At the break of dawn, around 4 a.m., the guards woke us by banging on the iron doors of the cells, ordering us to “pack all your belongings” without providing any further explanation. We emerged from under our blankets, leaving the warmth of sleep for the biting cold of January. We were disoriented and moving aimlessly, bumping into each other and voicing our thoughts aloud, wondering about our destination. Hope and anxiety, optimism and pessimism, clashed in our minds and on our tongues. Two possibilities alternated in the atmosphere of anticipation and caution: either release, or transfer to another prison.

Within an hour, everyone had finished packing their clothes and personal belongings. At this point, the more pessimistic opinion began to dominate, and was cautiously expressed by some: they are transferring us to Tadmor Prison!

Initially, this suggestion seemed based on weak reasoning. Most of us had spent many years in prison and had already been tried. Only a small minority still awaited trial. Those who were sentenced had not yet completed their terms, ruling out the possibility of a mass release—unless there was a general amnesty. If it were an amnesty, the procedures would have been different: they would not have woken us at dawn, and most importantly, they would have announced the restoration of our freedom. The hurried demand to pack our belongings suggested a transfer to another prison. Yet, the notion of transferring us specifically to Tadmor seemed illogical. If they deemed us fit for that prison, it would have made sense to send us there at the start of our detention, or at least after our trials before the State Security Court, especially since some of us had only a few years or months left to serve. One of us, Yassin al-Haj Saleh—who would later become a renowned writer—had completed his full sentence of 15 years and was expecting his release any day.

All these questions ceased when the bus carrying us departed Damascus, taking the desert road northeastward. The destination became clear: the infamous Tadmor Prison, about which we had heard so much.

It was not the irrationality of this measure that caused our mental disarray. Instead, it was the defense mechanisms in our subconscious minds working to shield us from the terror that the thought of Tadmor Prison evoked in every Syrian.

Tadmor Prison, before the early 1980s, was a “disciplinary” facility for punishing military deserters or those who had committed serious crimes. However, after the Muslim Brotherhood’s uprising in the early 1980s, thousands of Islamists, along with other political detainees, were sent there. Torture became a daily routine—boundless torture that sometimes ended with the victim’s death. Others faced execution after summary trials that lasted only minutes. Those sent to Tadmor Prison would not be heard from again; there were no visits, and no answers about their fate from the security authorities. If one was lucky enough to be released years later—often more than a decade later—they would emerge as a broken human being, both physically and mentally, merely awaiting death.

There were 30 prisoners on the bus, representing three political factions: the Communist Labor Party, to which I belonged; the Syrian Communist Party – Political Bureau; and the Baath Party’s Iraqi wing. All of us had been sentenced by the State Security Court, with varying lengths of sentences depending on when we had been arrested. The management of the Political Security Wing in Adra Prison, Damascus, had excluded those still awaiting trial from this journey, leaving them behind.

Gradually, we would come to understand why we were being transferred to Tadmor Prison on this morning of January 3, 1996. In mid-December 1995, a committee of three political security officers, all ranked generals, had visited us. They met with each of us individually, offering a presidential pardon on two conditions: that we renounce political activism and that we collaborate with the security apparatus as informants. The vast majority rejected both conditions, while a small number agreed—mostly those accused of affiliation with the Iraqi Baath Party’s right-wing faction, though not all of them.

This refusal, it seemed, was the reason for our transfer to Tadmor Prison. The transfer was a form of delayed “discipline” or an attempt to break the spirit of those not subdued by years of imprisonment. Yet the punishment applied to everyone, adhering to the military principle that “punishment is collective, but reward is selective.” One of the motivations for this decision might have been what the three generals observed in our wing: a sense of ease among the prisoners. They saw dried vegetable strings—eggplants, peppers, and more—hung on the walls as winter provisions. It is likely the officers attributed the prisoners’ rejection of the humiliating conditional release to these “comfortable” prison conditions and concluded that we needed harsher measures to “break us”.

Their solution was to transfer us to Tadmor Prison, where daily violence, humiliation, and absolute isolation would, in their view, ensure our submission and acceptance of their terms. They likely believed that since we would all be released after completing our sentences—whether in months or years—we needed to be so broken and fearful that we would pose no future threat. This assumes that we were a threat in the first place! This reasoning reflects how the regime, especially President Hafez al-Assad, viewed dealing with dissent. In matters involving the release of political prisoners, he held the final word.

