Terrified, Doaa ran as fast as she could. Not only was she still hiding the tabla and the loudspeaker, but the independence flag was also draped around her shoulders. There was no way she wouldn’t be arrested if she was caught. Doaa quickly rounded a corner and was momentarily out of sight of the police. She pounded on the first door she saw.
“Let me in,” she pleaded through the crack in the door, “Please hide me or they’ll arrest me!”
When the door opened, it felt as if God himself had heard her plea. A woman about the same age as her mother embraced her and quickly pulled her inside, closing the door to sounds of gunfire. She rushed Doaa to the back of the house.
“Change your clothes now. Here, take my daughter’s abaya and put on a different veil. If they come, I’ll say you’re my daughter.”
But Doaa refused to take the woman’s clothes. She didn’t plan to stay long and also didn’t want to put the woman in further danger. Instead Doaa sat huddled in the corner of the room, alone and shaking, until the sound of bullets outside died down. Every few minutes, the woman came in to check on her: “Stay here until nightfall, binti [my daughter], then it will be safe to go home. We can hide your things for another day.”
When darkness fell an hour later, Doaa thanked the woman for saving her life. Knowing she had to return home, Doaa tentatively opened the front door and stepped outside. Security officers still roamed the streets but, having shed the independence flag, Doaa didn’t looked suspicious in her abaya. All the officers saw was an ordinary Syrian girl walking with her head bent modestly down. Doaa’s home was mere steps from her hiding place, and now so close to safety, Doaa walked as quickly as she could without attracting attention. She saw her oldest sister, Ayat, standing outside.
“Doaa,” Ayat screamed from a distance, “where have you been? We’ve been worried sick about you!”
Security officers turned toward them, and Doaa saw them looking at her with sudden interest. Terrified that they might recognize her, she ran for her house. The moment she reached Ayat, Doaa grabbed her sister’s arm.
“Shut up, will you?” she hissed as she looked over her shoulder. “You’re drawing their attention.” The men were now staring at the girls and pointing. Doaa and Ayat continued toward the house, and as soon as they reached the door, Hanaa pulled them both inside, hugging Doaa close to her. She had been overcome with worry when the other girls had come home without Doaa and was terrified that she’d been arrested.
As her family gathered around her, Doaa recounted what had happened. Her siblings were impressed by her bravery, and Hanaa was too relieved to be angry.
“Habibti [my love],” Hanaa said, holding Doaa close and stroking her hair, “I know you are brave, but you are still a girl, and God knows what they’ll do to you if they catch you. You must be careful.”
Doaa turned toward her father, expecting him to embrace her in the same way her mother had. But instead, he stood with his fists clenched and his face red with fury. Doaa took a step toward him, then stopped, recognizing the anger in his body language. Shokri’s temper didn’t show itself often, but when it did, it was fearsome. She had never before seen such anger in his eyes. Doaa knew that this time she’d gone too far.
“I forbid you from ever going to another demonstration again,” he thundered.
Saja and Nawara shrank away from him while watching Doaa apprehensively. Hanaa tried to calm his temper, while Doaa began to cry in frustration. She couldn’t bear the thought of staying away from the protests. But Shokri was adamant. He was terrified of what might have happened had Doaa been arrested. There were rumors that girls had been raped in the streets in front of their parents for stepping out of line and disobeying the law. Other women were arrested and never heard from again. Shokri decided that he would lock Doaa in the house if that’s what it took to keep her out of the streets and prevent her from endangering herself. For the first time in Doaa’s life, he turned his back on her tears. “That’s my final word,” he stated resolutely.
Despite her stubbornness, deep down Doaa was still a traditional Syrian girl and knew when she had to obey her father. She knew she couldn’t get around it this time, so she reluctantly agreed to stay indoors, but her acquiescence wouldn’t last; her heart remained with the revolution.
THREE
The Siege of Daraa