Prison Becomes a City: Separating the Unspeakable Legacy of Assad’s Sednaya and Tadmur from the Fabric of Syrian Souls and Cities

 

Suppose we must encapsulate the essence of Abeer Dagher Esber’s message for Syrians to remember, now and in the future. In that case, it should be the words she leaves at the end of her essay in Al Modon newspaper: “Our detention centers and the shame they represent — something we hope never to endure again — are woven into the fabric of our souls and cities, the stains on our brows that generations strive to erase and forgive. Our detention centers reflect a complex relationship with a collective memory we hesitate to confront, fearing we might be accused of mere rhetoric and shedding sentimental tears in unfamiliar cities.”

 

In a gripping examination of imprisonment and the restrictions on freedom through architecture, Esber’s essay “Detention as an Urban Concept”* shares her reaction, and perhaps that of many Syrians, to the fateful moments when the gates of Syrian prisons finally swung open. Her words brush the surface of the horrors that were exposed behind the cover of the sealed doors: “What was not expected was the flaunting of all that violence and debauchery, without fear or concern for accountability. What was unexpected was the disclosure of all that shame with such fluidity, flow, and scandalous publicity, even in an urban context. What was frightening was the habit of unfurling the entire fabric of the city — its schools, theaters, cinemas, and hospitals; its tailoring, stitching, and embroidery; its luxury and abundance — with buildings that were nothing but the complete embodiment of horror. This was achieved by intertwining our ordinary spaces with structures that, when passed by, provoked nothing but an icy chill that froze our minds and left us unable to imagine.” She asks questions with uncomfortable answers — “How were our cities able to embrace all those prisons as their legitimate children? How were they imprinted on our conscience, and how did that urban term acquire the name of one of the beloved countries and cities? How did this atrocity become so familiar in our spatial memory that it lost its repulsive or disturbing impact? The security branches were called Palestine, and the prisons were Tadmur and Sednaya.”

 

Esber’s insightful observations evoke my memories in Lebanon as a former student of a religious middle school. I remember the nuns taking us on trips to the historic Sednaya church north of Damascus and lessons from history class about the landmark castle of Tadmur, or Palmyra, in central Syria. I hadn't heard of Sednaya and Tadmur as prisons until later. Perhaps none of them had yet gained the cruel reputation they now bear, which lends even more weight to the questions haunting Esber.

 

The second type of reaction is psychological, if not visceral. When the prison doors in Syria swung open to let eyes, hearts, and consciences witness, Esber writes, “We didn't dare look or delve into the meaning,” afraid to become aware of the terrible truths within. She scathingly criticizes the way Syrians did not respond as they should,’ but instead reacted with resignation and anger: “The Oedipus within us longed to gouge out his eyes upon being exposed to the obscenity of truth, and so did his peers. To survive, we began to compose stories and multiply the number of survivors, hoping not only for their survival but also for our own, for we didn't want to believe in human presses or acid pits.”

 

The exposed crimes inflicted and the brutal testimonies of those freed from Sednaya prison are horrific beyond what can be expressed in human language. Television viewers, YouTube users, and social media followers believe that the reported numbers are inaccurate after hearing stories of the torture endured by the freed detainees, convinced that the depths of the prisons have concealed even more crimes. In the words of Esber, “It was natural for us to assume the existence of additional cellars and lower floors deep within the hell of the earth, where only demons graze and where devils exhibit their filthy practices. It was natural for us to seek more excellent concealment, where the perpetrators of sins hide, afraid of their victims (even if only slightly), ashamed of the amount of violence (even if only slightly), descending into the depths, into the darkness, far beneath the earth.”

 

Today's prisons are a monstrous offspring of their former iterations. Esber questions how the concept of the prison evolved throughout history, examining the contrast between Roman-era prisons, particularly the Mamertine Prison, and those developed in the 16th and 17th centuries. For the Romans, prisons were temporary holding facilities for condemned prisoners. In contrast, the prisons of the 16th and 17th centuries established the foundation for modern incarceration, emphasizing long-term detention, discipline, and social control. 

 

One cannot help but wonder why Syrian prisons have been established near schools, theaters, and hospitals. The concept of prisons during the Roman era was ironically more “merciful” by comparison, viewed as temporary cages where the condemned awaited execution. The Romans did not typically build prisons as standalone institutions, like we do today, nor did they systematically place them near schools or theaters. Roman prisons were often located near significant civic or administrative centers, such as government buildings or forums. There is a notable dissonance between these prisons and those we know today. In Syria, prisoners often experienced prolonged suffering until death, with only the “fortunate” ones released shortly before their passing. Many of those who suffered and died were political prisoners imprisoned for their beliefs.

 

Literature is rife with examples showing that architecture is not a neutral entity but reflects cultural, political, social, and economic biases. Students examining Syrian prisons note that detention centers under the Baathist regime belong to the so-called modern era, a period evolving from Roman times to the present, which has witnessed the foundation of contemporary incarceration, as previously mentioned. One might question the source of the public's skepticism regarding the number of survivors. While the layout of Sednaya prison’s architecture is not random but can be inferred from its overall structure, it is reasonable to assume that more cellars and lower floors may lie deep within the earth, where those who commit sins hide their victims, as Esber writes.

 

The modern prison is more complex than either of its predecessors. It would be naive to underestimate the impact of architecture on prisoners. Indeed, the concept of a prison extends beyond mere buildings and has evolved into an idea and a principle. The walls confining prisoners of conscience are not merely constructed of stone and steel; they also encompass the fear of those in power who cannot tolerate dissent. This rekindled many of my inquiries and those of my colleagues while we wrote dissertations on Syria under the Baath regime. Why would the Assad regime imprison political opponents he knew well, especially as they aged and suffered over time? What threats could they possibly pose to him? Part of the answer lies in Esber’s concept of prison as a manifestation of fear. But whose fear, and who is afraid of whom? Are those in power afraid of aging and ailing prisoners who have spent decades in incarceration? One part of the answer is that these prisoners could become symbols, much like Nelson Mandela of South Africa. In the words of Esber, “Their whispered names carry the weight of resistance. Their absence represents a more genuine presence than absence itself, and their erasure creates a black hole in the fabric of society, threatening to engulf what remains of the deceptive notion of the homeland.”