Lelun Afrin
My name is Layla, and this is my story—a tale of love, loss, endurance, and a fragile hope for a brighter future. It begins in the tranquil days before Operation Olive Branch on Afrin region in northwestern Syria in March 2018, a turning point that forever altered my life and left indelible scars.
I lived a peaceful life with my loving husband, a successful merchant, and we were financially comfortable. Our joy reached its peak when we welcomed our daughter, Tala, shortly before the operation. She was the embodiment of our love and the greatest gift we could have asked for. But just two weeks after her birth, the sound of explosions shattered our peace, and fear gripped my heart.
As the days passed, the shelling intensified. My husband, despite my pleas, ventured to the town of Rajo to retrieve some equipment. My fears were realized when news broke of civilians and vehicles targeted on the roads. My husband and his colleague were caught in the chaos, their fate uncertain. Days later, I learned he had been detained at a checkpoint by armed groups.
Months turned into years, and I clung to the hope of seeing my husband again. But in 2020, another nightmare unfolded. Late one quiet evening, our home was stormed by armed men. They dragged me, my mother, and my young daughter from our home. Accusations of collaboration with opposing groups were leveled against us, and our lives became a cycle of interrogations, torture, and despair.
In detention, I faced inhumane conditions: beatings, starvation, and the constant threat of harm to my daughter. My mother, the pillar of our family, suffered a heart attack due to the relentless abuse, while I battled a nervous breakdown. My daughter, just two years old, endured the unthinkable. One night, she was given a drug that nearly claimed her life as I watched helplessly.
After enduring a year in detention, we were moved to an even more crowded prison. There, we witnessed unimaginable horrors—stories of abuse, death, and suffering. My father, a humble farmer, finally learned of our whereabouts. He sold everything he could and borrowed money to pay the exorbitant ransom demanded for our release.
Months later, we were freed. Stepping outside, I felt the sun on my face and the weight of freedom—a feeling I now understand as the most profound gift. Yet, the experience left deep wounds and memories I can never forget.
Today, I am still waiting. Waiting for my husband to return, waiting for justice for the many mothers and children who remain behind bars, and waiting for a day when my daughter Tala can grow up free from fear. This is my story—a story of suffering, survival, and the enduring hope that one day, the darkness will give way to light.