Meet Dr. Abo Saad, the surgeon you watched in For Sama as he was saving a pregnant woman and her infant

I’m Dr. Abo Saad. I have been a general surgeon since 1993 and I have now been living in both Idlib and Aleppo’s countryside since we were forcibly displaced from Aleppo. This is my story over the course of ten years of the revolution. 

Since day one of the revolution, I provided free urgent medical attention to the wounded, both in my personal clinic and private hospitals. Once an operation finished, we used to transfer the patients to private apartments to protect them from the regime forces. 

As the situation developed and Eastern Aleppo got out of the regime’s control, I kept working for free in my personal clinic and East Aleppo’s public hospital alongside Dr. Abdulsalam Al-daeef and Dr. Mahmoud Al-Hariri, who were both doing amazing work at the time. The regime used to mercilessly bomb civilian areas all the time. We did dozens of operations with little to no capacity. Resources and equipment were low - we had to use whatever we could find in the hospital to do the procedures as safely as possible. 

I remember that in the first Ramadan of the revolution, I was the only surgeon doctor in the hospital and we received more than 40 injuries in one wave. We worked painfully hard, for too long. It almost felt like dying. One day, I was doing an open abdominal operation for a young man and during the operation, someone came to us terrified, saying. “Doctor, wrap up quickly! The regime forces will be in the hospital in an hour”. It was a very difficult situation. I turned to my surgical assistant and the anesthetic technician and said, “Will you continue this operation with me?” They said, “We’re with you no matter what”. We continued the operation and the young man survived. We had been lucky that time - that day, the regime forces fell back and were unable to enter Eastern Aleppo. 

As the regime’s attack on civilians escalated, people were in even more need of medical attention. I founded the first clinic in eastern Aleppo along with a dentist, internal doctor and gynecologist to provide medical care for people, and later we added a team for vaccinating children. I used to frequently go to Al-Quds hospital, it was a small clinic at that time, but then it was expanded into a hospital by Dr. Hamzah and Dr. Abdulsalam Al-Daeef. It was then that I transferred there to open the surgery department and start working at Al-Quds hospital.

I still remember a man in his sixties who had been shot in the chest by a sniper from the regime’s forces. He was barely able to walk when he arrived at the hospital. That morning, the generator was broken and I did a chest operation for him without any light, except small lighters and flashes! Fortunately, the man was discharged to return home once he was doing better. 

What made the people feel even more desperate, were all the tortured and killed detainees that the regime sent to us by the river. A lot of the people who had worked on pulling the bodies from the river came to me with nervous breakdowns. 

I used to do normal routine surgeries in Al-Quds hospital but when the shelling got more intense and the regime used barrel bombs on civilians we had massacre after massacre. There was a river of blood belonging to children, women, and the elderly. 

I always felt like the staff at Al-Quds hospital were like my children and my siblings - I was the one who fixed the disputes among staff members or between the staff and management. 

When the hospitals in the countryside needed a surgeon, I was always there, because saving lives in Aleppo or anywhere else is both my professional and moral responsibility. We used to go to the countryside through a road named “Alcastelo,” which means, ‘The road of death’. I remember one day I went with Dr. Hamza and Waad to support one hospital with their surgeries. We went through that road in the middle of the night - bombs were landing everywhere around us, and we were unable to turn on the car’s lights fearing the regime’s warplanes. We reached our destination and once I completed the surgeries, we returned to Aleppo the next day.  

Our staff did not only operate inside the hospital, they also used to respond to the areas that were hit and pull people from under the rubble. Al-Quds hospital was targeted more than once and we almost died on top of each other in the corners of the hospital. The hospital was targeted horrifically, the massacre of Al-Quds. Nurses, doctors, and staffers were martyred. One neighborhood was targeted heavily and after a few moments, a child named “Sahad” got to the hospital with a critical injury. We did an urgent operation and she survived, but she lost her mother and brother.

After the regime intensified its shelling on the area even more, I founded a hospital in a garage along the road in Aleppo’s southern countryside. I did some surgeries there, but after a couple of months the hospital was targeted, so we evacuated it. 

Aleppo was then besieged, and I hadn’t seen my family for six months. I spoke to them through the internet, I sent pictures of chocolate to my younger son - I sent roses to my wife and children. 

As she was on the road towards Al-Quds hospital to give birth, Maisaa, a woman in her 9th month of pregnancy, was hit by warplanes and injured in her abdomen, head, and limbs. I did an emergency operation to save her and her child, and the results were great. Not too long ago, a woman came to me at Al-Quds hospital in Idlib, with a five-year old child. It was Maisaa with her child. She was pregnant again and asking for advice that has nothing to do with the previous surgery, thank god. 

