4th world Anarchists for a magazine as a community resource by us, for us.
So, this event, which we plugged a few times on socials and on this website…
The people who volunteered for this didn’t bother going and didn’t bother telling anyone their intentions to not go until hours into the event.
We are sorry to the people we’ve disappointed and to the organisers who invited us before the event even got announced.
Direct Action of Second Road Blockade by Anarchist Affinity. (03/24/2025)
The darkness of Makassar City, South Sulawesi, made us who are members of Anarchist Affinity carry out a second road blockade action, with the same goal, namely as a response to the ratification of the Military Law or the implementation of the Military Junta. If we remain silent, it is the same as surrendering ourselves to be killed in vain. Therefore, we are carrying out a rebellion, this is a small resistance that we are carrying out even though on the other hand we are preparing for a bigger resistance. We are sure that what we are doing will be a reckoning for those who dare to disturb (the government and the fascists). “If they dare to disturb us, then we also dare to disturb them” This is an early warning from us, and we will soon come with a bigger explosion of course.
This is a social war! Makassar, March 24, 2025
Support the anarchist combatants in Indonesia who are fighting against state repression, capitalism, and all forms of authoritarianism! After the passage of the TNI (Indonesian National Army) law and the planned passage of the POLRI (Indonesian National Police) law, a wave of large demonstrations erupted in various cities, facing brutality from the authorities and mass arrests. The state further solidified its grip by militarizing civilian spaces, silencing resistance with violence and criminalization. In the midst of this situation, international solidarity becomes crucial. The funds collected will be used for urgent needs such as survival equipment, logistics costs, evacuation costs, as well as the needs of costs at the safe house. Any contribution, no matter how small, is a real step towards strengthening the resistance and ensuring that the fire of freedom is not extinguished. Solidarity knows no bounds-show your support now!
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Note: Send as ‘friends and family’ payment.
*LONGLIVEANARCHY!
*DEATHTOTHESTATE!
*SOLIDARITYMEANSATTACK
Shared from https://blackbloczone.noblogs.org/post/category/news/
Just checking in here, sorry it’s been so quiet, we’ve been very hard at work preparing issue two of the magazine.
Take a look around, you’ll have noticed some changes. We now have way more resources linked in the sidebar, we now have PGP and a tab full of photos of the magazine out in the wild, we’ve also updated the Page about anarchism in Sudan. We do not endorse the CNT-AIT and will no longer be sharing the link to their fundraiser, you can read more on that here.
On a more positive note, got our first event as a project coming up and we’ve also come up with a solution to the “everyone wants us to travel but we’re all poor, disabled and broke” problem. Remote stalls, we can send a box of the magazine to any event, pretty much anywhere on earth if we can afford the shipping. So you can pop them on a table, we’ll even include an A4 sheet with our QR code if people want to find out more about us.
Our next update will likely be the closing of submissions for issue 2 but a month later we’ll have the magazine ready for you all.
Thanks for the support.
Hey so, we’ll be at this at the end of the month! Come say hi, get a zine or something.
hate zine – zine fair.
Saturday 29th March 10-16:00
Aghh! Zine
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Chikaboo Designs
FEM Press
hate zine
Holly Casio
How To Catch A Pig
Muntjac Magazine
Toby Evans-Jesra
Weird Canteen Zine
and more!
Lanzarote Works
230 Dalston Ln E8 1LA
Get free tickets here 👇
https://link.dice.fm/G9f5fb7fde42
Dawnbreak, a project which features friends of ours, needs folks to send in audio recordings, minimum 800 word readings or 5 min conversation and storytelling. They only have 10 min of material for episode 1 at this moment. Any ideas, suggestions, submissions to the podcast would be excellent. Truly any, as long as it’s anarchist and anticolonial or antihumanist.
Forge Worlds. Rewrite Rea/ities. Be the Architect of Your Own Destiny.
Narrative is Your Weapon
Are You A artist or creator? iconoclast? Visionary? Dawnbreak media
collective is building an anarchist media project fueled by the power
of storytelling. We’re seeking talented individuals to join us in the
exhilarating work of remaking the world, one narrative ata time.
Dawnbreak timeforge: We believe narratives are temporal
modulators. Forget linear timelines. We explore stories that
rupture the continuum, generating alternative realities.
Craft Worlds: We’re not here to reflect reality, but to reshape it.
We want to make art that fuels insurrection.
Ignite the Spark: Together, we area collection of artists dedicated
to shattering the chains of conformity and craftinga new reality
born of pure imagination.
Wha1 We’re Looking For:
Storytellers: Writers, scriptwriters, podcasters. Tell us your stories.
Worldbuilders: Visual artists, designers, concept artists. Bring your visions to life.
Content Creators: Video editors, audio producers, multimedia specialists. Shape the
way we tell our stories.
Strategists: Media strategists, narrative architects, audience engagement. Help us
amplify our message.
