Lelun Afrin
Like any young woman, I dreamt of my white wedding dress and my university graduation day, believing that in those moments, I would hold the entire world in my hands. I never asked for much—just a simple dress that reflected my heart and circumstances, a modest home with the man I love. But I never imagined that dreams could shatter under the weight of another displacement and the bitterness of distance.
This is how Yara describes her aspirations while recounting the impact of forced displacement on her life. She continues: “On March 18, 2018, my family and I were forcibly displaced from our hometown, Afrin, in northern Syria. Turkish-backed Syrian National Army factions overran our region as part of Operation ‘Olive Branch.’ In an instant, our lives turned upside down. The beautiful house I grew up in, the courtyard filled with trees and vines wrapped around its corners, the two olive trees under which my mother and I would sit—suddenly, everything was lost. Like the rest of my people, we had no choice but to flee. We sought refuge in the town of al-Ahdath, in the Shahbaregion of northern Aleppo, where thousands of other displaced families tried to build a new life in makeshift tents and crumbling houses—nothing like our home, but at least safer than living under constant threat of persecution and imprisonment.
Life in Shahba was far from easy. The town itself had already suffered the consequences of Syria’s long war, and resources were scarce. I was forced to abandon my high school education due to our financial struggles after displacement. But I refused to give up. Four years later, with the encouragement of my fiancé—who owned a small clothing shop—I made the decision to return to my studies. I finally passed my exams and was overjoyed to receive admission to the Faculty of Philosophy at Aleppo University. My dreams grew—of knowledge, of rebuilding a family with the man who had chosen to stand by me in this fragmented life.
I began preparing for my wedding quietly, trying to create joy despite our modest means. I picked out a simple yet elegant dress, gathered a few essentials for our small, rundown home, and held onto a dream of a warm and simple life. I often told my mother, ‘This is only temporary. One day, we will return to Afrin and rebuild our lives.’ My fiancé, Ahmed, and I set our wedding date for December 3, 2024. But fate had other plans.
Another Displacement
One cold evening in December, our neighbors called out in alarm. Caravans of people were fleeing toward northeastern Syria, while others rushed to Aleppo or even Afrin. Danger was closing in on us. The Syrian National Army factions—who had once occupied Afrin—had launched another military operation, now targeting al-Ahdath, the very place we had sought refuge in, hoping it would shield us from their oppression.
I barely had time to grab a few belongings and enough food to sustain us. As we prepared to leave, my father poured gasoline over the furniture and possessions we had gathered in our years of displacement. ‘They stole my home, my olive trees, my land,’ he said bitterly. ‘But this time, I won’t leave them a pillow.’
I climbed into the car with my mother and siblings, looking back at our makeshift home one last time. We left behind everything—including my wedding dress, still carefully laid out among our belongings. I watched it vanish in the flames before we drove away, our hearts heavy with grief.
As we fled toward northeastern Syria, I lost all contact with Ahmed. He had been staying in a village near Sherawaarea, adjacent to Afrin. After three days of relentless cold, hunger, and exhaustion, we finally arrived in Raqqa. Trembling with fear and uncertainty, I called my uncle, only to receive devastating news—Ahmed and his brother had been arrested. His parents had been forced to return to Afrin because they hadn’t managed to escape in time to join the convoy of fleeing civilians.
In that moment, I felt as if I had lost everything—my wedding, my home, my dreams. The man I was supposed to marry was imprisoned, accused under baseless charges simply for having lived in an area under the ‘wrong’ control. His parents had to pay a ransom—$4,000—to secure his and his brother’s release, the same amount we had saved for our wedding celebration.
A Right Delayed
And so, my dream remains suspended between exile and loss, indefinitely postponed with no promise of fulfillment. What I lost was not just a home or possessions, but a piece of my identity and the small hopes that made life bearable. My first displacement was only the beginning of an unending cycle of suffering, as if my fate were forever tied to uncertainty and forced departures.
My wedding dress is no longer just a garment—it has become a symbol of everything I have been deprived of. Of joy stolen before it could blossom. Of a life I have been forced to rebuild from nothing. And my fiancé—once my partner in hope—is now another victim, another witness to the cruel reality where the innocent must pay the price for merely existing.
I do not know when justice will prevail, when every displaced person will finally reclaim what is rightfully theirs. While some celebrate ‘liberation’ and call for justice for victims, we remain strangers without a homeland, unsure if we will ever be able to return without fear of imprisonment or persecution.
I know I am not alone. My story is the story of thousands of women who have lost their homes, their dreams, and their loved ones in this relentless war. From the first ‘Olive Branch’ operation that took our land to this second wave of displacement that shattered our hope of return, we have waited for justice—only to be met with another exile instead of the homecoming we longed for.
I may not have worn my wedding dress, nor graduated from the university I once dreamed of attending. I have not returned to Afrin to the joyous ululations of my people, celebrating the resilience that kept us going. But I still hold on to my right to dream, even if it remains a dream deferred.”