Vidnesbyrder fra flygtede syrere

De seneste uger har en af Amnestys researchere samlet vidnesbyrder fra syrere, der er flygtet til Tyrkiet. Læs flygtningenes historier (engelsk).

By Neil Sammonds, Amnesty International's Syria researcher on the Turkish-Syrian border

"Why is the world silent?"Syrian refugees speak

Abu Taha was shot in the back while attending to an injured man ©Amnesty International

By Neil Sammonds, Amnesty International's Syria researcher on the Turkish-Syrian border

Little is known of the life of the thousands of Syrians who have recently fled to Turkey, and are now living in camps in Yayladagi and Altinozu in the south-east of the country.

Not one civil society activist or journalist is known to have been able to enter the camps. Knowing that, and with Turkey virtually shut down for the national elections today, I chose to head for one of the hospitals in the regional capital Hatay where one can sneak in to talk to injured Syrians.

By all accounts, the Turkish government and people have received, hosted and treated an unspecified number of Syrians extremely well. Officially there are up to 7,000 Syrians now here in Hatay province but many believe the actual figure is much higher.

There are said to be up to 10,000 within a few kilometres of the border on the Syrian side, waiting to be able to go back to their homes or to cross into Turkey if the violence moves further north.

Strangely however, the Turkish government is hiding its hospitability by denying access to the camps and making it a gamble on getting in to see Syrians in hospitals.

I entered the hospital, walked past the security guard as if I was a regular and eventually, in a room with three single beds, I found the people I had been looking for.

These three Syrian men, all from the Jisr al-Shughur area, have been wounded in the recent clashes with security forces. I sensed their unease each time the door opened but they told me their stories.

One of them, a 40-year-old farmer from a village 2km from Jisr al-Shughur who did not want to give his name for security reasons, had been shot in the leg by security forces while tending to his land on 4 June. The army took him to a hospital in the nearby city of Idleb.

A doctor with tears in his eyes told him he was forbidden to treat him. Security forces took him to a military interrogation office nearby.

He was blindfolded, with hands tied tightly behind his back and badly beaten with rifle butts and kicks all over his body. The marks are visible on his face and all over his body.

"While they beat me, they asked me if I belonged to the Muslim Brotherhood, or if I was on the payroll of [Lebanon's former Prime Minister] Saad Hariri," he told me.

An official went through his mobile phone and made a note of all the names and numbers on it, and a a high-ranking officer later demanded to know the names of the people organizing the protest.

After thumbprinting papers he didn't understand as he is illiterate, he was released on 7 June and made it across the border to Turkey the same day.

Despite the volatile situation in his home country, he insisted that he will go back to Syria. "There's no more fear," he added.

The second man in the room, a 31-year-old building worker from Jebel al-Zawyah, had been shot in the leg by security forces while taking part in the Friday protests on 3 June.

Thousands of people from neighbouring areas took to the streets on that day, he said. Security forces were everywhere - on the road, perched on top of buildings. As the protesters approached a youth camp, the army suddenly opened fire.

He fell to the ground and security forces dragged him away to a nearby building.

"They asked me ‘Who is your god?' 'Allah' I said. 'No, say Bashar' they said. They hit me with a stick on the back of the head and I fell down and lost consciousness. They must have thought I was dead and left me among some trees," he said.

When he came to, the security forces had left and local people took him to a hospital in Idleb.

Like the farmer I spoke to, he said he was interrogated and asked for names of other protesters.

After his release, he reached Turkey where his wound has been treated and he now moves on crutches.

Abu Taha, 29, a Red Crescent ambulance worker from Jisr al-Shughur, described to me how he was shot in the back by security forces while attending to an injured person in the centre of the town.

Luckily for him, the bullet passed out on the other side.

On Saturday 4 June, the funeral for Basel al-Masri was held, he said. The town centre was packed with funeral-goers and around midday, security forces opened fire on the crowd.