Visionaries: Creative rebels, anarchists, thinkers, dreamers. Contribute your ideas.
6acchusman99@gmaiI.com
Content Warning: This peice contains references to rape.
This essay was written by a group of Baloch women called “Dasgoharan” and was published on
their Instagram page. It was later republished in e-flux Journal in May 2024.
On September 1, 2022, the commander of the police force in Chabahar raped a fifteen-year-old girl named Maho while interrogating her. News of this rape circulated along with the news of Jina Mahsa Amini’s murder by the state twenty days later. Then on Sunday, September 25, 2022, Molavi Abdolqaffar Naqshbandi, the interim leader of Friday prayers in Rasak, a town in Sistan and Balochistan (in the same region as Chabahar), released a statement confirming Colonel Ibrahim Koochakzayi’s rape of this young girl and called for a public trial. Five days later, after Friday prayers on September 30, 2022, the people of nearby Zahedan took to the streets in support of Maho and against the state murder of Jina. The crackdown on this protest was so violent and bloody that it became known as “Bloody Friday,” or the “2022 Zahedan massacre.” On that day, the Islamic Republic’s security forces opened fire on protestors after their prayers and killed at least ninety-six people. Islamic Republic snipers killed many of the protestors with shots to their heads and hearts.
This is not a scholarly or journalistic essay. It was written amidst the flames of anger and blood, and on trembling ground. It is not yet clear to us where the conflict between the military forces of the state/religion/tribe and the oppressed lower strata of society will lead. The outer hard shell of power does not hesitate to do everything it can to maintain the status quo and to suppress the anger of subordinate women and youth. The coming days are important. They will tell of the relentless but disorganized struggle of different assemblages of people who are socially excluded, especially women. This is a dynamic struggle that has always crystallized in the form of resistance in daily life and has often been ignored in the past. But today, it has come to the surface so powerfully that it is no longer possible to deny.
Maho’s tragedy showed us the basic conflicts of Balochistan society all at once and in the most naked form. Suddenly, society lost its patience and began to boil over. We remember that when Iran was burning from the fires seeking justice for Jina Mahsa Amini, a news item disturbed Balochistan’s cyberspace. A senior police officer in Chabahar had raped a teenage girl who lived in one of Chabahar’s villages. The rumor mill was abuzz as numerous confirmations and denials circulated. The judiciary and law enforcement authorities did not feel the need to respond. The person accused of rape was from the same official apparatus of repression that never felt obliged to answer for its crimes, insults, and humiliations, considering itself justified in doing whatever they pleased. Meanwhile, a well-known Baloch activist in Balochistan’s cyberspace publicly pursued the truth of the story through their network of acquaintances (while others did so secretly). While the official media remained silent, this civic activist made the matter public and spread information about the event. Soon after, he was threatened, forced to remain silent, and then arrested.
In a society known for its silence in the face of aggression, this level of scrutiny of independent citizen activists and their position was unprecedented. The general perception has always been something like: “It is Balochistan. The clan decides for itself. Most likely, the girl will disappear. The story is going to disappear similar to the rape of some forty women in Iranshahrin in 2018.” But society could not bear the silence any longer. Something had been cracked open. The wide understanding of discrimination, suffering, and the recognition of the people’s right to determine their destiny had changed. This transformation was particularly evident in the case of the movement seeking justice for Maho.
At first, the clergy remained “meaningfully silent” and called on the people to remain calm. Members of parliament and the official parties active in Balochistan shrouded themselves in silence, and no words came from the influential clans. The ruling Shiite central government handled this disaster similarly; this approach, of course, has become “normal”—a frequent occurrence in the territory of Balochistan. Perhaps a review of structural and historical discrimination in Balochistan will help illuminate the government’s approach to the violence that Maho was forced to endure and the movements that followed.
For years, the Shia central government has kept Balochistan systematically underdeveloped. The region has been deprived of justice-oriented programs through disenfranchisement and structural discrimination. For years, the central government has destroyed any hope for a better life and dehumanized the population with its centrist, hegemonic system of meaning. It has represented Baloch men as untamed violent brutes and its women as oppressed and powerless figures. Only people from influential and wealthy circles could improve their own material positions through complicity with the central Iranian state. Today, widespread poverty, high illiteracy rates, unemployment, and lack of identity documents for residents in Balochistan are no longer a secret. Baloch people have been a forgotten nation for years, and the proof of this is the increase in executions of Baloch people in the last two years without transparency or fair trials, which leaves no hope for justice for other crimes as well.
Despite this painful history and systematic elimination, the massacre of justice-seeking, empty-handed people on Bloody Friday in Zahedan exposed to Iranians more than ever before the magnitude of the oppression and discrimination faced by the Baloch people. The government, which shut down the internet in the days following the uprising, could not silence the voices of justice-seeking Baloch people and could not implement its old and outdated scenario in Balochistan. The Iranian government, which has always pitted the interests of non-Baloch native residents against Baloch people to advance its own interests, has now found itself unable to win popular support. The armed groups active in the border areas of Balochistan had been previously weakened by Pakistan and the Taliban, and this time, the government could not defend the usual claim that “the people of Balochistan are armed.” On that Bloody Friday, Baloch people had nothing but sticks and stones in their fight against machine guns, as evidenced by countless videos released after that bloody day.