I will recount the details of the interview I had with the officers before the decision to transfer us. The three men sat behind a table glancing at documents before addressing me. One of them asked, “Are you [name]?” I confirmed I was, and he began questioning me about the details before him: my political affiliation, the college I was studying in before my arrest, the date of my arrest, the length of my sentence, and so on. Then he looked up and said something along these lines:

“The world has changed a lot since your arrest. The communist regime in Russia and Eastern Europe has fallen. Syria has also changed. The president has decided to grant you a pardon. You will be able to return to your normal life, and to your family. Surely, the years in prison have given you time to reflect. Have your ideas also changed?”

I answered simply, “No, I haven’t changed.”

They exchanged puzzled looks, and another officer took over, saying, “Collaborate with us, and you’ll be released!” I again replied with “No.” He then dismissed me from the room.

In reality, I had changed significantly. My views on socialism, democracy, and political activism had evolved. However, what remained steadfast and deeply ingrained was my stance against the Assad regime’s dictatorship, my understanding of its mechanisms for sustaining itself, and my belief in the necessity for political change in Syria. This was what the officers wanted me to change. In any case, I understood that my response to their question about “change” was less about intellectual or political considerations and more about personal dignity. They expected me to declare my submission and surrender to power. My refusal was therefore a way to maintain my self-respect rather than a declaration of rigid ideology against the profound global shifts that had indeed occurred since my arrest in 1983.

I must mention a specific detail from Yassin al-Haj Saleh’s interview, as it revealed early hints about the officers’ intention to transfer us to Tadmor Prison. At the time, however, we didn’t take it seriously. When they demanded he agree to the aforementioned conditions for his release, he responded, “You sentenced me to 15 years, and I’ve served every single one of them. You have nothing left to demand from me. I have the right to be released.”

They retorted, “You have no rights. We release you when we want. If you don’t agree to our conditions, we’ll send you to Tadmor Prison!”

Yassin, like the rest of us, dismissed this as an empty threat intended to intimidate him into compliance. None of us believed it would become a reality.

In Tadmor Prison

We spent about four hours being driven through the desert, our hands tied, under the guard of several members of the security branch. We were not subjected to any harassment during the journey. On the contrary, the security men advised us to get rid of anything we had that might lead to punishment when we arrived. This was the first open acknowledgment that we were heading to the prison whose mere mention instilled fear. The neighboring passengers on the bus whispered among themselves that we should prepare for “the welcoming”, which involved torture immediately upon arrival at the prison. We assumed this would most likely be the “tire” punishment.

The first surprise was that we were not forced into a tire to be beaten on the soles of our feet. The guards didn’t even search our bags when we arrived. Instead, they instructed us to line up in a single file, lower our heads, and close our eyes. They then led us this way through corridors to a cell, locked the iron door behind us, and left us to our confusion. Once we opened our eyes, we realized there were only 11 of us. We had no idea where the others had been taken.

After a while, they brought us blankets—each person received one worn-out blanket—and what they called a “mattress”, which was made of patched-up pieces of old blankets stitched together. It was no thicker than the blanket we were given to cover ourselves with. This meager bedding would accompany us through the coming years.

We soon discovered the shar’aqa, a square opening in the ceiling of the cell that exposed us to the view of the guards who rotated their shifts on the roof. They intervened whenever they wished by issuing orders, threats, or curses. In Tadmor, prisoners were completely vulnerable both inside and outside their cells.

Early the next morning, the guards opened the thick iron door and ordered us to come out naked except for our underwear. The “welcoming” we thought they had spared us the previous day—perhaps because we were long-term prisoners who had spent years in other prisons before being brought here—was about to begin. We were naked, blindfolded, and shivering in the bitter cold of January, trembling from fear too as we listened to the sound of whippings and the screams of pain from those who preceded us. When my turn came, they forced me into a car tire so that my head, shoulders, and legs protruded. They lifted my legs and began whipping the soles of my feet with what is known as the “quadruple cable,” a type of reinforced rubber belt with metal wires. When I received the first strike, I felt my heart clench, my breath stop, and I thought I would surely die after just a few lashes. The combination of the blow’s force, the cable’s rigidity, and my body’s position within the tire could easily have been lethal.

We received 100 lashes each. We know that because some counted while waiting for their turn.

But I didn’t die. None of us did. After the tire punishment, we were ordered to get dressed. Walking on the cement floor afterward was painful, but the relief of finishing the “welcoming” and putting on clothes outweighed the pain. They ordered us back to the cell to fetch our belongings. When we entered, we found our things scattered across the floor. We collected them and wrapped them in the blankets and mattresses. Then, blindfolded and heads bowed, we were led down corridors to another cell, where we would stay from that day forward.