Many were killed and injured, he said, adding that some people started shooting at the army from the roofs of government buildings.

"It was clear that the snipers were not locals - we all know each other in my area. They wore plain clothes with grenade belts on their chests. They have to be from the regime to make it look as if there are armed groups," he said.

Whoever the men shooting at the army were, the consequences for people in the area have been dire. Abu Taha gave a chilling description of the fate of some small villages in the area.

He said that on Friday 10 June, a number of tanks arrived in Kem al-Rumanah, a small village in the border area with only 50 houses.

"The tanks fired at the houses; once they were destroyed, some 300 shabiha militia soldiers entered. They killed or kidnapped anyone left behind, stole any possessions they could and burnt crops. They have done this in several villages," he said.

"Does the rest of the world want the end of the Syrian people? Why is the world silent?" he asked me repeatedly.

Several other Syrians came in and out of the room while I was there. They all spoke of Syrians being united and peaceful, with only the regime wanting divisions between communities.

Is there a scorched earth policy in Syria?

The road south from the southern Turkish town of Hatay rises steeply through verdant agricultural land. At the small border village of Guvecci I get out of the car and immediately see dozens of men sitting on the edge of the road or otherwise milling about the stone houses, waiting.

Syrians all, few wished to give their full names and some would not specify the names of their villages. They had sneaked across the border so as to be able to pick up food to take it back to their families camped out in tents and under trees on the other side.

It is impossible to verify the exact number. But many agree that a figure of some 10,000 within a couple of kilometres of the border is likely.

Many of the villagers had left a week ago, following killings in the town of Jisr al-Shughur over the weekend of 3-5 June.

Ahmed, 22, from a village a few kilometres from Jisr al-Shughur, said he and his family had stayed on at their village longer than most to look after their homes, until yesterday when they headed up to the border.

A young man in a pink sweater said 400 people from the village of Shughur Kasmiyah had spent one week in the hills.

Shabiha - regime-backed militiamen - had poisoned the water, he said. Several people in the area, another young man added, had died as a result.

The alleged poisoning of the water was agreed upon by all the Syrians I spoke to in Guvecci, all of whom said they didn't drink it.

How did locals know the water was poisoned? Before I arrived in Turkey, a UK-based man from Jisr al-Shughur told me that a few members of the Syrian security forces who were unhappy with the events had let locals know that drinking the water could be lethal.

Mobile phone lines in the Jisr al-Shughur area had been cut for days, the pink-clad man told me.

One tall young man said he was from the village of al-Sarmaniyah, some 10km south of Jisr al-Shughur, where the army entered on 10 June with "hundreds" of men in tanks and armoured personnel carriers.

"They shelled and machine-gunned the village," he told me.

"They shot my friend Rafit Deeb and when I or anyone else went to try to save him, they shot at us. We could see he was alive, losing his breath. Five hours later the army left, but by then Rafit was dead. He was 22.

"Not only did they shell houses and shoot people but they also burnt crops and seeds and they machine-gunned the cows. Tanks drove through the orchards, destroying hundreds of olive and almond trees."

"They are worse than the Zionists," he said, making a comparison with what he saw to be the nature of the abuses committed by the Israeli authorities.

Ward Khalifeh, 21, also came from al-Sarmaniyah but had been working in Lebanon.

"About five days ago I called home but there was no answer. I travelled to the village and found it completely empty."

"No one camped by the border knows what happened to the nine other members of his family."

A group of about 15 people around me, from the towns and villages of Bdama, al-Za'eyniyah, Bataybat, al-Kafir, Sheykh Sendayan and al-Kastun - all in the area around Jisr al-Shughur, said the same had happened where they were from.

One person said that only a few elderly people had stayed behind.

"They are ghost towns now. Only soldiers may be there," Ward Khalifeh said.

As we speak, there's a commotion as a delivery of bread arrives. Some of the men and boys walk off with plastic bags of Arabic bread.