The totality of these facts prompted people in other regions, with diverse ethnicities across Iran, to sympathize with and express their support for the Baloch in their protests and gatherings. These changes and sympathies promise new days, days that warn the government to be afraid of the transforming society of Balochistan.
For years, the Sunni clerical institution led by Abdul Hamid Ismail Zahi tried to institutionalize the oppression of women and maintain its base by fighting and negotiating with the government and clans. It still believed that Zahi has the last word and speaks for all Baloch. This institution had not dealt with this form of disobedience even when its support for the Taliban and Raeesi’s presidency had discredited the institution in the eyes of women and activists in Balochistan. Other Sunni clerics in Balochistan found themselves in a similar situation. Among all the region’s Sunni imams, only one was willing to listen to Maho’s family and to speak from an official platform about the oppression they faced before the street protests started. However, the people of Chabahar spontaneously took to the streets and gathered without invitation or support from traditional authorities. The first rally, which lasted late into the night, eventually led to the arrest of several people, including Baloch women, some of whom are still in prison. Even three days after this rally—that is, on Zahedan’s Bloody Friday—people did not remain silent and revolted in protest against Molavi Abdul Hamid. The statistics that have been compiled so far on the fatalities from this bloody day confirm the oppression already mentioned: many of those who were killed did not have birth certificates; some had a history of drug-related accusations and experienced humiliation in provincial prisons; some of them came from marginal areas like Shirabad, a neighborhood that is one of the poorest and most deprived areas in the peripheral regions of Iran. But because they were rebellious, they had to be put in their place by power. The response to Bloody Friday by the public pushed some clerics to try to dampen the anger by making statements in support of the demonstrators. This shows how the people were able to endanger the clerics’ hold on power and at the same time discredit the logics of the apparatus of repression without needing the support of an external authority.
But the Sunni clergy was not the only institution whose authority was shaken. The clan, another authority in Balochistan’s traditional society, also lost much of its credibility. The clan, which used to hold chieftaincy (khawanin) in Balochistan, largely lost its influence after the Iranian Revolution and with the spread of Islamism, when many of its chiefs fled Iran. This ancient institution, which could have been destroyed through the implementation of justice-oriented and democratic programs, returned to the political stage once again in the absence of a program for human development in Sistan and Balochistan and in the shadow of the repression of any form of civil, social, and independent political activity. Taking advantage of widespread poverty by exploiting problems of livelihood, the Islamic Republic has deployed and militarized the clan system. In order to control the borders and subjugate the critical and dissident Balochis, the Revolutionary Guard, with the help of the clans, have allowed much oppression of the Balochis, especially women, by arming the clans and handpicking their leaders. In the case of Maho, the clans have once again dashed any hope of legal action and abandoned the Baloch people. All these forces—the central government, the Sunni clerical body, and the tribes—have so far been unable to provide a response to the oppression undergone by Maho and the Baloch community. These days, government representatives are traveling to Sistan and Balochistan. They are negotiating or making agreements with imams, trustees, elders, and representatives.
The old forces are coming together to settle the crisis. But the Baloch, who have taken to the streets empty-handed, have scuttled these agreements. Now Baloch women have also joined the protest movement. In schools in remote villages, teenage girls are tearing up photos of Islamic Republic leaders, making statements, and writing slogans on walls. Society in Sistan and Balochistan is shedding its skin. What we witnessed in the movement seeking justice for Maho and the Bloody Friday of Zahedan shows a great change in the lower strata of society. Maho has shown us that as much as the reactionary forces have resisted our cries for Janin, Zand, Ajoyi (Woman, Life, Freedom), we Baloch have changed and are breaking new ground more than ever before.
References:
https://www.instagram.com/thevoicesofbalochwomen
https://www.e-flux.com/journal/145/606681/why-is-maho-our-symbol/
Sent in via anonymous submission.
On the morning of February 21st, a banner written in Mandarin stating “BUREAUCRAT DOGS’ ENTIRE FAMILY DIES” followed in English “ABOLISH ICE” was dropped over the Sam Houston Tollway near Houston’s Bellaire neighborhood. This area is home several big Asian diasporas, especially a large Chinese immigrant community.
Across the Houston area, there have been many reports of ICE raids and unmarked cars patrolling the area. This is a recent escalation of violence against immigrant communities across the United States, where both fascist groups and government agencies such as ICE try to enforce Donald Trump’s rhetoric of mass deportations. We reject the militarization of our communities by government agencies who seek to rip families apart and intimidate immigrant communities.
