This excerpt was published by The Guardian on June 28, 2015.
Photo credit: The Guardian, Sedat Suna, EPA
The barbed wire lacerated my back. I was trembling uncontrollably. After long hours spent waiting for nightfall, to avoid attracting the attention of Turkish soldiers, I finally raised my head and gazed up at the distant sky, darkening to black. Under the wire fence marking the line of the border a tiny burrow had been dug out, just big enough for one person. My feet sank into the soil and the barbs mauled my back …

This piece is by Andrew Hussey, for The Observer, published June 28th 2015. Read the full article here.
Photo credit: Ed Alcock for The Observer.
As she sits at a cafe table in the 7th arrondissement – elegant and intense, waving around a Gitane for emphasis – it’s hard to imagine a more Parisian figure than the writer Samar Yazbek. Except that she is speaking to me mostly in her native Syrian Arabic (we use an interpreter). And for all her wit and charm, the stories she is telling me are horrifying. …

Only the narrative of horror seems to cancel the cultural diversity among the most impermeable Western civilisation and the Arab one

Mostafa Khalifa’s is a scream from the silence of the prisons of the regime, a cry to be heard with the hope of freeing the future.

The idea of “Syrian women for human development” SFD, came from the heart of the Revolution, the depth of tragedy and resistance against the oppression of the dictatorship on the one hand and that of religious fundamentalism on the other, when the word became insufficient.

The blazing sun gave the impression that the crowd fleeing death to Turkey was at the gates of hell: Children faces burned, human beings who lacked an arm or leg. And everywhere, the smell of rotting, festering wounds, poorly treated by lack of medicine.

We got in the camp after many difficulties. In the harsh light, children seemed to be crumbling clay statues. Tents were lined up, and all around, the foul water flowed in the gutters. The atmosphere was stifling. Almost all the refugees had looked absent, they all seemed to wait for something.