Manahel Alsahoui is a Syrian poet, writer and journalist; her poems include "She Didn't Touch Herself" and "Thirty Minutes in a Booby Trapped Bus“. For the theater, she wrote "A Battery for a Hand Lamp"; her work has been translated into several languages.

I vividly remember how I felt writing my very first article under the pseudonym "Carmen Karim". I was trembling with fear, as if an executioner was poised behind the door. It was a strange mixture of both enthusiasm and hesitancy, and I did sometimes wonder, "Is it really worth it?"

I chose my pseudonym carefully. I've always loved the name Carmen; an inner feeling, difficult to explain, told me that the name suited me and reflected my experiences. I was led to the name by something deep inside me. But choosing the name wasn't the hardest part. The real challenge began with writing the very first article, when psychologically, everything began to weigh much more heavily.

In every article I wrote under this pseudonym, the shadow of Al-Assad hovered over me, and the weight of fear sat on my shoulders, like a form of torture. No article was easy to write - neither psychologically, nor even in terms of gathering information or contacting sources - as the obsession with being unmasked haunted me constantly.

The anonymity afforded me by my pseudonym did not protect me from the regime's threats. The mere fact of collaborating with a site considered "opposed to the former regime" was enough to make me a target of direct and indirect threats. I even came to dread appearing in a video about something as mundane as poverty in Syria. The black hands of the regime had followed me to Lebanon, pursuing me wherever I thought I could find some semblance of safety.
In Syria, I resorted to simple methods to protect myself. Later, I realised that I didn't know anything about digital security, of which we were deprived in the country. Perhaps it was chance - or simply luck - that spared me from the fate I so dreaded.

I deleted my articles from my computer and kept the unfinished texts on a USB memory stick hidden in a secret place, thus avoiding leaving the slightest trace on my personal device. As a precaution, I had drawn up a contingency plan. I had a friend who, though secretly opposed to the regime, was forced to work for it. I relied on him to warn my family or help me in case of arrest. I had given his number to my sister, telling her, "If one day I disappear or am arrested, call this number."

Then I began to feel that the country was rejecting me. One day, at a checkpoint on the road between Agrabaa and Jaramana, I was verbally harrassed by soldiers of the regime. They asked to look through my belongings and almost examined my computer, but for some unknown reason - or perhaps because they didn't know how to access - they left me alone. By chance that day, I hadn't hidden the USB stick as I usually did: it was lying in plain sight, and I hadn't deleted all the files on my computer either. When I returned home safe and sound, I began to seriously consider leaving Syria.

Between Manahil and Carmen

The first article, then the second, then the third - little by little, Carmen's name became known. Some began to question her true identity. Several of her texts were widely read. One article after another, the ceiling of fear cracked, and I began to push it further back - the same ceiling under which I'd once been threatened.
With Carmen, I experienced a form of freedom I'd never known. A new woman revealed herself to me - a woman with a political eye, a capacity for analysis and action, and a sharp pen. I asked myself: where had this committed woman been, all these years?

But, over time, Carmen took up too much space, to the point of eclipsing Manahil. Manahil's signature texts became more tepid, lacking the courage to point the finger at those who deserved it. Manahil circled around the subject without ever uttering the word "regime", while Carmen revelled in her freedom, mocking Al-Assad, denouncing his crimes and corruption.

That's not all: several of my colleagues would mistakenly call me Carmen instead of my real name. I realized that "Carmen" was no longer just a pseudonym - she had begun to steal my real identity. Yet I didn't hate her. I saw her as a separate entity; another woman, alien to me, but a relentless journalist who had made a name for herself. I even went so far as to admit that she had eclipsed me, simply because she felt free - a freedom that I had never been able to experience.

Between Carmen and Al-Assad

Later, I learned that the regime had arrested a journalist and asked her if she worked for "Daraj", the media with whom I collaborated. That's when I realised that I had to complicate their task, make their investigation impossible. I published an article entitled: "I'm the reckless boy who insulted the Al-Assad regime", without ever revealing my gender, age or city.
I wrote: "I'm just a pseudonym here. Impossible to verify who I am. Am I a girl? A man? An old man? Am I even real? And why pretend to be a girl, when I could adopt any role, even that of the reckless boy!"

On one occasion, I tried to address the Syrian security agents directly, even though they probably don't read my texts. I felt like I was entering into a debate with them: "Every time I write an article, I imagine your new strategy to find me. You read it with rage, with anger, and you dream of punching the face of the person who writes these words that sully the grandeur of your regime. I can imagine the many ways you would torture me, should you ever catch me. Do you consult, perhaps, around a detail, to at least guess my city?"

Today, I laugh. Those moments seem distant, almost unreal - like a dream I might have lived... or maybe not.

In order not to be unmasked through the blogs in which I recounted fragments of my life, I had to alter certain details: places, times, neighbourhoods, sometimes even gender. For example, I didn't write that I'd moved to Beirut, but to Europe. It wasn't my maternal uncle, but my paternal uncle who had been arrested. These subtleties were my armour - my deep conviction that they could never identify me.

Over time, my articles became bolder. I discovered within myself a political voice I'd never known existed before. The regime had been so good at crushing us that we'd eventually said, "Why do we even get involved with politics?"

From anonymity to freedom

I never imagined that one day I'd be able to say, "I'm Carmen... this is me." Not so long ago, I thought I might never be able to reveal my real name. The thought was painful. I had even planned for someone close to me to reveal it after my death. But the Al-Assad regime fell before me, and I was able to speak my name.

Today, I have the right to reveal the journalistic work I published under a pseudonym, out of fear for myself and my family. For years, I wrote over 150 articles, in addition to my daily work on the Daraj platform: videos, news, investigations. I had believed that this assumed name would remain in the shadows forever.

I have written dozens of investigations, human rights reports, blog posts and opinion pieces, from Syria and beyond, with the conviction that the truth must be told, even if we have to remain invisible to do so.

One of the most important projects I've been involved in was my first collaborative investigation, produced with Daraj, BBC and OCCRP, entitled:
"The Republic of Captagon: how a vast drug trafficking network is linked to the Syrian presidential palace", which revealed the involvement of the Al-Assad family in the production and trade of Captagon. Until recently, I wasn't even allowed to celebrate this success, nor to take part in other investigations.

Among the reports I'm particularly proud of: an interview with the son of Syria's longest-serving political prisoner, Ragheed al-Tatari, who was released alive two days ago, and will finally be able to hug his son. I've also been keeping a close eye on all aspects of the most abject of prisons, Saydnaya prison, from the sinister "salt chambers" to its architectural and administrative structure.

Today, I'm free. And Carmen is free. I'm no longer afraid to say: I'm Manahil Al-Sahwi, not Carmen Karim. All I want is never to have to hide behind an assumed name again. And that no human being, no journalist, ever again has to conceal their ideas out of fear for their lives or those of their loved ones.

This article was originally published on Daraj on 11 December 2024.