In response, anarchist crews across the US are engaging in Black Cat Anarchist Network’s Anti-ICE Campaign, putting up pro-immigrant agitprop in multiple states. In Houston, non-white and immigrant anarchists dropped a Patriot Front banner that was “conquered, not stolen” months ago.
To us, Patriot Front and ICE are no different. ICE employs white supremacists as prosecutors and agents to oppress immigrant communities, while Patriot Front attacked “Occupy ICE” protestors in 2018 and consistently drops xenophobic propaganda across the country. With our action, we aim to oppose xenophobic rhetoric and shatter the illusion of passive acceptance of a white supremacist agenda in this colonial hell-scape.
Banner drops are simple and easy to do. In a car-centric city like Houston, you can easily share messages of resistance with hundreds to thousands of people as they sit in congested traffic on their way to work. It’s even better when nazis give you free materials for your banners!
ABOLISH ICE
CHINGA LA MIGRA
官僚狗死全家，废除ICE
DEATH TO FASCISM
Below we have listed three essays that reflect on the life and legacy of Omar Aziz. We are also happy to share this alongside his writing in English and Arabic.
Check his memorial page rememberomaraziz.net and a book being published containing the works of syrian revolutionaries, including Omar.
At the bottom of this page, we have collected some further readings some of you may enjoy.
Omar Aziz (fondly known by friends as Abu Kamel) was born in Damascus. He returned to Syria from exile in Saudi Arabia and the United States in the early days of the Syrian revolution. An intellectual, economist, anarchist, husband and father, at the age of 63, he committed himself to the revolutionary struggle. He worked together with local activists to collect humanitarian aid and distribute it to suburbs of Damascus that were under attack by the regime. Through his writing and activity he promoted local self-governance, horizontal organization, cooperation, solidarity and mutual aid as the means by which people could emancipate themselves from the tyranny of the state. Together with comrades, Aziz founded the first local committee in Barzeh, Damascus.The example spread across Syria and with it some of the most promising and lasting examples of non-hierarchical self organization to have emerged from the countries of the Arab Spring.
In her tribute to Omar Aziz, Budour Hassan says, he “did not wear a Vendetta mask, nor did he form black blocs. He was not obsessed with giving interviews to the press …[Yet] at a time when most anti-imperialists were wailing over the collapse of the Syrian state and the “hijacking” of a revolution they never supported in the first place, Aziz and his comrades were tirelessly striving for unconditional freedom from all forms of despotism and state hegemony.”[1]
Aziz was encouraged by the revolutionary wave gripping the country and believed that “ongoing demonstrations were able to break the dominance of absolute power”.[2] But he saw a lack of synergy between revolutionary activity and people’s daily lives. For Aziz it didn’t make sense to participate in demonstrations demanding the overthrow of the regime whilst still living within strict hierarchical and authoritarian structures imposed by the state. He described such division as Syria being subject to the overlapping of two times “the time of power” which “still manages the life activities”, and “the time of Revolution” belonging to the activists working to overthrow the regime.[3] Aziz believed that for the continuity and victory of the revolution, revolutionary activity needed to permeate all aspects of people’s lives. He advocated for radical changes to social organization and relationships in order to challenge the foundations of a system based on domination and oppression.
Aziz saw positive examples all around him. He was encouraged by the multiple initiatives springing up throughout the country including voluntary provision of emergency medical and legal support, turning houses into field hospitals and arranging food baskets for distribution. He saw in such acts “the spirit of the Syrian people’s resistance to the brutality of the system, the systematic killing and destruction of community”.[4] Omar’s vision was to spread these practices and he believed the way to achieve this was through the establishment of local councils. In the eighth month of the Syrian revolution, when wide-spread protests against the regime were still largely peaceful, Omar Aziz produced a discussion paper on Local Councils in Syria where he set out his vision.
In Aziz’s view the Local Council was the forum by which people drawn from diverse cultures and different social strata could work together to achieve three primary goals; to manage their lives independently of the institutions and organs of the state; to provide the space to enable the collective collaboration of individuals; and activate the social revolution at the local, regional and national level.
In his paper Aziz lists what he thinks the core concerns of the local councils should be:
Omar Aziz’s work has had a huge impact on revolutionary organization in Syria. Whilst the mainstream political opposition failed to achieve anything of note in the past two years, the grassroots opposition movement, in the face of violent repression, has remained dynamic and innovative and has embodied the anarchist spirit. The core of the grassroots opposition is the youth, mainly from the poor and middle-classes, in which women and diverse religious and ethnic groups play active roles (see here and here ). Many of these activists remain non-affiliated to traditional political ideologies but are motivated by concerns for freedom, dignity and basic human rights. Their primary objective has remained the overthrow of the regime, rather than developing grand proposals for a future Syria.
