Thinking about the people who are finally released from prison after many years brings up a lot of feelings for me. It reminds me of when I found out my father was released after 20 years in jail. He was arrested because they called him a Wahhabi. I was in Turkey at the time, and it was during Ramadan. Of course, I felt happy like I was supposed to. That’s what we all wanted for years—for our father to be free again. But even though that moment finally came, it didn’t feel simple or joyful.
Someone told my father, “You were away for 20 years. You can’t expect your kids to just be there for you now. They’ve all moved on. They live in different countries, have responsibilities, and have become different people.” That felt true to me. I was taught to love my father, like all kids are taught to love their parents. But how do you love someone you only saw during short visits in prison? Sometimes we couldn’t even hug him unless the soldier allowed a tiny window to open—just big enough to reach through. I had to be lifted to that window. He would say he was okay, and we would say we were okay too, even if it wasn’t true.
The last time I saw my father in Syria, I cried after leaving. It was the first time that happened. I realized I didn’t want to keep playing the game anymore—pretending everything was fine, saying what he wanted to hear. I even started calling him “uncle” instead of “baba,” because the word didn’t feel natural. Now, 10 years later, I accept that Assad’s regime took away my chance to grow up with my father. But I also know that if he had been there, I would’ve turned out differently—and maybe not in a good way.
He lives in the Emirates now. My siblings help take care of him, at least financially. I say I love him because he’s my father. But every phone call felt like acting—I had to pretend to be more religious than I was. After doing some deep self-reflection and questioning my beliefs, I realized something big: I don’t know this man. I can’t say I love or hate him. He’s like a stranger now. And the only thing that connected us—religion—is no longer part of who I am.
For kids like me, who grow up without their fathers around, learning to live together again is hard. There’s a distance that’s hard to close. So yes, I feel happy for all the families reunited with loved ones. It’s a good thing. But freedom doesn’t fix everything.
For the people coming out of prison, the world has changed. For their families, the challenge is reconnecting with someone they haven’t really known for years. For the children, it means dealing with emotional confusion and a lot of pressure. My family isn’t special in that way—there are many like us, with quiet emotional pain.
Being released doesn’t always mean people will be happy. It doesn’t mean families will go back to being whole. For many, it’s just the start of a new kind of struggle.
So what does this mean for everyone involved? Can we really go back to how things were before? What does freedom look like after losing so much time? Is it enough to just be free?
Or is the real work just beginning?