A few haggard elderly men invite me to break bread with them. I respectfully decline and walk up onto the roof of one of the houses and look out towards Syria.

Some hundred metres away, beyond the young olive trees and the border fence, are a few dozen tents and some vehicles. In the woods rising up again, and in the woods yet beyond the peak, are said to be thousands of displaced Syrians living exposed to the elements, sleeping on the ground under trees, some under makeshift awnings.

It's overcast, blustery and at times raining lightly. The sun sears my skin. No wonder these people are hardy.

I write these notes at night in my hotel room. For several hours now there has been heavy rain and thunder.

Reaching the Syrians trapped on ‘the other side'

Some Syrians are staying in a makeshift camp near the village of Khirbet al-Joz

Having been continually frustrated in my attempts to meet displaced Syrians on both sides of the border with Turkey, I decided the only way to find out about their situation was to somehow reach them myself.

Along with the 8,500 refugees staying in camps on the Turkish side, to whom access is forbidden for Amnesty International, I was told there are thousands of Syrians camped just beyond the border living in desperate conditions. This is where I would attempt to go.

I've seen countless Syrian men and boys scrambling down to "the other side" of the border from my position in Guvecci village, Turkey. This time, I follow them.

I loop an imposing Turkish security outpost a few hundred metres south of Guvecci and pursue, at a distance, some Syrian teenagers.

This involves climbing a hill, crossing a couple of fields and dashing through bushes and woods, including a couple of sprints that would have been in clear view of anyone manning the outpost. Then, it's all downhill.

It's all Turkish territory and there are no signs to show I am doing anything wrong, so I keep going until I come to a road crossing my path.

The sprightly lads ahead jog along the road to a small break in the bushes on the other side. A rusty gate lies on the floor. I follow, stand beside the gate and survey the scene along the border.

Scores of tents are scattered along the edges of farmland and woods. They stretch a mile or so further south; it's said they continue for miles further north in a ribbon of land hugging the border.

There are vehicles, motorcycles and huddles of people sitting under and around fruit trees. One woman is sitting on the earth, slumped forward with her head in her hands.

They are grateful to the Turks across the border, who have been smuggling them much-needed supplies.

"We would all have died of hunger if it wasn't for the people of Guvecci," says Abu Ahmed, pointing to his family's makeshift tent metres from the border. It's obvious that there are no facilities anywhere: no water, electricity, toilet.

"The Turkish people send down bread and medicine. And the owner of this field is a good man who lets us stay," says Abu Ahmed.

He introduces me to Abu Muhammad and Abu ‘Abdu - for security reasons all prefer not to give their full names. They are agricultural workers in their twenties from villages near the town of Jisr al-Shughur.

They, along with others who then approach me, repeat many of the stories I have heard in the past few days.

They tell me the water supply has been poisoned. And that the body of Basel al-Masri, a shopkeeper and enthusiastic participator in peaceful protests in Jisr al-Shughur, was returned with three lethal bullets in it. Snipers from the security forces fired at those returning from his funeral.

The camp-dwellers also say that that army tanks, based on the edge of Jisr al-Shughur, had shelled houses, while livestock was killed and crops burnt.

Another group of people tell me that 100 people from the village of Freykah were taken away four days ago to a detention centre. No one has seen them since.

Women from the more distant town of Ma'aret al-Nu'man, two holding babies, tell me of men who have disappeared. Another woman tells me about a young man called Isma'il, who was shot in the back and head during a protest in her village. Around 20 people from Jisr al-Shughur told me they had heard about the sexual abuse of several girls by members of the security forces or Shabiha (regime-backed militiamen), but didn't want to mention the names of the families concerned.

Suddenly, there is a commotion and people talk quickly among themselves. The Turkish officer considered the strictest has started his shift. I should go. I scamper across the road, up and around the hillside and puff and sweat my way back to Guvecci.