The main form of revolutionary organization has been through the development of the tansiqiyyat; hundreds of local committees established in neighborhoods and towns across the country. Here, revolutionary activists engage in multiple activities, from documenting and reporting on violations carried out by the regime (and increasingly elements of the opposition) to organizing protests and civil disobedience campaigns (such as strikes and refusing to pay utility bills) and collecting and providing aid and humanitarian supplies to areas under bombardment or siege. There is no one model but they often operate as horizontally organized, leaderless groups, made up of all segments of the society. They have been the foundation of the revolutionary movement creating solidarity amongst the people, a sense of community and collective action. See here about Yabroud’s (Damascus suburb) efforts to organize in the absence of the state. Some local committees have elected representatives such as in Kafranbel Idlib, where a committee of elected representatives have made their own constitution (see here). Youth activists from Kafranbel keep the popular protest movement alive and have gained world wide fame for their use of colorful and satirical banners at weekly protests (see here). They also engage in civil activities such as providing psychosocial support for children and forums for adults to discuss issues such as civil disobedience and peaceful resistance.
At the city and district levels revolutionary councils or majlis thawar have been established. They are often the primary civil administrative structure in areas liberated from the state, as well as some areas that remain under state control.[6] These ensure the provision of basic services, coordinate the activities of local committees and coordinate with the popular armed resistance. Undoubtably as state provision of services has disappeared from some areas, and the humanitarian situation has deteriorated, they have played an increasingly vital role. There is no one model for the Local Councils, but they mainly follow some form of representative democratic model. Some have established different administrative departments to take over functions previously held by the state. Some have been more successful and inclusive than others which have struggled to displace the bureaucracy of the old regime or have been plagued by infighting.[7]
Whilst the main basis of activity is very much at the local level, there are a number of different umbrella groups which have emerged to coordinate and network on the regional and national level. These include the Local Coordination Committees (LCC), National Action Committees (NAC), the Federation of the Coordination Committees of the Syrian Revolution (FCC) and the Syrian Revolution General Commission (SRGC). None represent the totality of local committees/councils and they have different organizational structures and differing levels of engagement or non-engagement with the formal political opposition. See here for an interactive map which shows the coordinating committees and councils, as well as the flourishing of many other civil initiatives and campaigns in a country where such activity was previously brutally repressed.
A major threat facing these diverse initiatives has not only been the persecution of activists by the regime, lack of resources, the onslaught of the state’s attack of civilian areas and increasingly deteriorating security and humanitarian conditions. Some local councils have been hijacked by reactionary and counter-revolutionary forces. For example, in Al Raqqa non-local rebel groups with salafi/takfiri leanings took much of the power away from the local council. As they have tried to impose an Islamic vision which is alien to almost everyone, the people of Raqqa have been holding continuous protests against them. In this video here from June 2013 people are demonstrating against arrests of family members by Jabhat Al Nusra. The women are shouting “shame on you! You betrayed us in the name of Islam”. Throughout August 2013 the people of Al Raqqa have been protesting almost daily against the Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham (ISIS) demanding the release of hundreds of detainees, abductees and missing persons. Likewise in Aleppo revolutionaries launched the ‘enough is enough’ campaign calling for an end to rebel abuses and for accountability. This demonstration from June 2013 was held in front of Sharia Court in Aleppo after the killing of a child for allegedly insulting the prophet Mohammad. The people here are calling for the murderers to be brought to justice saying “”The Sharia Committee has become the Air Force Intelligence!” (the most brutal security branch of Assad regime). In Idlib people have also been protesting against a Sharia Committee which has been established, here they say “we are against the regime, against extremist killing and oppression” and are calling for the return of professional lawyers (independent judiciary) to the court (instead of religious men).
Omar Aziz did not live to see the often seemingly insurmountable challenges that would beset Syria’s revolutionaries, or the successes and failures of experiments in local self-organization. On 20 November 2012, he was arrested from his home by the mukhabarat (much feared intelligence service). Shortly before his arrest he said “We are no less than the Paris Commune workers: they resisted for 70 days and we are still going on for a year and a half.”[8] Aziz was held in an intelligence detention cell of 4 by 4 meters which was shared with 85 other people. This likely contributed to the deterioration of his already weak health. He was later transferred to Adra prison where he died from heart complications in February 2013, a day before his 64th birthday.
Omar Aziz’s name may never be widely known, but he deserves recognition as a leading contemporary figure in the development of anarchist thought and practice. The experiments in grass roots revolutionary organization that he inspired provide insight and lessons in anarchist organizing for future revolutions across the globe.
Notes:
1 Budour Hassan, ‘Omar Aziz: Rest in Power’, 20 February 2013, http://budourhassan.wordpress.com/2013/02/20/omar-aziz/
2 Omar Aziz, ‘A discussion paper on Local Councils,’ (in Arabic) http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=143690742461532
3 Ibid.
4 Ibid.
5 Ibid.
6 For a report on Local Councils see in Gayath Naisse ‘Self organization in the Syrian people’s revolution’: http://www.internationalviewpoint.org/spip.php?article3025
7 Ibid.
8 Via @Darth Nader https://twitter.com/DarthNader/status/304015567231266816
Source: https://web.archive.org/web/20190308203313/https://www.al-manshour.org/node/7415
Translated by Ghassan Makarem
“We are not less that the workers of the Paris Commune… They lasted 70 days and we are still here since a year and a half.” This is how the organic intellectual Omar Aziz described the revolution in Syria. On 17 February 2013, Aziz was martyred in Adra Central Prison.