After we’d been displaced from Aleppo, I went to support the surgery department in Aleppo’s western countryside hospital. We were hit by the Russian and regime warplanes and the whole hospital collapsed over us, there were three injuries and one martyr, and I only got some minor burns. 

I helped the NGO Syria Relief and Development to create a hospital in a village in Idlib. Staff from Al-Quds hospital joined that hospital and started working until a separate place was provided for Al-Quds hospital to start again. After a few months, Al-Quds hospital was standing again in Al-Dana, Idlib and its staff transferred there. 

My only concern was always to look after Al-Quds hospital’s patients, and to serve the staff, help them, defend them, and make things better for them.

'Watching Covid-19 footage from the hospitals reminds me of Aleppo'

There are many individuals - friends and colleagues of Waad and Hamza - that you will recognise from For Sama. Here is an update from Abd, who shares his reflections from his time in Aleppo in light of the recent Coronavirus situation…

There are multiple ways to die, but the result is always the same. From inside Syria - from what’s left of areas not controlled by the terrorist regime of Al-Assad - I wish for this terrible period to end without you losing a loved one.

I’ve been following the news about the Coronavirus and how it’s affecting the whole world - the panic and fear, how everyone could lose a loved one and how the whole world is sharing the same suffering, even if the danger depends on their living situation and age. 

It may be hard for you to imagine the crimes the regime committed in Syria, but it’s very similar to what Corona is doing now - separating loved ones from one another. The difference is that the Assad and Russian regimes are only attacking Syrian people, while the virus is attacking the whole world.

The warplanes fly over us in the evening, warnings come from walkie talkies to clear the streets and the markets, and move towards basements and shelters. Some seconds later, you hear a big bomb. The warplanes hit yet another civilian area. The first responders, along with a group of civilians, move quickly towards the hit site to save whoever they can. The lucky ones from the injured people are the ones that get to the hospital first, because as a couple of minutes pass, the hospital wards are drawn completely with injured people. The race with time begins to save as many people as possible. The ER team works relentlessly for long hours after the massacre; strained eyes, bloodied hands, and tired faces. Nothing is heard except for medical devices and procedures’ names as well as the screams of the injureds’ families. Some people lose their lives before reaching the hospital because it can take the civil defense too much time to remove people from under the rubble of their houses.

On the 18th of November and due to the heavy airstrikes on the city, as well as the shelling particularly on the hospitals, only one hospital remained taking care of the injured. All the medical staffers gathered in that hospital. I was passing a friend in the ER corridor and he shouted at me. I felt like he had someone injured in the hospital and he told me his mother had died. I told him may she rest in peace and kept going. Even though I’m not a medical staffer, I was hoping to lend a hand and help to save people. There was no time to give condolences to my friend at that moment. It’s very hard to lose someone we love but what’s even harder is watching someone we love die without being able to help them at all. 

As I’m watching the footage from the hospitals in the countries that have the most cases of Coronavirus, it reminds me of what was happening in Aleppo years ago. The doctors’ faces that have medical mask scars carved into them reminds me of the medical staffers’ faces as they’re trying to save lives after every massacre. The news about cases among the medical staffers reminds me of all the doctors, first responders, and civil defense members that we lost because the airstrikes targeted them while they were trying to save lives. 

In the last days of the siege in Aleppo, some friends created a WhatsApp group and it was named, “The same fate holders,” because we were in the same city and we were going to share the same fate that is going to hit the city. We lost some of the friends who were in the group due to the airstrikes or the snipers’ bullets from the regime forces. Today, everyone is in “The same fate holders” because we’re all humans, we’re all being attacked by a virus, we’re all watching social media and following the news closely, and we’re all wishing for the moment that we hear a vaccine or medicine is found. Someday, we still hope to hear the international community will make a stand and take action to stop the regime’s crimes; to help us reach our dreams as free people. 

My friends, I wish for you to stay safe and that the virus doesn’t find its way to you. I look forward to the day that Social media and TV programs will announce the virus’s defeat. Everyone on this planet deserves to live safely without any virus, and the people of Syria deserve to live safely without the dictator and criminal regime over them.

Abd

Ola’s Story: For Sama is our eyes, our memory & the history of our revolution

So many of our colleagues and friends, who were such a big part of our lives, were also a big part of For Sama. We want to share some familiar faces from the film with you: where they are now, their memories of Aleppo and what they hope For Sama can share to the world about Syria. 

Here’s Ola’s story...

