The story

The story

It is a story of death and life, not only mine but it was, in fact, repeated with almost every single member of the Syrian opposition who were forced to flee their beloved country from the late seventies to the mid eighties. Thousands and thousands were either led to the death in many direful prisons or, the luckier ones, to escape that horrible destiny. The break away from the Syrian Special Forces, which were dedicated to capture or to kill any one like me and many of my friends, was very dangerous. In my case it was a matter of ten yards separating me from an armed group of that too violent kind of barbaric branch of them. But, finally, as a Muslim man, I was –and strongly still- believed that my fate is already determined by his Al mighty Allah , and no power in this universe could cause a little harm to me if that was not fated on me before I was first created as a human been. They were more that ten armed agents, surrounding my house from three sides, and from the roof, the unique very narrow path where I managed to escape from was throw a vent to my uncle's house . I was just 18 years old, woke up by their knock on the door in that early and rainy morning of February 1981. That vent from the back of my home to my uncle's has taken me too far, to another life, a life of exile for decades; first to Damascus, the Syrian capital one night, Beirut for 40 days, Amman for one year, Baghdad for ten years, Amman again for ten years and then not finally to London for six years up to date. Now I m 46, with a family of six children living in London on the basis of political asylum, yes I may was lucky to survive this tragedy, but what about thousands of the victims who lost their lives in the Syrian prisons