This text will review the most prominent local councils, where Aziz played a major role in drafting the founding papers.(1) It will also point out the shortcomings of this type of organization, at least in terms of application.
The increase of the Syrian regime’s crackdown on the revolutionary uprising in Syria, in its peaceful phase, coincided with the desertion of many soldiers and the beginning of skirmishes between the Syrian army and what was to become the Free Syrian Army. The need arose for the creation of organizational structures to manage people’s lives, due to the withdrawal of the regime from its simplest duties, already begun with the implementation of neoliberal “reforms”.
While the Local Coordination Committees (LCCs) had been formed as organizational structures to prepare, call for, and document demonstrations, the idea was that the local councils would be an alternative to the regime and its institutions. According to Omar Aziz, the goal behind forming these councils was “assisting people in running their lives independently from state institutions…; the creation of a space for collective expression, which supports solidarity between individuals and elevates their daily actions into political expression…; providing support and assistance for new arrivals and families of prisoners…; providing a space for discussing livelihood issues…; building horizontal links between local councils…; defending lands in the area in the face of government appropriation to the benefit of the wealthy or military and security officers in the state…” This is in addition to the documentation of violations perpetrated by the regime and its thugs (only), as well as providing relief, coordinating with medical committees, and supporting and coordinating educational activities.
However, due to “the absence of electoral practice in the current situation,” as Omar Aziz says, “the local councils will be formed of workers in the social field and those who enjoy public respect and have expertise in [various] areas.” What is noteworthy here is how to measure “public respect” and when will “the current situation” end? Despite the continuity of the “the current situation,” local council elections were held on the municipal level and a general assembly of local councils, which included members of local councils, was formed on the district level. District councils were also formed and elected an executive office and a president. All these councils were attached to the Ministry of Local Administration, Relief, and Refugee Issues in the provisional government.(2)
In fact, however, the work of these councils was limited to municipal affairs, such as various services, accompanied (competing with?) a constellation of NGOs focusing on the same work. Armed groups remained outside the supervision of local councils. At the same time, the Syrian National Council, the Syrian interim government, and the National Coalition of Syrian Revolutionary and Opposition forces monopolized the “high political rhetoric.”
Thus, the original idea behind the councils became meaningless. Under the hegemony of weapons and conditional funding, the space for council work closed up. Thus, the possibility of building an alternative, democratic authority from below, which could lead the revolution and speak in its name, was diminished. Although these councils were chosen through elections, democracy cannot be limited to the ballot box or a few minutes of electoral practice. It should also mean that women are allowed to participate as candidates and voters(3). It should also mean being aware of racism and sectarianism. It means the participation of all people in running all their affairs, not merely those related to the right to food, health, and education, and away from the control of warlords from all sides. It also means striving to achieve the aspirations of thousands of Syrian men and women who demonstrated, got arrested, were martyred, or displaced. It should ultimately mean striving towards liberty, dignity, and democracy.
Syrian revolutionaries cannot be blamed for the outcome of the revolution. Omar Aziz did not detain himself and did not commit suicide in jail. From the onset, they faced a ruthless enemy, adept at killing at exploiting mercilessly. But this enemy was not alone. It was supported by a wide group of globally and regionally hegemonic countries and Syrian and non-Syrian armed groups. At the same time, Syrians were plagued with a leadership that was nothing but a pawn for the Gulf States and Turkey and begged for western intervention, until this “outside” intervened in favor of the existing regime, either directly or indirectly.
There is much to be learned from the ongoing experience of the local council, both negative and positive. Struggles by people, or humans, as the martyr and comrade Omar Aziz used to call them, are connected and interlinked. People devise their own ways of steadfastness and confrontation. Our destiny is to confront and struggle on various levels and front and to learn from the mistakes of the past and present. It is not merely to honor the dead, and they are many, but to celebrate life.
Published first in arabic on 6 March, 2017
References:
1) The founding papers for the idea of the local councils in Syria written by martyr Omar Aziz in late 2011 were published by Sami al-Kayyal on his Facebook page on 17 February 2013.
2) In March 2014, the National Coalition of Syrian Revolution and Opposition Forces published the constituent by-laws of the local councils in Syrian governorates. On the other hand, the Syrian Nonviolence Movement website published an interactive map of all sorts of peaceful protests in Syria, including the distribution of local councils. The map needs updating, due to changes in the situation between areas recovered by the regime (Daraya and Aleppo, for example) or were taken over by ISIS (such as Raqqa, etc.).
