Many thanks to Burhan for speaking at our event The Human Cost of War on 19th July. You can read Burhan’s testimony about her experience of war below, the video of our speakers is also available.
I come from the north of Syria, from the ancient city of Aleppo—the place where I was born, grew up, and lived until 2014. It was a simple life, revolving around friends, family, school, and eventually university. Everything seemed ordinary until the day we decided to demand our rightful freedom of speech and the control of Syria’s resources. We wanted to expose those who were stealing from the Syrian people.
“We want freedom, justice, and a new way of life!”
The year 2011 marked the start of the revolution in Syria. I took to the streets with peaceful protests, calling for the very essence of freedom because we were tired of being silenced and having no say in how our country should be governed. The regime of Assad had tight control over everything, treating Syria like their personal possession instead of governing for the people. We chanted with all our might, “We want freedom, justice, and a new way of life!” Little did we know the consequences that awaited us.
When I was in one of the peaceful protests, holding nothing but my empty hands, the Assad regime militias started shooting at us with live bullets. The sound of gunfire shocked me, and I couldn’t believe they would resort to such violence against their own people. In that moment, my sister grabbed my arm, panic in her eyes, and urged, “We have to go, now!”
But the most horrifying day was when the regime brought a missile truck just outside our house. It was around 9 am and I was in my room, and suddenly, a deafening sound filled the air, followed by white dust surrounding our house. I was terrified, thinking our house would collapse from the bombing. Tears streamed down my face, and I feared for my life. When the dust cleared out we saw the missile truck from the window. The truck stayed there for two long hours, firing eight missiles, each one claiming innocent lives just a couple of kilometres away. The memory of that day will never fade from my mind.
Another haunting experience was witnessing the first Russian Sukhoi plane flying low and then unleashing a monstrous sound, while releasing a missile striking another part of the city, followed by a dark smoke. I knew then that innocent lives were being targeted, and I couldn’t help but feel helpless and afraid for my fellow Syrians.
More and more memories come back while I am typing this—I survived 2 sniper shots, I crossed the deadliest path Karaj Al Hajez, and I lost my dad. I can’t talk about all these memories without thinking, why weapons? Why did we invent them? Why are we still using and developing them?
“Our unity became our shield against the horrors we faced every day.”
Amidst the chaos, we found strength in each other. My community—friends, family, my husband, and fellow activists—became a source of support and hope during the darkest hours. Our unity became our shield against the horrors we faced every day.
As the years passed, the weight of the conflict grew heavier, and the need to protect my loved ones pushed me to make a hard decision—to leave Aleppo behind. Leaving felt like leaving a piece of my soul in those ancient streets, but it was the only way to ensure safety and a chance at a better life for my family.
Leaving Syria didn’t mean forgetting. It didn’t mean giving up on the dream of a free and peaceful homeland. Instead, it made me a stronger advocate for peace, justice, and human rights. My experiences in Aleppo became a driving force to share our stories, to let the world know about the suffering and resilience of the Syrian people.
“I will keep fighting for peace and belonging.”
In a new land, I found kindred spirits who understood the pain and struggles of displacement. We became a family bound by the desire for a world without violence and oppression. My story became a voice for those who couldn’t speak, a plea for understanding and compassion.
Here in the UK, the faces around me are kind, and the people welcoming, but a part of me will always feel like a visitor—an eternal wanderer in search of a place to belong. The fleeting smiles and genuine hospitality remind me that humanity’s compassion knows no borders, but there’s a profound longing to be embraced by the familiarity of my own homeland.
I long to walk the streets where my father and I once walked, to breathe in the essence of my past and feel memories that have been preserved in the corners of my mind. The thought of never again seeing these roads, brings aches to my heart. I miss the sight of buildings that hold stories from my childhood—the places I visited and schools I went to. Which I can only revisit in my memories. While I seek to build new memories in a foreign land, I hold the memories from my homeland close to my heart.
Through it all, as I navigate the complexities of life in a foreign land, I carry with me the resilience of my people, the history of Aleppo, and the determination to go ahead despite the challenges.
Though I may never fully know the feeling of settlement in my life, I will keep fighting for peace and belonging.