A burly bearded man in a blue tunic moved swiftly through grassy stubble on a windswept road in rural Damascus, collecting bones with his bare hands.
He added a jaw to the pile, before gently picking up a skull. Briefly, he kissed it—a moment of tenderness for one of the many victims of Bashar al-Assad. Ten months after Assad was ousted from power last December in a lightning rebel advance, mass graves are still being uncovered.
The Syrian dictator's legacy is embedded in the soil here—skeletal remains where crops should be. There are now more than 60 grave sites and counting.
One of the latest came to light in al-Otaiba village, in the district of Eastern Ghouta, where a shepherd stumbled on clothing and human remains after straw was burnt off.
The authorities believe as many as 175 bodies were bulldozed into a mass grave in this former opposition stronghold. They are among the legions of the missing.
More than 181,000 people were forcibly disappeared or arbitrarily detained during the 14 years of Syria's civil war, according to the Syrian Network for Human Rights monitoring group. It says 90% were taken by the Assad regime.
The families of the missing are now demanding answers and justice from the new Syria—which held its first parliamentary election, of a sort, earlier this month.
A people's assembly was chosen but not directly by the people. One-third of the seats remain to be filled. The appointees will be hand-picked by Syria's Interim leader Ahmed al-Sharaa.
Depending on your viewpoint in this broken country, and perhaps on your religion or your sect, the election was either a sham or a first step on the road to democracy.
As Syria faces forward, President Sharaa—a jihadi fighter turned head of state—says the missing will remain a national priority.
Bereaved relatives like Kasim Hamami are counting on that. They can do little else.
We found him digging by the roadside at the mass grave site, pulling secrets from the soil.
As we watched, he uncovered a frayed, brownish jumper covered in dirt. It was a last trace of Samer, his brother, who disappeared aged 21.
Samer was a civilian, Kasim said softly, and newly-wed, just 15 days into his marriage. He had nothing to do with armed groups. He didn't fight anybody.
His three nephews also left with Samer and shared his fate.
They were among around 400 people who set out from Eastern Ghouta on 27 February 2014, hoping to reach another rebel stronghold. On the way, they were attacked by the regime and its allies in Hezbollah, the Lebanese Shia militia backed by Iran, who filmed the slaughter and published footage that circulated online.
Now, the families of missing persons gather in Truth Tents to share their experiences and seek solidarity. During these events, the harrowing stories of loss and trauma surface, amplifying the collective demand for justice from the regime.
We will get our rights when he is hanged, insisted one woman, calling for accountability from former President Bashar al-Assad.
Although a National Commission for Missing Persons has been established, it lacks resources and capacity, with the knowledge that for many families, the wait for closure may be prolonged for years.