3) Razan Ghazzawi, “Women and the Syrian Revolution,” translated by Walid Daou, Al-Manshour website, 3 April 2014.
Source: https://www.blackrosefed.org/aziz-we-are-not-pawns/
This article by Syrian writer Jwana Aziz reflects on the fall of Bashar al-Assad’s regime. Jwana examines the conditions that precipitated the 2011 uprising, the years of civil war, and the difficulties that now lay ahead for the Syrian people, while also holding open the possibility for a truly liberated future.
Jwana is the daughter of Omar Aziz (Abu Kamel), a Syrian intellectual and anarchist who both theorized and organized local democratic councils in Damascus during the uprising. In 2012 the elder Aziz was arrested by Syrian security forces and in 2013 succumbed to poor conditions in a regime prison.
As I sit down to write, I think back to the last time I saw my father. Standing before me, behind iron bars, he was frail and thin, yet he smiled at me. I carry that smile in my memory. My mother and I stood on the opposite side, joined by the rest of the families visiting their loved ones. The divide was meant to be made clear. They, the prisoners, have wronged the state and were to bear the consequences for doing so. We, on the other hand, haven’t, get to walk out and roam free.
Today, I, and Syrians around the world, find myself in the midst of an avalanche of emotions, riding currents of joy, sorrow, hope, and fear, each one pulling me in a different direction. The fall of the Syrian regime was our collective dream, a longing we had aspired for, and as of December 8, 2024, it was realized.
A torn banner depicting Bashar al-Assad.
To effectively understand its descent, it’s important to first understand how he rose to power. When Hafez Al-Assad first seized power in Syria in 1970, the dynasty was designed to reign with an iron fist. During the first three decades, Hafez implemented a system built on capitalist cronyism and corruption supported by heavy surveillance and a militarized police state. This combination proved lethal to any dissent expressed against him and his family.
Assad leveraged his position in power to monopolize control over all critical sectors, ensuring the state, under his rule, dominated nearly every aspect of public and private life. This included telecommunications, real estate, education, healthcare, and even marriage institutions. The 1970s saw a dramatic enlargement of the public sector, making the state the principal employer for Syrians. By 2010, an estimated 1.4 million Syrians were on the government payroll. This strategy blurred the lines between the Assad family and the Syrian state, making them virtually indistinguishable.
Assad’s regime ensured loyalty by cultivating a network of elites bound to the family through economic and social incentives. Positions of power were awarded based on allegiance, often favoring members of Assad’s own sect, the Alawites, along with close allies. This entrenched system of favoritism secured the loyalty of key figures in the military, political, and business sectors, further solidifying Assad’s power. The pervasive nature of their presence was underscored by the countless statues erected in honor of Assad and his cronies, symbolizing their omnipresent dominance over Syria.
Perhaps the most potent weapon in Assad’s arsenal was the regime’s willingness to use unrelenting violence against its own people. This strategy reached its most infamous peak with the Hama massacre of 1982. In response to an uprising by the Muslim Brotherhood, the regime unleashed a brutal military campaign. Known as “one of the darkest moments in the modern history of the Arab world,” the regime killed an estimated 10,000 to 40,000 people and destroyed large parts of the city. This event sent a clear message to the rest of us: any challenge to Assad’s rule would be met with overwhelming and indiscriminate force.
The Syrian Civil War, which began in 2011 under Hafez’s son Bashar al-Assad, further escalated this violence to an industrial scale. The regime used carpet bombing, barrel bombs, and chemical attacks to crush opposition-held areas, resulting in the deaths of over half a million people and the displacement of millions. Tens of thousands were arrested, tortured, or disappeared.
Nowhere is the Assad regime’s capacity for violence more evident than in its prisons. Among the most infamous are Tadmor (in Palmyra) and Sednaya, known as “The Human Slaughterhouse.” Sednaya was divided into sections: the “Red Building,” a site of systematic torture and execution, and the “White Building,” which housed prisoners awaiting their fate.
A 2017 report by Amnesty International, based on testimonies from former guards, revealed that after the Syrian Civil War, the White Building was cleared of its existing prisoners to make room for those detained for participating in protests against Bashar al-Assad’s regime. Estimates suggest that about 157,634 Syrians were arrested between March 2011 and August 2024. Among them were 5,274 children and 10,221 women. Beneath the White Building lay an “execution room,” where detainees from the Red Building were transported to be hanged. Between 2011 and 2015 alone, an estimated 13,000 people were hanged there.
A poster reading “Freedom for Omar Aziz” in a demonstration for Palestinian prisoner Samer Issawi on Feb. 6th, 2013, in occupied Jerusalem [Courtesy Budour Hassan].
We have long known about the horrors of these prisons. In August 2013, a military defector codenamed Caesar, who recently revealed himself as Osama Othman, smuggled out 53,275 photographs, documenting the deaths of at least 6,786 detainees. These images provided an unflinching glimpse into the brutality of Assad’s regime. Today, the veil has been lifted further, confirming even starker realities.
