Each morning, as I cross the threshold of the Justice Palace in Homs, I am greeted by a new banner draped above the gate: “He who liberates, decides.” It hangs like a verdict over a city trying to redefine its fate. I walk past it, my steps echoing in a corridor where silence now feels more menacing than noise.
I am a woman judge. I shall not speak my name. The times are not safe for names.
I have lived and served in this city for many years. On the 6th of December last year, opposition forces entered Homs, and two days later, the regime fell. For a time, the institutions of government fell silent. When they reopened, we were summoned—judges and magistrates alike—to a meeting with the new authorities. The so-called transitional government, shaped by Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham, had appointed Shadi al-Waisi as Minister of Justice. A man trained not in civil law, but in Sharia jurisprudence. His name was familiar—he had once served in the so-called Salvation Government in Idlib, a region that lived under a shadow that now seems to stretch toward us.
At the gates of the courthouse, armed men received us. A man approached us—female judges—and asked us to cover our heads. Most of us ignored him. But at the door to the meeting hall, we were told gently, yet firmly: no head covering, no entry. We looked at one another, silent, defeated. One by one, we pulled out the scarves we had packed out of forethought or fear, and wrapped our hair in fabric not chosen of our own volition.
Inside, the men sat on one side, the women on the other. Rifles rested on the backs of chairs, near the exits, near the entrances. The air was thick with unease.
A man known as Sheikh Abu Abdullah, appointed to preside over the Homs courthouse, began to speak. He was dressed in a long robe, with an unkempt beard and a forceful cadence. He informed us that secular law was to be replaced, gradually, with Islamic jurisprudence, rooted in the Majalla, an Ottoman-era code of civil law derived from Hanafi thought. Beside him stood a silent Egyptian sheikh, unnamed and unexplained.
A Christian judge asked the question that trembled on many of our lips: What place would non-Muslim judges have in a judiciary governed by Islamic law? Abu Abdullah’s reply was evasive: “You are a Syrian Arab citizen. Do not ask me this question. But yes, we will rule by Sharia.” He left us adrift in uncertainty.
And what of women? I dared not ask, but the question burned in me. The sheikh merely said the matter was open to interpretation: some Islamic schools prohibit women from serving as judges altogether, others allow it in civil cases but not in criminal ones. “We shall wait and see,” he said, as though my life’s work were a footnote in a future not yet written.
Later in the meeting, he referred to the fallen regime as “the apostate Nusayri state”—a slur directed at the Alawite community. A fellow judge protested. “You say you are here to reassure us, yet you use sectarian language?” The sheikh responded angrily, and the atmosphere, already tense, frayed further.
The session ended in silence. Fear clung to us like a second skin.
Soon after, protests erupted online and across Homs. The appointment of Abu Abdullah was reversed. A new man, Abu Hudhayfa al-Aqra’, took his place. A preacher from Baba Amr, his digital footprint offered little solace: sermons steeped in militancy, denunciations of women’s gatherings, and declarations of divine triumph over “the tyrants of our age.”
Yet, when we met him, he was dressed in a suit. He asked us to call him ustadh, not sheikh. He dismissed his armed escort from the meeting room. He told us we were sisters, mothers, citizens—not subjects. He promised no one would impose dress codes or lifestyle choices. And yet, his words, however gracious, floated on the surface of a deeper uncertainty.
He acknowledged that our authority as judges was suspended. “Judges derive their mandate from the sovereign,” he said. Until elections are held and a new president elected, our rulings are frozen. We may continue reviewing cases, but no verdicts shall be issued. And so, like birds in a cage with open books but no voice, we wait.
Al-Sharaa, the transitional president, said in a televised interview that a new constitution may take three years to draft. Elections could take four. Until then, our status is that of ghosts in the machine—visible, but powerless.
Day by day, the mechanisms of law disintegrate. Where once a crime in flagrante delicto triggered a formal report to the police, now complainants must act alone. In one case, a police officer resolved a property dispute by simply announcing who the owner was, without explaining the evidence. In another, a battered wife was turned away; she was told she could only document her injuries and wait for the courts to come back to life.
Criminal matters, property disputes, and even the fate of detainees are now in the hands of the Military Operations Administration—a vague body with sweeping power. Recently, it released 300 detainees, claiming they had “no Syrian blood on their hands.” The rest remain unaccounted for.
In Homs, more than 260 judges remain, over 40 of whom are women. We once served in every branch: criminal, civil, appellate, prosecutorial. Now, we sit at our desks, anxious and idle, fearing the slow encroachment of a religious order dressed in civil cloth.
Already, five colleagues have faced threats. One was arrested because his wife’s uncle had served in the Assad army. Others have been harassed in their homes, their belongings seized. Three judges were assassinated last December. Their killers remain unknown.
In the city, two Homs coexist. In the revolutionary quarters, lights shine late into the night, cafes hum with life. But in former regime strongholds, fear has reclaimed the streets. Kidnappings are frequent. Gunfire punctures the night. Doors are barricaded before sunset, and we whisper through closed windows.
We’ve formed WhatsApp groups to warn one another. We dread knocks in the dark. A colleague of mine fled with his family after gunmen came asking for him by name.
I still believe in law. I still believe in a Syria where all citizens stand equal before a neutral justice. But I fear we are drifting away from that dream. Four of my colleagues have donned headscarves in recent weeks—not out of belief, but out of fear. More will follow.
Recently, all judges were summoned to a screening interview. We were asked to disclose our religious sects. One Christian woman was scolded for her “immodest attire.” A Sunni woman was chastised for wearing her hijab “incorrectly.” A Sunni man was questioned about why he had not defected sooner. One by one, our allegiances, our families, our pasts were interrogated.
Yes, the security situation has improved. Shops stay open longer. A semblance of calm has returned. But for how long?
The newly declared constitutional charter states: “Islamic jurisprudence shall be the primary source of legislation.” Its spokesperson added that this includes Sunni, Ismaili, Druze, and Shiite schools—while minorities will be governed by a law “akin to the Ottoman system.” Another Sharia graduate has been appointed as Minister of Justice.
My future remains a question suspended in time. Will I continue as a judge? Or as a clerk? Will I be allowed to rule? Or only to file?
For now, the only certainty is uncertainty. And a dream—quiet but persistent—that justice may yet belong to all.
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.
