelchair and introduced herself as a lesbian with Tourette’s.This is the Amsterdam where Souad feels safe and a sense of belonging. (Out of concern for her security in a new country and the safety of her relatives in Syria, Souad asked to use only her first name.) “They’re fighting for things I believe in,” she said. “Because it still feels like a squat and it’s part of the alternative scene in Amsterdam, this means a ‘community feel,’ and for sure no racistAfter leaving Syria seven years ago in a displacement that took her first to Jordan, then to Turkey, Greece and the Netherlands — where she bounced between five different refugee camps — Souad is looking to find herself much more than she is hoping to find a home, a concept that has become so unattainable that she has learned to live without it. While she begins to finally process what she has been through and how it has affected her and the decisions she has made, she is seeking out spaces defined by their commitment to principles whose values she has come to appreciate more with each country she has had to survive in. And even if the places through which she has already passed so readily defined her as only one thing — woman, Syrian, Arab, Muslim or refugee — she’s still not sure who she is and might yet be. [full story]

Moving Beyond the Label of ‘War Refugee’

In August 2015, Suhair and her children, Naela, then 26, Maisam, 19, and Yousef, 13, fled Syria to reunite with her daughter Souad, 22, risking a dangerous journey across 15 miles of the Aegean Sea in a motor-powered inflatable raft. They had one main goal: to all live together again in safety. They were willing to bear the many indignities that would come with the journey and with being Arab and Muslim and Syrian refugees — if it meant being together. But in the end, the five of them would be scattered in four different cities, across two different European countries. (Out of concern for their security in a new country and the safety of their relatives in Syria, they asked The Times not to divulge their last name).

They joined one million others who also decided in 2015 to escape the catastrophes home had become. The overwhelming majority of them were Syrians, Iraqis and Afghans. While their countries had come apart in different and specific ways, their disasters shared some common origins, including the ruinous consequences of decades of American wars and sanctions. [full story]

To Stay or to Flee: A Syrian Mother’s Impossible Choice

At the end of her shift in January 2019, Suhair was listening intently to Bjorn Muller, a former line chef at the Michelin-starred restaurant Inter Scaldes, as he explained in Dutch to her and the other kitchen trainees what each did well that day and what they could improve upon. Though she was not 100 percent sure what was being said, Suhair laughed when the others did. She had been studying the language for more than a year, but those lessons about van Gogh and Rembrandt, Dutch birthday traditions, the Netherlands’ history and the requisite forms for navigating its bureaucracy weren’t proving entirely relevant here at Orionis, a work-placement agency in Vlissingen, a seaside town in the southern province of Zeeland. Muller was talking about menus, work flow and hygiene as he gestured to notes he had made in washable marker on the stainless-steel countertops, where they prepare each day’s lunch.

The kitchen at Orionis is a vocational-training site, the heart of a fully functional restaurant and a cafeteria for the agency’s employees and students. The goal is to make the people who train here, who now include Syrian refugees like Suhair, employable in any restaurant. “I’ve never done this before; all my life was house and kids,” Suhair said in Arabic. “The last thing I thought about was Suhair. But it’s not wrong to try new things.” (Out of concern for her security in a new country and the safety of her relatives in Syria, Suhair asked to use only her first name.) [full story]

The Road to Germany : $2400

JAN/FEB 2016

Each of the millions of Syrian refugees who have fled their brutalized, unrecognizable homeland did so for uniquely personal reasons — the regime bombarding cities, the Islamic State threatening a return to the dark ages, the loss of jobs in a crumbling economy. Yet their quests cohered around one purpose: They all wanted better lives.

Some set out on a complicated journey to Europe with a crude graphic — a flowchart of the route from Turkey to Germany — as a guide. In its rudimentary geometry, refugees saw an impossible dream. In its illustrated stick figures, kicking their heels upon reaching the final destination, they saw themselves. They allowed an image, powerful and meditative in its simplicity, to shape their personal stories.

FP has done the same. In the following story, the odyssey of several refugees — men, women, and children — is presented in the form of a nonfiction comic. Each panel is based on firsthand reporting gathered by journalist Alia Malek:   [full story]

Enduring Exile

OCT 14, 2013

Two years ago, in September, Anto’s neighbors warned him: it was time for him to go. He would no longer be safe in these hills above the city of Idlib in northwestern Syria. He knew better than to doubt them.

A descendant of Armenians from Ottoman Turkey, he had inherited a dormant vigilance that now came to life. Anto’s father used to tell him, repeating what had been passed down through four generations: “Like we came from Turkey, we may also one day leave from Syria.”

With his neighbors’ warnings in his ears, Anto scrambled to secure some cash. He started to quietly sell off whatever he could from Abu Artin, a restaurant and inn that his family had operated every spring and summer since 1938. His grandfather had built Abu Artin, named for Anto’s great-grandfather, high in these hills as an escape for Syrians living in the swelter of those months in the cities and towns below. The land offered fresh air, their kitchen delectable food, and the men—Anto and his father and grandfather before him—impromptu musical performances that had made them famous with customers.  [full story]