Analysis: Veil of anonymity for those who shelter the refugees

SHE found the newly-weds sleeping in a park. Frightened and with nothing but the clothes in which they had fled, they lay together, shivering against the cold.

She knew that housing them could mean arrest, imprisonment or worse for her or her family, but she could not leave them in this pitiful state.

“They are young; she is just 17, and he is 20 years old. They fled the war in Homs. We cried for them,” said Hana, an activist living in Burzah district of Damascus. “She said, ‘what happens to me, god can decide’. We took them into our house, gave them clothes, and food and said don’t tell anyone that you are here.”

As the regime continues to blast the city of Homs, networks of opposition activists across the Syrian capital Damascus are working to find shelter for families fleeing the violence.

Fearful of being punished for helping “traitors”, they operate in secret, smuggling blankets, water and baby food to newly-established safe houses.

The Scotsman followed a group of women; a student, pharmacist, and teacher in Burzah as they brought supplies to arrivals from Homs.

“They came to Burzah because they heard that people here are against the regime. But many people don’t dare to house them because they are afraid they will be questioned.” said Hana as we drove through Damascus, medical supplies hidden under the front seat.

Parked on a dirt track, looking around furtively, she grabbed the bag and rushed forwards, tapping quickly on a white painted metal door. A nine-year-old boy, the man of the house, opened the door just enough to let us pass. His four sisters were hidden away in a side room for safety. Paunchy, with worn clothes, her hair in disarray and deep bags under her eyes, the mother stood in the empty living room, too frightened and exhausted to speak of her ordeal. She and her family had fled from Homs a week before.

Blankets were laid like a carpet in the corner to battle against the cold of the stone floor and five thin foam mattresses were laid on top. A bare light bulb shone a cold blue light from above.

“We brought the blankets, the mattresses, everything. We have to help, these people are suffering,” said an activist called Zainab.

“There are many families that are just women and children. The men have been killed or captured or have returned to Homs to fight,” said Hana.

Organising supplies means coded telephone messages, lobbying and risky conversations with strangers. Everything is conducted in secret, they explained, even from each other. The women work together everyday, but they do not know each others proper names, or the names of the people they help.

“It is safer this way. Our work is dangerous, and if we are captured and under torture we might give away too much information. So it is better not to know,” said Zainab. “We build the support networks through the internet. After we learned to trust each other we gathered together to work”.

The number of refugees going to Damascus is difficult to estimate. They are spread across the city, with local co-ordination committees for each district working independently to accommodate them. But since government forces began renewed shelling of Homs in the last five days, the number of fleeing families has surged.

“There are many, so, so many. It is a whole country that is running away,” said Hana. “We are clinging at straws to keep this going. Nobody listens to us, as you see what happened with the Arab League, and the United Nations: they sit in meetings discussing as people are dying. Really, they are dying. It is our duty to help.”