This new cell was called the “Infirmary Cell,” perhaps because it had been used previously for that purpose. Since then, because of the enormous number of prisoners and shortage of space, it had been converted into another cell in which to detain the miserable. The cell design was peculiar, consisting of two connected sections that formed an obtuse angle. Perhaps this was because two original structures had later been connected. The shar’aqa was in the ceiling of the front half of the cell, starting at the iron door, so the rear half was not visible to the guards. Naturally, we arranged our mattresses closely together in the hidden back section so as to avoid constant observation. We remained this way for months until one of the guards noticed. He asked why we were sleeping there, then ordered us to move to the front section and to remain under the shar’aqa at all times.

There was a bathroom separated from the front section by a wall, with an entrance but no door. Other than that, we found that previous prisoners had braided thin ropes from bread bags and used them to create nets hung on the walls to store clothes. There was also a long rope stretched between two walls for hanging laundry. Finally, there was a single light bulb mounted high on one of the walls. If the bulb burned out, we had to pay for a replacement. On one occasion, they even made us pay for a new door lock! We had previously faced similar humiliation when they made us bear some of the costs of our imprisonment. For instance, in 1992, during our transfer from Aleppo Prison to Adra Prison in Damascus, one of the Political Security officers escorting us began collecting “ticket fares from the passengers”. I happened to have no money. That’s what I told the officer when he asked me to contribute. I was glad to not be able to pay. However, the prisoner next to me paid on my behalf, which greatly annoyed me, and I told him so.

The daily routine for opening the dormitory door revolved around meal times, which came twice a day, sometimes three. Twice a week, they would provide dinner as well as the two usual meals. There was also the daily “inspection”, around noon. Inspection meant a headcount: the sergeant, accompanied by several guards, would enter to count us and ensure that all were present. We were ordered to stand in two rows facing the wall, heads bowed, eyes closed. During the first inspection, one of the guards slapped Aram Karabet on the neck and said, “You’re the dormitory head, aren’t you?”

The dormitory head was the one addressed by the guards whenever they entered or gave orders through the shar’aqa. During inspections, the sergeant would ask him for the headcount, and he had to respond with the number and the phrase, “The dormitory is all here, Sergeant.” “Sergeant” was a generic title used for any guard addressing us, regardless of their actual rank or even if they had no rank at all. For us, everyone was a “Sergeant” unless otherwise stated. This ambiguity was the system in Tadmor Prison, where an unknown number of faceless and nameless “Sergeants” represented the ruling authority, and an equally unknown number of faceless and nameless prisoners represented the people. It was a microcosm of the regime itself: the omnipotent ruler, Hafez al-Assad, well-known by name and face, contrasted with the opaque, secretive regime operating in the shadows, often at night. Few knew the names or faces of the inner circle surrounding the president.

Being appointed as dormitory head was a burden for Aram for a long time, as he was held responsible for any violations in the dormitory and was regularly subjected to beatings. If anyone knocked on the dormitory door for any reason, he had to be ready to respond loudly through the closed door unless instructed to open the small slot in the door. As a result, Aram was in a constant state of alert, pacing a few meters back and forth to the door, crouching behind it if the usual times for its opening approached or if he heard footsteps outside. Conditions changed over a year later when Mazen Shamsin received the first visit to the dormitory. This happened when his family finally managed to secure permission following numerous previous attempts. Generally, visits were prohibited for everyone. During that visit, which brought joy to our hearts, a Sergeant nicknamed “Duraykish”, who was known to Mazen’s family, sat with them. As a result, Mazen gained some influence over this Sergeant, at least to the extent Tadmor Prison allowed. Eventually, Mazen, showing the bravery and nobility that he would demonstrate again later, asked the Sergeant to appoint him as dormitory head instead of Aram. The Sergeant agreed, relieving Aram from the constant stress he had been transmitting to us.

That Sergeant had the nickname Duraykish for the following reason: the water supply to the dormitory was once cut off for a few days due to some excavation work. The dormitory head requested water, and the Sergeant,with the peculiar sense of humor known among the military, ordered his subordinates to “bring them Duraykish water”. Duraykish is a town in the hills of north west Syria known for its mineral water.

