Open Vigil: The Wait for Justice Ticks On

By: Dr. Aysha al-Tu’ma, doctor and activist.

June 2025

The poster is designed by the cartoonist Amani Al-ali.

My hometown, Maarat al-Numan, or the “Mother of the Poor”, as the locals fondly called it, was one of the first to break free from the Assad regime. I had a clinic there, set up in a traditional detached house of two rooms; in its yard, I always found solace with birds chirping and the scent of jasmine was never overwhelmed by the smell of medicine or gunpowder. 

On that day, I was in my clinic; the patient list was short. I finished work early and walked to my parent’s house for lunch. My aunt was due to join us after.

We were sitting by the heater, about to eat, when a deafening blast rocked the house. The heater toppled, and glass rained from the shattered window. My mother screamed, my little brother cried. We were used to the sound of airstrikes, but this one hit too close.

In our close-knit town, where everyone is a relative and neighbours are family, a strike meant one of our own was hit. I rushed outside. As I opened the door, a whistling sound sliced through the air and my heart—the aircraft had returned. Unable to get back inside, I dropped to the ground as shrapnel fell like rain. I truly believed I wouldn't make it.

When the sounds of the shelling ceased, the screams of people took their place. I knew the regime's vile strategy: they'd targeted the same place again after people had gathered to help. I went back inside, too afraid to check on my neighbours, and waited.

What felt like the longest two minutes of my life passed before one of my cousins called out from the street; he told us the missile had hit my aunt's house, just across the street. He had found my aunt wandering in a daze, searching for her husband, who had gone out to help after the first airstrike. My cousin walked her to my grandfather's house, and we followed shortly after. When we arrived, my aunt was still at the door, refusing to enter, anxious for any word of her husband. The family, desperately searching for him, spread the word to makeshift hospitals in nearby towns; the immense number of casualties had quickly overwhelmed local ones. It was a gruesome massacre, a deliberate slaughter designed by the Assad regime to maximize civilian casualties.

Dusk fell without news. My uncle returned late in the evening, bringing the news; he had identified my aunt's husband from a pile of human remains by a distinctive scar on his palm.

Nine years on, I still see my aunt’s vigil mirrored in the thousands of families waiting for news of their loved ones at the gates of detention centres. She, at least, had the grim mercy of finding remains to lay to rest, and get closure through burial. Many have no such comfort—no grave to visit, no remains to whisper to about a victory they died for.

I often wonder: would the truth, however brutal, have brought them peace? Would seeing their children's suffering have quelled the fire of grief, or only fuelled their hatred and demand for justice? Is it right for anyone other than the victims themselves to determine what justice or forgiveness should look like?

Has seeking justice become a threat to civil peace? And is deferred justice the only way to stem the river of blood that has flowed for fourteen years?

True civil peace cannot be built on blanket amnesties or settlements that lack clear foundation and transparent criteria. Such an approach only throws the hoped-for peace into a sea of ticking bombs, barely afloat until the slightest crisis detonates the entire scene.

By: Dr. Aysha al-Tu’ma, doctor and activist.