Free the prisoners of Sednaya!
3. January 2026
They walked out of Sednaya alive, but not free. A year on, former prisoners face illness, neglect and a state that would rather forget them.
When the gates of Sednaya prison finally opened, many thought that was the end of the story. The nightmare was over. Justice, at last.
It wasn’t.
What followed freedom was another kind of punishment that was quieter, less visible, but just as cruel: Chronic illnesses. Neglect. And a state that turned its back the moment the cameras stopped rolling.
In the early days after Damascus was declared “liberated”, the release of Sednaya’s prisoners was treated as a triumph. Men emerged blinking into daylight, greeted by cheers and chants. Phones were raised. Photos went viral. The moment travelled fast online.
And then it vanished.
A year on, I have spoken to several former detainees. None spoke of victory. What they spoke of was loss: lost years, broken bodies, ruined chances of work or stability. No official body has acknowledged that what happened to them was a state crime. No accountability. No serious attempt at redress.
Left to rot
Most of the men I met left prison carrying tuberculosis, a serious contagious disease that demands urgent medical attention. Yet no hospital was ready to take them in. No emergency response was declared. No public funding was set aside. No plan was put in place.
Instead, these men were told to sort it out themselves. Pay for treatment. Find doctors. Manage recovery, with bodies weakened by years of torture and hunger.
Pain as content
For a while, there was interest in these detainees. Journalists came calling. Cameras rolled. Testimonies were recorded. The men thought their stories might matter.
They were wrong.
What was wanted was shock. Trauma. Repetition. The same stories are told again and again, with no follow-up and no consequences. No protection. No psychological care. No political pressure.
Their suffering became media material to be consumed and shared, then put aside.
From starvation to exclusion
“One day in the cell”, one man told me, “all I thought about was whether the small cup of rice would keep me alive. Now I have to think about everything alone”.
There are no serious rehabilitation programmes. No long-term mental health care. No proper reintegration policies.
Instead, these men are judged by the same rules as everyone else: age limits, spotless health, uninterrupted work histories, work references.
How is someone who spent ten or fifteen years in prison supposed to have a CV? How can “full fitness” be demanded of people who were deliberately broken?
These aren’t neutral standards. They are a soft way of keeping people out.
Freedom doesn’t end at the prison gate
These men are not asking for special treatment. They are asking for the basics.
Recognition that what happened in Sednaya — and in Syria’s prisons more broadly — was systematic, deliberate and criminal. Real medical care. Real support. The right to speak together without being threatened.
Freedom without care, justice or accountability isn’t freedom at all. It’s simply punishment in another form.
What needs to happen
The demands are not complicated.
First, a clear and public acknowledgment that what happened in Sednaya and other prisons was a crime, not “mistakes” or “excesses”.
Second, immediate and free healthcare for survivors, including long-term psychological support.
Third, the right for former detainees to organise themselves without intimidation or legal threats.
And finally, fair access to work and public life, with rules that reflect years lost to prison, rather than pretending those years never happened.
