He was a man of the earth, in every sense of the word. And yet, it was on that very earth that he was killed.
I had been in touch with his family until nearly 3 p.m. on Monday. Then came the message from his wife: “Your uncle’s been shot…”
They killed my uncle, Fouad Hanna. I never imagined I would write an obituary for a loved one murdered by live gunfire in a sectarian confrontation in Suweida. He was struck by three bullets. One pierced his neck and settled there.
Everything was chaotic. Murky. Like a nightmare I’m still hoping to wake up from.
He was shot in front of his home in the village of Al-Duwayra, where he refused to leave. He clung to the home he had built with his own hands, to the orange trees my grandmother had planted, to the olive groves he believed in more deeply than he did in people.
The attack on Suweida began Monday. From that moment, I tried calling my uncle and his wife non-stop. As pro-government armed factions began advancing on the city, we pleaded with him to flee. He answered: “And the house? My living?” Soon after, the roads were closed, and escape was no longer possible.
Uncle Fouad—whose name literally means “heart”—was a kind soul. He loved his home, his land, and his trees. He cared for his lemon trees and grew seasonal vegetables. He had no ties to any armed group. All he wanted was to stay home. So they killed him.
He knew what I loved. He’d visit us with crates of sweet corn and call out from the gate in his joyfully booming voice: “Manahil, I brought you yellow corn, ya wayliii!” During loquat season, he made sure the fruit from his trees reached me in Lebanon. “These are from my best tree,” he’d say. He knew every tree intimately. And they knew him.
My uncle wasn’t just a farmer. He carried life in his hands and gave it to us—through loquats, oranges, vegetables, and a warm laugh. The land taught him generosity, and he boasted about what he grew as if he owned the whole world. He truly was a son of the soil.
After being shot, his wife reached out to their Bedouin neighbours, who rushed to help. They evacuated him first to Daraa, then to Damascus due to the severity of his injuries. He passed away a day and a half later.
Fouad Hanna had once been detained by the Assad regime, back in 2012. My mother used to sit every night on the front stoop of our house, raising her hands to the sky, praying for his release. When he returned, he was no longer the same man.
He’d disappeared for months, held on charges of “terrorism.” His wife paid a fortune to secure his release. He came back emaciated—50 kilograms lighter. His fingernails had been ripped out. His body bore the marks of the lash. They hanged him by his feet. Threatened to rape his sisters. They tortured him in ways I still can’t fully fathom.
And yet, somehow, he came back to life. He returned to his land. He tried growing bananas and proudly showed off his success. I’m convinced it was his love for life that saved him. He wanted to plant. To harvest. To press his own olives. With everything he did, he said to life: “I am here. I want to live.”
Now he’s gone. Killed in the chaos. Shot outside his home during an invasion of his village by unknown gunmen—some of whom asked his name and sect, then walked away. Others returned later, looted homes, set fires.
His own Bedouin neighbours tried to shield him, even promised to defend him. But the strangers—armed tribesmen not from the village—stormed through and ransacked everything. In the midst of the pillaging, his wife overheard one of the gunmen shouting: “Come, here’s the loot! Look how much stuff there is!” That was no local. Locals knew his workshop, knew his generosity. These were outsiders. And when he stepped out, they opened fire.
His wife screamed for help. His Bedouin friends came immediately. They tried to save him. They took him to Daraa, the nearest city. But he couldn’t be saved.
He had a little agricultural repair shop in town. He’d brew Arabic coffee and tea every morning, setting up a small table outside. People came from all over—from Druze, Christian, and Bedouin villages—to sit, chat, laugh. His home and his shop were always open, always warm.
The man who killed him was surely a stranger—not just to our town, but to compassion itself.
And he was not the only one. Dozens were killed in two days—civilians, like him—before international and regional pressure forced government-aligned militias to withdraw.
Justice won’t come. Not for him. Not for any of Syria’s dead these past fourteen years. I try to imagine the killer’s face. I never can. That’s what haunts me most: we’ll never know him. We’ll never see him. Never confront him. Never hold him accountable.
My uncle died carrying the scars of Assad’s torture on his body. He died with the scent of his land in his palms. He died holding on to this country—whatever is left of it.
I no longer believe in revolution. Not the one people talk about now. Syria—the one I hold in my heart—is nothing like the shouting, the slogans, or the bloodlust. It’s something soft and undefined. Something warm.
I’ve lost my faith in victory, in politics, in all of it. The only things I still believe in are my grandmother’s orange trees, the blood on my uncle’s doorstep, and the tears my mother cries each night.
This article was translated and edited by The Syrian Observer. The Syrian Observer has not verified the content of this story. Responsibility for the information and views set out in this article lies entirely with the author.
