Syria's Invisible Wounds: When Justice Must Rebuild What Violence Destroyed

"الصبر جميل" - Patience is beautiful

"يا الله املأني صبراً ولا تجعلني أيأس" - God, fill me with patience and don't let me

despair

These words, inscribed on the walls of Sednaya prison by an anonymous prisoner, endure long after their unknown author likely succumbed. When people discuss about Syria today, the word “reconstruction” often evokes to images of ruined buildings, collapsed infrastructure and streets awaiting repair… But for many Syrians, the greatest challenge to rebuilding their society lies beyond these physical scars. What needs rebuilding is something far less visible yet even more fragile : trust, dignity, and justice. 

During Human Rights Week, I had the opportunity to hear from Noura Ghazi, a Syrian human rights lawyer and founder of Nophotozone. Her reflections centered on the wounds that linger beneath the surface  — wounds inflicted by years of arbitrary arrests, torture, and enforced disappearances. At the conference “Syria in 2025 : Justice, Memory, and the Road Ahead,” Ghazi addressed one of the most painful chapters in Syria’s recent history. She spoke about the chaotic and sudden opening of prisons controlled by the regime and the dark consequences that followed.

Earlier this year, detention centers across Syria suddenly opened, releasing thousands of prisoners. For many, this moment sparked a flicker of hope. It seemed, if only fleetingly, a chance for healing after more than a decade of unrelenting violence. But Ghazi offered a different view. Instead of a turning point, the releases exposed a profound failure in preparation and a deep moral confusion.

“The way the prisoners were released was not the right way, it was just wrong,” Ghazi told the audience. Outside the prison walls, crowds gathered anxiously, desperate to find relatives or to see survivors. But among the released were not only political prisoners. According to human rights organizations monitoring the releases, some facilities also released individuals held on criminal charges, which compounded the confusion and heightened security concerns among families searching for loved ones. The moment that many hoped would be one of relief instead became one of confusion and renewed suffering.

Syrian clinicians working in hospitals reported that many of the released detainees, weakened and broken by years behind bars, were immediately confronted by cameras, journalists, and individuals demanding their stories. Others were given heavy meals despite their fragile condition, a gesture which, though well-meaning, could have caused serious harm. Medical experts warned that bodies ravaged by prolonged starvation could not handle sudden heavy nutrition.

What struck me most in Ghazi’s account was her frustration. Human rights groups had spent years anticipating this moment, they conducted workshops and prepped volunteers. Yet when the time came to support the release, the system completely failed. This failure was not only practical but symbolic. It showed that Syria's transitional institutions — still reeling from the sudden collapse of the Assad regime — were not ready to face the weight of the past.

Sednaya prison stands as a stark symbol of that past. Known widely as “the human slaughterhouse,” it has become synonymous with horror in Syria. When rebel forces finally liberated it, no medical teams or humanitarian organizations were ready to assist. Not even the White Helmets — the Syrian Civil Defence, a volunteer rescue organization that has saved over 128,000 lives since 2013  —, who are usually among the first to respond, showed up. Sednaya contains two prisons, each telling a very different story. The “white prison” housed military detainees and offered minimal legal protections, such as visits and family contact. The “red prison” was the abyss. Prisoners were left in isolation, subjected to torture, and and denied all communication with the outside world. When it opened, families waited years without answers were confronted with devastating news. Some found records showing their loved ones had been sentenced to death years ago.

The scale of  that followed was immense. Families arrived to search for bodies and documents. Hospitals in Damascus became overwhelmed with unidentified corpses. Doctors asked colleagues to refrain from posting images online, wishing to protect grieving families from further pain. The process of mourning, frozen for years amidst unrest, reopened with force.

The media, too, played a complicated role. While reporting was essential for raising awareness, Ghazi described some of the coverage as unprofessional and insensitive, amplifying the suffering. Adding to the pain was the surge of misinformation and rumors. Social media exploded with fake videos, doctored testimonies, and inflated figures about secret prisons and mass graves. For families searching for lost loved ones, every post brought hope and despair in equal measure. Ghazi explained that this was a kind of psychological survival. When the truth is unbearable, hope — even in the form of rumors — is a refuge.

Amid this atmosphere of confusion and pain, organizations like Nophotozone and the Syrian Center for Truth and Justice have worked tirelessly. Volunteers risk their safety to gather documents from the ruins and preserve what evidence remains. But these efforts are fragmented. Different organizations have made conflicting statements about who is responsible for which documentation work, which has eroded some families' trust in civil society groups.

At the root lies a larger problem. Without meaningful accountability or reparations, Syria's legal system continues to operate, but it operates on the same principles that enabled arbitrary imprisonment and torture. The lack of transparent judicial processes creates fear that past patterns might repeat themselves.

Transitional justice, a concept devised to help societies move from conflict to reconciliation by establishing truth and accountability, is largely absent in Syria. The destruction of evidence, continuing impunity, and lack of effective coordination make meaningful progress impossible. But this is more than a technical issue. It goes to the core of legitimacy and healing. How can Syria rebuild its state without acknowledging the crimes committed by its own institutions ? Without confronting this past, any new government risks inheriting not just the infrastructure of the old regime, but its moral failings as well.

Ghazi emphasized that the key lies in memory. Justice requires more than court proceedings. It demands rebuilding the collective memory of the Syrian people. Documenting crimes, collecting testimonies and preserving places like Sednaya are acts of reclaiming humanity itself.

In her conference remarks, Ghazi discussed how Nophotozone now works with international partners, including the International Committee of the Red Cross and other bodies, to safeguard records and return important documents to families. She expressed hope that these carefully preserved archives — containing not only legal documents but also personal effects and testimonies — will someday anchor public museums where future generations can understand the cost of silence and denial.

The humanitarian crisis remains urgent. Many former detainees suffer from severe trauma, memory loss, and physical disability. Some wander the streets and have no memory of who they are. For families, the shock of reunion is often as agonizing as the years of separation.For families, the shock of reunion is often as agonizing as the years of separation. After decades apart, fathers and sons struggle to recognize each other; mothers must reintroduce themselves to children who were too young to remember them. The psychological wounds of arbitrary detention extend far beyond the prison walls

In this fragile moment, Syrian civil society stands as a pillar of resilience. Teachers, artists, and ordinary citizens volunteer to identify bodies, collect stories, and support survivors. Ghazi sees hope in their work. She said, “It’s quite interesting because we just have rediscovered what it really means to be part of a Syrian society.” 

Looking ahead, Syria’s future cannot be separated from its people’s healing. The absence of official transitional justice leaves a vacuum filled by grassroots activism, NGOs, and families themselves. Although fragile and sometimes disorderly, their efforts could be the foundation of a new Syrian citizenship.

Rebuilding the state requires embracing truth, even when painful, and justice cannot be imposed from above. It must emerge from the voices of those who suffered, from families that refuse to forget, and from the civil actors who insist that both the dignity of the living and the memory of the dead must be honored.

At the conference, the vision of “Syria in 2025” felt both within reach and far away. Legal reforms, archives, and international support are critical. But more important is the willingness to listen, to acknowledge harm, and to meet suffering face to face.

The path forward is long and uncertain. But amid rubble and the reopening of old wounds, a fragile awakening persists. It is not built on power or ideology but on memory, compassion, and a steadfast belief that justice, even if delayed, can still be achieved.

Photo Source: Jon Phillips, Wikimedia Commons