Exercise time – known in Syrian prisons as “breathing” – was irregular; months could pass without exercise, or it might come twice in one week. The granting of exercise time was arbitrary, just like the inconsistent food distribution routine. Each dormitory had its courtyard, smaller than the dormitory itself, covered with barbed wire and watched by two armed guards. The duration of exercise was equally arbitrary, ranging from half an hour to several hours of torment. The guards above would either order us to sit on the ground against the wall in two tightly packed rows, eyes closed, heads bowed, or force us to do “military exercises” such as “duck walking,” the “Russian dance” (or Exercise Nine), and push-ups (Exercise Six). We had to continue until they instructed us to stop. These exercises were genuine torture that none of us could sustain, given our bodies were emaciated by malnutrition and the harsh conditions. If the person performing the exercise faltered, or their stomach touched the ground during Exercise Six, the guard would say, “Teach yourself!”

This “teaching” system persisted throughout our years in Tadmor. This meant the “learner” would be punished with beatings when the dormitory door was opened. While breakfast was distributed, the patrol leader would ask the dormitory head about the “learners” and order them out for beatings on the soles of their feet. At one stage, which lasted for months, this torture occurred daily. If no “learners” were designated, the guards would arbitrarily select four or five people to be punished. On one occasion, Abdullah Qabbara (Abu Najm), a man around 60 years old, was chosen on two consecutive days. Mazen Shamsin volunteered to go in his place the second time. This was a display of courage and nobility that not everyone could muster, as the number of lashes was unpredictable. Injuries, permanent damage, or even death, either by intent or accident, were not beyond the bounds of possibility.

Because of this, we wished for our “right” to exercise to be revoked.

Another occasion for leaving the dormitory was to pay the “purchase bill”. The guards noted what we needed, such as toothpaste, cigarettes, and other basic items, approximately every three months. After a few days, whatever was available would arrive, and then someone would be called to settle the payment. All our money was confiscated and kept in “deposits”. When one of us who had a balance went out to settle, the amount due was deducted from their balance—essentially subtracting a number from another number on paper, as we never saw or handled the money ourselves. The dormitory’s total balance was sufficient for a long time, and sporadic visits by Mazen, the well-known translator Hareeth al-Nabhan, and the renowned doctor and writer Rateb Shabo added funds to the balance. However, going out to settle the bill was also an opportunity to receive random beatings, not only from the military police guards but even from the “bathtenders” or “servants”— that is, the non-political prisoners, often personnel from the prison’s military section, who handled tasks under the guards’ supervision like distributing food.

The food was extremely meager, except for bread, which was often sufficient and even more than sufficient. The cooked food alternated between bulgur or rice, almost devoid of fat, served with tomato broth containing either unpeeled potatoes, white beans, or peas. However, the “speedy” distribution among the dormitories often led to strange divisions of the contents: a few pieces of potato, for instance, would often arrive in a large tub of broth to be shared among all the dormitory inmates.

Several months after our initial placement in the dormitory, 11 more comrades were brought in, making it the dormitory for all the Communists from both parties. As for the remaining eight who were accused of being from the Iraqi Baath Party, we never saw them again.

We received our meals in plastic bowls, including tea for breakfast. A single prisoner’s breakfast typically consisted of half an egg or less, a small spoonful of labneh or tahini halva, 5–6 olives, or a spoonful of jam. The internal distribution of food was done with precision due to these extremely meager quantities.

The process of receiving food was challenging, as it involved interaction with authority—that is, with the Sergeants and the servants—and anything could be expected. The Sergeants had a bizarre obsession with speed, as if the task of distributing food were as urgent as catching a plane or a train. This was in a place where time was both abundant and stagnant.

The dormitory inmates took turns performing the chore of collecting meals in teams of three. As meal time approached, they would carry their bowls and wait anxiously behind the iron door. When the moment arrived, the sergeant would bang on the door and yell, “Pull the door, you…!” (Insert any harsh insult of choice, as that was their standard way of addressing us.) Pulling was necessary to slide the bolt out of its lock and open the door.

The assigned team would rush out one by one, heads down, eyes closed, leaping over the raised iron threshold. The bowls were filled with food, and they would quickly return inside. During this brief but stressful process, one had to ensure not to trip over the door threshold or spill any food from the bowl. If someone made such a mistake, they would face harsh slaps from the sergeant or be ordered to lick up the spilled food from the floor. Worse, they might be assigned for “teaching” (punishment) later, which would involve the infamous “tire” torture. Throughout the entire process, the Sergeant shouted constantly: “Faster, you…!”

Once, I timed the entire process with my watch. It took exactly 11 seconds. To this day, I am baffled by this incredible speed. The door could only allow one person at a time. If each person took one second to exit and slightly longer to re-enter while carrying a bowl that could easily spill, more than eight seconds would be accounted for. That left just three seconds for the actual food to be served!

