Syrian Woman writes to Konstruct Telemedia to let us show the world the hidden picture of Syrian ‘Suriyya‘. The woman, who on a virtual meeting with our editor broke in tears while remembering her past has sent us her only wish, To contribute to lives of thousands of woman who’re being brought to Syrian Extremist camps and sold under the Sun like commodities.
She has been maintaining a journal, in Arabic — Alsama’ ghayr almunqatiea [السماء غير المنقطعة] translated means The Unbroken Sky. This is a brief introduction of the tale and moreover The traumatic lives of women like herself. We urge our audience to contribute in this eye opening initiative by Konstruct.
Title: The Unbroken Sky (Excerpt)
Content Warning: Themes of captivity, psychological trauma, and systemic oppression.
The dust here has a memory. It clings to my skin, to the frayed edges of my hijab, to the cracks in the clay walls of this room where shadows outnumber the living. They call this place al-Mu’askar—the Camp—but it is not a place. It is a machine. A machine that grinds bones into silence.
When they brought me here, they took my name first. Amina, my mother called me, a name that once meant safe. Now, I am Sabiyya—their word for what I’ve become. The commander’s house sits at the camp’s edge, a fortress of mud and rusted wire. Eleven other women shuffle through its rooms, eyes fixed on the ground, their voices buried deep inside them. We are not wives. We are not people. We are tasks on a list: cook, clean, endure.
The commander’s breath smells of stale tobacco and onions. He never strikes me where the bruises will show. “Allah wills obedience,” he says, as if God would recognize his face. At night, I count the stars through the crack in the roof—not to wish on them, but to remember their names. Al-Thurayya. Al-Jawza. My father taught me the constellations when I was small, his finger tracing the sky over Damascus. The stars, he said, are maps for the lost.
The women here speak in codes. A dropped plate becomes a symphony. A glance at sunset becomes a pact. Fatima, the oldest among us, whispers stories of the world outside—of protests in Idlib, of journalists who still write our truths. “They will hear us,” she says, pressing a smuggled pencil stub into my palm. I hide it beneath a loose floor tile, next to a dried fig from the tree outside my childhood home. Both are seeds. Both are weapons.
Author’s Note:
This fictional narrative seeks to honor the resilience of survivors while condemning the systems that enable such atrocities. Proceeds from this work would support organizations like Syria Civil Defence or Women Now for Development. Trauma deserves context, not consumption.
