The Cowards’ Swords By: Faik Al-Aboudi

The Cowards’ Swords By: Faik Al-Aboudi

In a quiet village on the Syrian coast, Layla was born into a conservative Alawite family. Like all of us, she did not choose to be a Muslim Alawite or to grow up surrounded by the rigid chains of customs and traditions. Yet, she accepted her simple life with gratitude. She grew up dreaming of freedom and found her refuge in books, immersing herself in the depths of the Arabic language until she earned a doctorate, overcoming every obstacle along the way.

Layla was never a prisoner of her sect or the limits imposed by her family and society. From a young age, she built friendships with people from various sects, believing that a person’s worth is measured by their heart and what they give to others—not by their affiliation. Her closest friend was Maria, a Christian girl who shared her dreams and hopes. Together, they rejected bigotry and embraced their shared passion for knowledge. Layla would accompany Maria to church on religious occasions, and she even learned all the hymns, singing alongside her friend with unwavering devotion.

Despite being raised in an environment linked to the ruling regime, Layla could not hide her disgust toward the ruler and his oppressive government. To her, he was a hollow figure—a true embodiment of tyranny. She firmly believed that injustice could not be concealed by cosmetic lies and that the homeland belonged to everyone, not just to those who imposed their vision by force.

When the regime finally collapsed, the freedom she had longed for never came. Instead, power fell into the hands of a man even more criminal—a bloodthirsty butcher who shifted between terrorist organizations like a snake shedding its skin. He brought with him an army of murderers, criminals, and bandits from all corners of the earth—men with bloody pasts who spread terror and death in the name of religion and justice. Ironically, it was the Alawite community that bore the heaviest burden. These fanatics showed no mercy—to women, children, or the elderly. Alawites became mere numbers, slaughtered in cold blood under flimsy pretexts, hidden from the world by a complicit and corrupted media.

Even churches did not escape their wrath. Places of worship became targets—doors were broken down, walls were desecrated, and crosses were shattered. Not even the graves in the churchyard were left undisturbed. The very church that once represented peace and sanctuary for Layla and Maria had become a place of danger. Out of fear of what might happen, Layla eventually stopped visiting.

Amidst this chaos, Layla sat in her large library, gazing sorrowfully at the shelves that had held her thoughts and dreams for years. She knew that every book contained an idea—and in a time of madness and bloodshed, every idea could become a sword hanging over her neck. With trembling hands, she gathered her books—philosophy, history, literature, and religion—and set them aflame. As the flames devoured each page, it felt as though a piece of her soul was being torn away. Yet, the fire was a desperate attempt to extinguish the looming shadow of oppression.

On that fateful night, as the last ember of her burning books died out, the unthinkable happened. While she was gathering the ashes, the sound of a door being smashed pierced the silence. She froze momentarily before rushing to her parents’ room—but fate was merciless. The intruders stormed in like beasts, their eyes burning with malice beneath their masks. They were mercenaries, led by a towering man with a clear Chechen accent. His scarred hands bore the marks of past battles, and the bloodstains on his short trousers had not yet dried.

Her parents had no chance to escape. They were slaughtered before her eyes. Not even her young nephew—barely twelve years old—was spared. He had come to visit and would return to his mother as a lifeless, butchered body.

Layla fought back, screaming and struggling, but their violence was beyond what any human could endure. After hours of torture and humiliation, the Chechen leader approached her with a look of cruel contempt. In broken Arabic, he declared:
* »You are mine now. »*

In that darkest of moments, he tried to violate her—but Layla was stronger than he could have ever imagined. Her life ended in unspeakable brutality. She was killed, her body burned, her voice forever silenced—denied even the chance to cry out for freedom.

Yet, her ashes did not disappear. They became a haunting testament to the injustice inflicted. Layla’s story spread like wildfire, transforming her into a symbol of resistance and defiance. Truths long hidden began to surface. The murderers’ sponsors were exposed. The false media that glorified these killers crumbled under the weight of their lies—because no matter how long oppression reigns, it cannot last forever.

When the books burned, a piece of freedom burned with them—but the fire in the hearts of those who reject injustice could not be extinguished. Layla was gone, along with thousands of other innocents, but their voices and their memories became a beacon—a warning that justice would come, and those who supported tyranny and used the media to glorify it would one day fall, reduced to nothing but ashes in the trash heap of history.

I wanted to share with you this story inspired by real events that took place in Syria. I drew its details from various incidents experienced by different people and combined them into a single narrative.

Today, Syria is ruled by extremist murderers.