Detainees: Hama military intelligence is sheet of hell

These events are accounted by the former prisoner Aida Hajj Yousif. 

 In the terrorist wing in Adra central prision near the capital, we woke up on news of intensive bombings in Hama, the city where my kids live. I was unable to communicate with them for a while and I was waiting for any detained woman from Hama to tell me news about them.

In the evening, the regime officers brought a large number of women who were detained in the security branches, including a woman from Hama province.

 She told us briefly her story and her journey from her arrest in the city to the military branch of Hama, to the police station of Kafr Sousa in Damascus, then to Adra prision. She said that she never participated in any activities against the criminal Bashar al-Assad, yet she had been tortured and persecuted.

She spoke as if she were facing an officer, also she hold responsibility to the revolutionaries and their families for her own torment, ignoring all the regime’s crimes and militias.

She asked me how to make a phone call with her family. I immediately gave her my phone card. I took out a paper with phone numbers. She asked me to read for her Abu Bilal's number. I asked her who he was. She said that he’s her brother-in-law. I asked if he is an investigator in the criminal section and she said yes. I returned to my bed angry, as a huge man terrifying monster lacks compassion appear before my eyes.

In the military security branch in Hama city, they threatened to bring my three children and put them in jail and torture them in front of me. In order to avoid this, I signed up for their confessions. They placed me and my younger sister in the "criminal security" until we were transferred to Damascus.

Three black nights, we lived on   the scream of a child. The first time I looked at my sister, put my fingers in my ears and screamed Ghalib,   my sister cry and says that he’s not "Ghalib", and I insist that  he was.

Abu Bilal, the jailer, opened the door of the cell carrying the stick in his hand in anger and asks why do you scream? My sister told him that the child's voice is like the voice of my child. He said mockingly: Yes, he’s her son. Come to see him.

My sister helped me to get up and when I reached the torture room, I saw a little boy with a skin off, the nails were cut and the body cracked. He could not speak   confess or ask for mercy. He’s not my son but he’s so little to bear all this torture.  

I went back to my cell and closed my ear   so that I could not hear the scream of the child. Afterwards, my sister woke me up to tell me about the death of the child.  

The jailer simply told   the prison doctor about the death of the child, and asked to tell his family to came and take him. He noted out that this would be the end of those taking part in demonstrations against the regime.

The eleven-year-old child died under torture, leaving behind a lost compassion and humanity.