The sound of hope and heartbreak echoed through the once-feared Sednaya Military Prison in Syria, as its doors, once sealed in silence and fear, swung open on Sunday. The prison, a symbol of terror under Bashar al-Assad’s regime, was now a place of frantic searching, with families desperately calling out for their missing loved ones.
The sudden fall of Damascus to rebel forces led to the abandonment of Sednaya’s guards, and videos flooded social media showing families rushing to the prison, once called a “slaughterhouse,” to search for the disappeared. For them, this moment brought a long-awaited chance to either reunite with the lost or finally confirm their fate.
The swift advance of rebel forces, culminating in the capture of Damascus, left prison guards fleeing from locations across Syria. Now, as the world watches, Syrians brace for the grim reality of knowing who among the more than 100,000 detainees may still be alive.
Inside the government jails, once known only to those who had suffered there, the truth of those hidden prisons was laid bare on national television. Disturbing footage showed the first freed inmates, disoriented, often barefoot, stepping into the uncertain freedom of night.
Although all sides in Syria’s brutal conflict are guilty of detaining and disappearing prisoners, the Syrian Network for Human Rights estimates that up to 85% of those imprisoned were held within the state’s network of prisons. For years, rights groups have documented systematic abuse—torture, starvation, and execution—at the hands of Assad’s security forces.
At one point, Sednaya held as many as 20,000 inmates, according to Amnesty International. Many perished from neglect, while others were executed, former prisoners recall. The brutal conditions in the prison were nightmarish: near-total silence enforced by guards, prisoners sleeping on stone floors under bug-infested blankets, and walls stained with blood and sweat.
Diab Serriya, co-founder of the Association of Detainees and the Missing in Sednaya Prison, and a former prisoner, reported that by Sunday, up to 8,000 relatives of detainees had descended upon the prison, with civil defense teams struggling to reach deeper, hidden chambers.
“Some rebels are organizing the search,” Serriya explained, “but as of now, there are no proper lists of the missing.”
The Syrian Civil Defense, known as the White Helmets, has dispatched five teams to Sednaya, equipped with experts in breaching walls, opening iron doors, and trained search dogs, to explore hidden underground cells where survivors report that more prisoners are still held.
Elsewhere, rebels took to shooting off prison locks one by one, and freed prisoners from across Syria poured into the streets, with tearful reunions unfolding in every major city. Even abroad, where over 5 million Syrians live in exile, families held their breath, waiting for the longed-for calls they had feared would never come.
For many, the disappearance of a loved one was like an open wound, one that time never healed. One man recounted how he would turn on the radio to drown out his sorrow, only to turn it off when his missing wife’s favorite songs played, haunting him with memories.
In the southern Turkish city of Gaziantep, Jihad Dalain, 40, had been waiting for years to hear from his younger brother, Majd, who was arrested in 2023 in Darayya. Their elderly parents were released after 100 days, but Majd remained in prison, moved to Adra Central Prison in Damascus. On Sunday, Jihad received the long-awaited call: “He said he was coming home.” It was the first time Jihad had seen his brother’s face on a video call since Majd’s arrest, and the moment was bittersweet. Jihad had gotten married since Majd’s disappearance, and this reunion felt like both a miracle and a painful reminder of all they had lost.
Lists of newly released prisoners flooded social media, with photos of men, some shaved bald, identified as those freed from Sednaya. Activists urged families to share names of missing loved ones.
From the northern city of Azaz, Mayasa Marie, 40, was desperately searching for her husband, Mohammed, who was arrested in 2012 for his anti-government activism. After hearing rumors that he had died inside Sednaya, Mayasa still clung to hope. “We are finally free,” she said, “but I need my husband back.”
In Hanover, Germany, Hussien Idris, 40, posted on social media in search of his brother Ahmed, believing him still alive, despite the absence of answers. “I will go back to find him myself,” Hussien wrote.
Across Syria and beyond, families of the disappeared were flooded with messages that brought no comfort—lists of the newly released, but no names they recognized. Among these families was Naila Alabbasi, who had spent 12 years without her sister, Rania, a dentist and national chess champion. Rania and her children had been taken by military intelligence in 2013. Though Naila had heard nothing for years, a letter from Rania, found by her brother, reignited a painful sense of connection. Yet Naila’s hope remained fragile, and as she watched footage of freed prisoners, her heart broke. “We should be celebrating, but Rania is not here,” she said. “There’s no news, no news.”
As the prison doors creaked open, the sound of families crying out for their missing loved ones was the sound of both hope and sorrow, a painful reminder of the past and the long road ahead to healing.