I am Ola and I am 26 years old. I live in Gaziantep, Turkey and I’ve recently enrolled in university to resume my studies, 

Back in Aleppo I was a volunteer in “Al-Ahmar” team. We used to always be together like a family. When we were under siege and one of us would find some kind of fruit or vegetable, we’d share it between us. For me, having this family was a big blessing. 

Despite the difficult life, there were a lot of beautiful moments. The one that I remember the most is when the siege ended - we decorated our cars with balloons and wandered in east-Aleppo’s alleys, it was such a moment of incredible joy. 

I remember when we left Aleppo we were kept at the crossing point for more than 24 hours in the cold. It was snowing, so we all stayed in a house that was mostly ruins, but in the moment of fear and heartbreak, that home and being with my friends made me feel safe and warm. The thing that I’ve ever been most afraid of, is losing one of them. 

The film for me is our eyes, our memory, and the history of our revolution from the first day. The film is the only thing that keeps me going after all this loss and frustration I went through, which sometimes weakens me and causes me sorrow for what was lost.

I’m really touched when I hear that people who have never heard of our revolution are showing solidarity in this overwhelming way. 

I wish for all of the people who watched the film to try with any means possible to prevent forced displacement from happening again anywhere in Syria, and I also want them to know that there are a lot of people now living under bombardment and shelling just like we were, and there’s a good chance they’ll be displaced like we were.

Nabil’s Story: I hope everyone who sees For Sama will help us tell the whole story

So many of our colleagues and friends, who were such a big part of our lives, were also a big part of For Sama. We want to share some familiar faces from the film with you: where they are now, their memories of Aleppo and what they hope For Sama can share to the world about Syria. 

Here’s Nabil’s story...

I am Nabil Al-Sheikh Omar and I now live in Aleppo’s northern country-side in Syria. I’m currently volunteering as a medical case officer with Molham’s team in Aleppo’s northern countryside. I also work as a nurse with the Independent Doctors Association.

In East Aleppo, I was a nurse in Al-Quds hospital. This was my home and the staff were my little family. 

I remember I was sleeping in a building adjacent to the hospital when it got hit on 27 April 2016. I was woken by the sound of the explosion and I went down to see cars burning in front of the hospital and injured bodies all over the place. I tried to find a way to enter the hospital through some crack in the ruined building. On top of that there was no sound coming from inside the hospital. All of that left me completely devastated.

On the very first day of the last attack on Aleppo, an airstrike hit and fifteen minutes later the injuries started to reach the hospital. I asked the first person I saw, “Where did the bomb land?”, only to realise that it was so far from us, it could mean that we were the last hospital standing. This day started with only 10 injured people but ended with a number of around 400, and left a river of blood in the hospital. We were expecting to be hit at any moment because all of the other hospitals were bombed out of service in less than 24 hours. A couple of days later, we were on a balcony where we used to hear the sirens of ambulances. Instead of that, we heard a warplane heading towards us, we heard the whistle of the bomb. Moments later, someone came in and said an exploding barrel had landed nearby and the people who were fortifying the hospital got hit and died. At the very same moment, we heard another barrel landing, we were completely terrified, expecting a barrel to hit us at any moment.

One day, we received word that our hospital was going to be destroyed by warplanes. In seconds, we decided to evacuate the wounded, so I left the hospital with about 60 injured to a nearby building. That building had no capacity to host the injured, the building was cold and had no heating tools of any kind, but in under an hour we made it as much of a shelter as possible.

In Aleppo there were hard moments and also a lot of beautiful ones. The freedom bus and the agriculture project were very beautiful, especially because I was working nights as a nurse and during the day as a farmer. 

There are some moments that I’ll never forget. We were all afraid and discussed who’s going to leave first. Hamza was looking at me because I was the youngest, so I spoke first and said I’m a nurse I won’t leave - I can help if something happens. Then my brother said he won’t leave me behind, so we all agreed that we wouldn’t leave until all of the wounded had left. Then we would leave together. We stayed together in Hamza and Waad’s room until the end.

One of my friends who was with me in Aleppo, but who I didn’t meet until after we left, saw the film and told me, “I lived all of these events but Waad managed to recap all of these memories in two hours”. 

What we lived through is always repeated in Idlib and Aleppo's suburbs, and every time something like this happens we remember what we lived through and stand helpless as we can’t do anything. I hope that everyone who watches the film and sees the whole picture, will amplify the people’s voice and spread the news about how the people of Idlib are in danger of the regime, and at the same time of Hay’at Tahrir Al-Sham (HTS). I hope that everyone does whatever they can so these families can live safely. And I hope that everyone who sees the film will help us tell the whole story.