Washing and shaving also deserve a few words. As mentioned earlier, we arrived during the harshest cold of the depths of winter. None of us even considered washing for a week or more, as there was no hot water in Tadmor Prison, unlike in Aleppo and Adra prisons. However, necessity eventually forced us to act. A few volunteers began washing early in the morning using ice-cold water. Gradually, others followed.

Sleeping hours were mandatory, from 7 PM to 7 AM. We would wake up at 6 AM, take turns entering the bathroom, and wash—most of us daily—before the guard above the dormitory woke up. We would perform basic body-warming exercises before washing to brace ourselves for the cold.

As for shaving, we were initially ordered to shave twice a week, which later increased to three times because the sergeant constantly complained about the “length” of our hair, even though we shaved it to the skin with clippers.

During the designated 12-hour sleeping period, it was strictly prohibited to enter the bathroom to relieve oneself. A night shift watchman was assigned in the dormitory, rotating every two hours with the change of guards. This watchman served as the substitute for the dormitory head, being the one addressed by the guard above, who might whimsically decide to torment the prisoners. This could involve targeting the night watchman or “disciplining” a sleeping prisoner under the pretense that they had turned over in their sleep or had sought to use the bathroom, which was considered a grave offense.

Despite this constant surveillance, we managed to steal private moments away from the guards’ scrutiny. We gathered in small groups, whispering to each other to reminisce about memories, share dreams of life after release, or discuss whatever news reached us through the al-Baath newspaper, which was distributed daily. The paper contained everything except actual news. We even devised our own games. I crafted a chess set that became widely popular. The board was made from interwoven strips of brown and white cigarette carton paper to form alternating squares, and the pieces were cut from cardboard using a needle. Though flat, the pieces resembled traditional chess pieces.

Three of my companions asked me to teach them Turkish. I relied on words from remembered songs or fragments of poetry to build the lessons. For writing, we used empty toothpaste tubes, sharpening their edges against the wall to make them function like pencils. Sometimes we divided into two teams and played charades, recalling names of famous figures, literary characters, or film stars, and we worked together to solve the puzzles.

All conversations were conducted in whispers, out of the guards’ hearing, as talking was strictly forbidden both inside the dormitory and in the courtyard. We spoke only when directly addressed by the sergeant, replying as succinctly as possible.

Twice, we stayed up later than the usual 7 PM curfew. The first occasion was when the sergeant, via the dormitory head, ordered us to write essays on ninth-grade topics! We understood that this was likely for a child of one of the prison officials, perhaps of the warden or his assistant. Their private tutor had likely assigned nine essay topics for the student to memorize, anticipating one of them might appear in the exam. We were provided with paper and pens, divided the topics among ourselves, and worked late into the night. We talked and laughed audibly as we exchanged and read the essays we had written.

The second instance was when one of the inmates mentioned earlier, possibly Mazen, received a visit from his mother. She brought a large quantity of food that we needed to consume quickly before it spoiled in the heat of the desert summer. The dormitory head requested permission from the sergeant for us to stay up and eat, which was granted. That night, we indulged in delicious food the like of which we hadn’t tasted in years. Mazen’s mother even brought a fish dish!

I was released from Tadmor Prison on June 9, 1998, after spending about two and a half years there and a total of fifteen years and three months in detention. Prisoners were released individually as their sentences ended, except for Yassin, who served an additional year beyond his sentence before being freed. And other comrades who hadn’t yet completed their terms, along with those who weren’t sent to Tadmor with our group, continued to arrive after their trials concluded.

Liberation

Starting in February 1998, releases of those whose sentences had ended were halted. Thus five of us remained together until the doors were reopened, and we were released together on June 9.

I arrived in Aleppo late at night. The next morning I went out early to see the city I had lived in before my arrest. I wandered its streets for hours, rekindling my familiarity with it. My walk ended at a café by the former Queiq River. The “Queiq Beautification” area had been developed after the river’s dry bed, once a source of foul odors and disease, had been covered over.

I sat at a table, drinking coffee and reading the headlines of al-Hayat, a newspaper I would later write for. It was a beautiful spring morning, and I attempted to use its tranquility to forget the unforgettable routines of Tadmor Prison. Soon some elderly women, dressed up and adorned, gathered one by one at the table next to mine. They engaged in lively conversation and laughter. With my back to them, I could hear their voices but couldn’t make out any clear words. To me, the collective sound was like the chirping of birds in the trees. I felt a joy beyond description. This was the ordinary life I had longed for over the years. That’s what I thought to myself as I set the newspaper aside and immersed myself in the bliss of that moment.