Accounts describe unimaginable atrocities of rape, mutilation, defilement of bodies, starvation, and deprivation of basic needs such as food, water, sleep, and medicine. Torture techniques, some inspired by French colonial and German practices, included the German Chair, where victims were bent backward until their spines snapped. The Flying Carpet, a wooden board designed to bring knees and chest together, caused unbearable back pain. The Ladder, where detainees were tied and repeatedly pushed off, broke their backs with every fall. And finally, the Iron Press was used to dispose of bodies en masse.
Knowing these atrocities persisted for years is heart-wrenching. Syrians today are either still searching for answers about their missing loved ones, such as Wafa Moustafa, who is still looking for her father, or mourning the confirmed deaths of their family and friends. This week, Syrians have taken to the streets to grieve the loss of activist Mazen al-Hamada, whose death was confirmed in a military hospital. Mazen, a symbol of resistance and kindness, has an eternal place in our hearts alongside countless others who dedicated their lives for our freedom today: Razan Zaytouneh, Samira Khalil , Ghayath Matar, and all the brave men, women, and children who sacrificed for Syria’s future.
In a recent inquiry, Fadel Abdulghany, the head of the Syrian Network for Human Rights, uncovers evidence suggesting the regime is complicit in incinerating bodies on an industrial scale. “Where are the bodies?” he asks. As of yesterday, around 50 bags of human remains were discovered in barren land near Damascus, one of many suspected mass graves. Echoing Abdulghany’s call, I underscore the urgent need to know where the bodies have been buried, so Syrians can lay their families to rest and begin to etch their future.
Yet amid this darkness, there is joy and determination. Recent videos capture the release of prisoners, among them toddlers, grown men who have lost their memories due to horrific conditions, and women who gave birth in captivity to children fathered by men they don’t know. Despite the haunting realities, today is a day of hope—families are reuniting, and long-separated loved ones are embracing once again. The dismantling of Sednaya Prison marks a momentous day to remember.
Hundreds gather in and outside of Sednaya Prison after the fall of the Assad regime.
We stand in the wake of its downfall, the statues have been toppled, its portraits shattered. the cronies have scattered, the mukhabarat (secret security) dissipated. A family that hoarded wealth and plundered 90% of its people into poverty now finds its house an open one, where regular people walk in and take as they please—sweet irony, or perhaps a fit retribution.
But our celebration will be brief.
The vacuum left by the regime is being exploited by nationalist factions like Hayʼat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), an authoritarian organization with an Islamic fundamentalist ideology, and the Syrian National Army (SNA), a proxy for Turkey. Both HTS and SNA are seen as threats to a democratic Syria. And although the US and Israel did not instigate the offensive that brought an end to the regime, Israel opposes Syria’s liberation due to the potential risks it poses for Israeli control of Palestine and regional stability.
It is imperative, at this moment, we reject all forms of Arab nationalism and colonial entities rooted in ethnic cleansing and settler expansion—whether driven by Israel, the US, Turkey, or others. We must protect and ensure that we do not perpetuate the systematic erasure of ethnic groups including Assyrians, Kurds, Nubians, and Armenians.
It is now up to Syrians to dismantle hierarchal structures and rebuild democracy through “power from below.” My father’s work and that of his comrades demonstrate the ability of working-class self-governance through local councils. They thrived without the state, organizing education, hospitals, and services, all run by the people and rooted in their communities. Syrians are already coming together to restore the infrastructure neglected by the regime. Initiatives to clean and restore public spaces serve as a testament to our resilience and determination.
Unfortunately, the world, once again, stands idle, hesitant to offer the support we deserve. Today, as in the past, discourse seeks to limit Syria’s realities and the possibilities for change. We are framed as passive subjects, slandered with conspiracy theories, and labeled as pawns in a larger geopolitical game.
But we are not pawns. We are the people who rose against a regime we knew would kill us.
As I walked away from the prison on the day I saw my father, I stood on Syrian soil, supposed to be free—yet, I felt anything but. The feeling of being watched and monitored and the suffocating presence of fear was all too familiar. The regime’s grip was everywhere, in the streets, in the shops, on the roads, and in the eyes of the people. Syria, as a land, felt like one vast prison.
If there is one message I could share with the world, it is this: unless you and your community can determine your way of life, you are living within some form of prison. A carceral system that seeks to control and restrict our potential and imagination. If one of the most brutal dictatorships of the 21st century could crumble in a matter of days, then so too can the capitalist system that dominates and exploits our lives. We must be able to dream of that world, the way my father dreamt of Syria.
Jwana Aziz is a Syrian writer whose work has explored feminist social movements and the liberation of political prisoners across the MENA region. Her writing focuses on themes of popular resistance, grassroots movements, and abolition. Inspired by the legacy of her late father, Jwana reflects on Syria’s journey through its darkest moments and the resilience of its people.
