Geostrategic Media Political Commentary, Analysis, Security, Defense
By Sam Macale
On the morning of March 7, 2025, the village of Qabu al-Awamiya, nestled at the intersection of the Jableh-Qardaha road in Syria’s coastal region, trembled with an earthquake unlike the one that had shaken it in the early hours of February 6, 2023. That earlier quake, which exposed the land’s fragile geological foundation, had, in retrospect, served as a harbinger—a forewarning of a societal fragility deeply entrenched within the same fault line. The revelation was stark: the instability beneath the surface mirrored the fragility of what lay above it.
In a chilling account from that fateful morning, a surviving daughter-in-law of the Sebahiya family recounted the sudden storming of their village by an armed security group, some dressed in General Security uniforms. Their incursion led them to the home of 76-year-old Zarqa Sebahiya, where they forcibly broke the locks before dragging her sons, Kinan and Suhail, along with her grandson Lamak, into the courtyard overlooking the road. Then came the question that laid bare the gruesome sectarian underpinnings of the attack: “Are you Alawites?” It was an inquiry loaded with accusation, one that had loomed over entire communities since December 8—the day Bashar al-Assad’s regime fell. Before the three men could utter a response, bullets filled the air, extinguishing their lives in an act of merciless execution. The event underscored the brutal reality that sectarian hatred had become the defining marker of vengeance, tearing away at any illusion of coexistence or legitimacy.
The violence did not end with the massacre. The three bodies were left in the open courtyard for four agonizing days, denied even the dignity of a burial. The daughter-in-law’s account described how armed factions patrolled the area incessantly, their very presence a statement of dominance. Some militants even occupied the house across the street, a menacing declaration that they had seized control. And yet, Zarqa Sebahiya—known now as Umm Ayman—chose not to flee. She remained, standing guard over the remains of her loved ones, defying the oppressive reality that had settled over her home.
Days later, on March 11, a video emerged—a raw, painful depiction of a confrontation between Umm Ayman and the very men who had executed her family. The video, while capturing a bereaved mother facing torrents of insults, also revealed an unyielding strength. With irony layered over tragedy, she stood her ground against the militants, whose justifications for their actions rested on their self-proclaimed divine mission. “We gave you security… but you betrayed us,” one of them declared. But the moment that would resonate beyond the village, beyond Syria’s fractured communities, came when Umm Ayman raised her index finger and uttered a single word: “Fashart.” A defiant response common in Syria’s coastal regions, Fashart—roughly translated as “You wish”—was more than just a retort. It was an open rejection of the lies that sought to paint her community as traitors, a direct blow to the fabricated narratives that fueled the cycle of sectarian violence.
Her defiance was reminiscent of a lesson from Carlo Collodi’s Pinocchio, where deceit is symbolized by a growing nose. In the case of Syria, the lies that have been woven into its fractured history have only grown longer, more grotesque, more suffocating. The Syrian writer Saadallah Wannous once asked in a speech before cultural and political figures: “Why do the authorities lie?” His own answer was poignant: “Lying is a sign of fear, and when the authorities lie, it is a sign that they are afraid.” Back in the late 1970s, when Wannous first posed that question, his words did not stir the waters of a stagnant pond. But now, in 2025, the ripples have turned into waves.
By standing her ground and rejecting the narrative imposed upon her, Umm Ayman threw her own rock into the turbulent waters. The echoes of her defiance are bound to outlast the lies that sought to justify her family’s murder. For years, the narrative of “savage Syria” has been crafted to vilify entire communities—painting Alawites as persecutors, dissidents, or mere collateral in a game of political survival. But this time, the blood spilled was not part of an orchestrated revenge fantasy; it was an unmasking of the relentless brutality that seeks to devour all in its path.
With a single word, Umm Ayman has built a bridge—one that crosses sectarian divides, one that speaks to the universal struggle for truth in the face of propaganda. The response to her defiance has been overwhelming. On social media, her words have resonated with thousands. Some have called her the mother of millions. Others likened her to an oak tree that does not bend to the storm. Some even whispered of a prayer—a mother’s prayer—that must surely be heard by the heavens.
Among the voices of solidarity, George Tarshini wrote in his social media post: “May God curse the revolution you are in, and may God truly curse those who defend it.” Another, Abdo Halima, a Jordanian-Palestinian, shared the sentiment, adding: “Peace be upon the grieving mother who has pained the cannibals with the pride of the prophets and the courage of the Prophet’s family.”
Through the pain, through the rubble of a once-thriving village, one truth remains unshaken: Umm Ayman’s voice has risen above the gunfire, above the sectarian labels, above the lies. And in that voice, Syria may yet find a truth worth holding on to.