Afraa’s Story: Through For Sama our voice has finally reached people

So many of our colleagues and friends, who were such a big part of our lives, were also a big part of For Sama. We want to share some familiar faces from the film with you: where they are now, their memories of Aleppo and what they hope For Sama can share to the world about Syria. 

Here’s Afraa’s story...

My name is Afraa, I’m 38 years old and I live in Gaziantep. I used to work in the education sector before the revolution, and I currently work in the protection of women and children for an NGO.

In Aleppo, I participated in the peaceful movement. After Aleppo went out of the Assad regime’s control, I decided to stay in order to provide any kind of help to the people, in particular the children. I participated in opening a series of schools in Aleppo. I was an education supervisor for a group of schools and I also worked in the field of psychosocial support. I did a lot of other volunteer positions, too, for example organising parties and activities for children like coloring the “Freedom bus” as well as graffiting on walls and establishing a theatre team for children, writing plays and training them how to act on the theatre stage. 

I was a part of the family you saw in the film, which represents everything I adore in the world. This family eases my pain and my loss. 

For me, the film is our eyes which witnessed all kinds of horror, sorrow, fear, joy, resilience, and optimism we felt in Aleppo. The film is what’s left of the memory of Aleppo, through the film we still remember what our homes and the streets used to look like, and if someday I lose my memory and become sick of Alzheimer's, my children will show me the film so I can watch myself, my family, and all the things I love. 

I received a lot of positive messages, and a lot of questions like, “How can you still laugh and smile despite everything you went through?”

The most overwhelming message I received was when someone told me “I can’t stop thinking about you”. Our voice has finally reached people and explained that we’re normal people, we love, we laugh, we sing and colour. We just need a little safety, dignity, freedom, and a small land to shelter us.

My wish for the people who watched the film is that they try to stop the bloodshed in Syria, help prevent another forced displacement from taking place, and support our right to a volunteered and safe return, which can’t happen while this regime is still in power. 

I also want people to know that people of Idlib are now being subjected to the same suffering  you saw in the film, I want you to imagine that it might have been me there now, still suffering. Idlib became home to a lot of previously displaced people from all around Syria, and it would be an outrageous crime if they were to be forcibly displaced again.

Salem’s Story: Someday we'll return to build our country again, with love

So many of our colleagues and friends, who were such a big part of our lives, were also a big part of For Sama. We want to share some familiar faces from the film with you: where they are now, their memories of Aleppo and what they hope For Sama can share to the world about Syria. 

Here is Salem’s story.

Hello, I am Salem and I live in Gaziantep, Turkey.  

The point of the revolution for me is to love all people, to ease their pain, to try to fight oppression and to build a better future for us and for our children. It is also to show the difference between Assad’s rule with all the horror, fear, injustice, and between the revolution’s principles and putting the neglected community in charge of their responsibilities. 

I participated in the peaceful demonstrations in Aleppo in 2011 and I started working in the civil society around the middle of 2012. It was then that we started cleaning our city when the regime withdrew all kinds of civil services from the city. I participated in founding the local community council of Aleppo city. I worked in education and relief, and I put my previous work expertise in the civil registry to work by creating a similar system in Aleppo and its suburbs, to provide people with identification papers and such. I participated in all kinds of civil activities to support the people’s resistance, together with my lifetime companion, my wife Afraa. We shared joy and sadness with our children, with our friends Hamzah, Waad, Abd Al-Fattah, Milad, Mahmoud, and Abdoullah.

One time in Aleppo, when we had invited our friends over for dinner, a warplane dropped an exploding barrel right on the building directly adjacent to ours. The building turned to ruins and our house was partially damaged - the windows and doors got moved, a hole cracked through the wall. My wife came home horrified until she realized that it wasn’t our house that blew up. She was determined not to let fear control the atmosphere, so we cleaned up the debris and the dirt, we cooked the meal and then our friends showed up and it was a nice night. 

There is another moment that represents how we used to create happiness with our own hands during the siege and all the shelling, barrel bombs, missiles, and horror everywhere. Our friends, along with my wife and children, all gathered together in secret. They called me and told me to come hang out, so I knocked on the door and entered the room, then all of the sudden they turned all the lights off and everyone came into the room holding a cake, singing “Happy birthday to you”. I almost cried. This was the first time ever that I’d been thrown a surprise birthday party, especially the cake, which because of the siege, Waad had even managed to make without eggs.

For Sama is our message to the world to not to give up its responsibilities. The film captured an important part of our emotional swings such as between hope and desperation; between courage and fear. We laughed when we were supposed to cry, sometimes it was the other way around, but no matter what, we always loved our country, we loved its people, and we held onto it as much as we could. We still believe that someday we’ll thrive and we’ll return to build our country again with love, and only with love.