The Raqqa Diaries began as a series of broadcasts on Radio 4’s Today programme. Raqqa in Syria is one of the most isolated and fear-ridden cities on earth. No one is allowed to speak to western journalists or leave the city without the permission of Islamic State.

Despite this, BBC foreign affairs correspondent Mike Thomson, with help from the BBC’s Arabic service, found a young man willing to risk his life to tell the world what is happening in his city. Samer [not his real name] is part of a small anti-Isis activist group [Al-Sharqiya 24]; his diaries were encrypted and sent to a third country before being translated.

March 2013

I will never forget the time when Daesh [Isis] first appeared on the streets of our city. At first, opposition forces surrounded the fighters who occupied the government buildings. We were optimistic. But then everything changed. The Free Syrian Army began to weaken. It was busy fighting the regime elsewhere and its forces around Raqqa became thinner and thinner. Its soldiers were hit by repeated government air strikes. Daesh fought back, broke the FSA’s siege and quickly took over our helpless city.

While some of Daesh’s members are busy executing people for nothing, others spend their time creating friction

They took advantage of our confusion and ignorance and began persuading people to join their ranks. At first they would charm people with a softly spoken manner, promising them the world. But I didn’t buy any of this. Daesh members come in two basic types. Those who actually believe they have come to save us were among the first to enter the city; the second type are much more violent.

The first time I saw the Hisbah, Daesh’s religious police, patrolling the streets they were shouting at a woman who was pulling her daughter back on to the pavement after the little girl had run into the road. The mother looked very decent, according to local standards anyway. She was wearing an abaya [loose-fitting, full-length robe]and a hijab, but they were calling her really bad names and questioning her honour because she wasn’t wearing a face veil. They were using words that most of us would be too ashamed to say. How could they call themselves religious, I wondered.

A bombed Raqqa street, as illustrated in The Raqqa Diaries. Illustration: Scott Coello/Hutchinson Books

The young woman was becoming increasingly frightened and was trying to get away from them. She said she just wanted to take her daughter home, but they wouldn’t leave her alone. By this time there were a few of us standing nearby; we were all shocked but didn’t risk saying anything. It was then that Abo-Saeed decided to intervene. Since he’d retired about a decade ago, he’d been the muezzin [appointed to lead and recite the call to prayer] at the nearby mosque. Around the city, people were used to hearing his voice coming over the loudspeakers. If we didn’t hear him calling people to prayer at night, we’d wonder what had happened.

Now he started shouting back, demanding to know whether this was the holy message they were trying to spread. “I swear,” he said, “you have nothing to do with Islam.” He was popular and people began to gather around him. It made us feel braver to stand behind our local muezzin as he laid into these strangers who had appeared in our city out of nowhere. In the end, Abo-Saeed got so worked up he suffered a heart attack, right there in the street. While a few onlookers carried him to a nearby car and rushed him to hospital, we all began pushing forward. Soon an angry mob was surrounding the Daesh patrol. Evidently scared of what might happen next, the men wriggled free and ran away.

“What brought them here?” I heard somebody ask. We all agreed that we didn’t want them. A man in front of me called on everyone to stop saying such things. He warned that Daesh had got spies everywhere now. “Didn’t you hear what happened last night?” he said. “They beheaded a guy in Naeem Square because he was saying bad things about them.” Ignoring that warning, a soulful voice behind me shouted: “These people will take us back to the dark ages!”





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Hassan has been fighting with the regime forces. His punishment is beheading. Eissa, a media activist, is accused of speaking to foreign parties. His punishment: beheading.

A man with a sword carries out the executions. We are unable to do anything about what is happening in front of us. It’s very dangerous to let your true feelings show because Daesh is eyeing the crowd. We are utterly in their grip. I stare into the faces around me, trying to read the thoughts behind the many sad, quiet eyes. In some I see anger. These angry faces stare at the executioner, doubtless plotting the revenge they will take against him when the opportunity comes. Many here are waiting for the spark that will ignite the uprising against that man and all Daesh murderers. People are holding back for now out of fear, but surely not for much longer.

While I am lost in thought, some people behind me start peeling away, desperate to leave this awful scene without being noticed. But this is very risky. Daesh is determined to ensure that we all watch the killings before us.

I stuck to my city for as long as I could. I wanted to help it in its time of need

I heard the name of one of my neighbours being called out over the speakers. Somehow I couldn’t stop myself going over. His decapitated head was on the ground. I couldn’t stand up; my legs just wouldn’t hold me. I can’t get this image out of my mind.

As I walked down the road, cursing out loud, a group of Isis religious police rushed over and grabbed me. They took me to their headquarters. I tried to reason with them, but it was no use. “You were cursing out loud. Your punishment is 40 lashes.” Without any mercy or humanity, a man lashed me. I could see in his eyes that he took pride in this.

When I arrived at my front door, I collapsed. After hearing what had happened to me, my pregnant sister went into shock and began bleeding heavily. We knew we had to get her to a gynaecologist as quickly as possible, but when we arrived at the clinic we found it was shut. A man outside told me that the doctor, who had been his neighbour for years, had been arrested by Isis and they had shut down his clinic. Male doctors were now forbidden to treat female patients.

While some of Daesh’s members are busy executing people for nothing, others spend their time creating friction. They provoke people in order to get a reaction. Then they punish anyone who opposes or criticises them.





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As the taxi got closer, clouds of smoke filled the air. The regime’s planes had hit our street. Our neighbour’s roof had collapsed on to ours. There were ambulances everywhere, and people running around carrying the dead and the injured.

One of my neighbours told me that my parents were hurt and had been taken to the general hospital. The feeling I had was indescribable. Judging by the way our house looked, I was expecting the worst. The top floor was completely destroyed and much of the ground floor was badly damaged too. Our neighbour’s house was in a similar state.

Female school students wearing niqabs, which Isis have decreed that women must wear in public at all times. Photograph: Reuters

When my brothers, sisters and I arrived at the hospital, the smell of blood and death filled the place. We were asked to look at the bodies laid out in front of us to see if our parents were among them.

I was in such a state of shock at that moment that I suddenly couldn’t remember anything. As I stood beside my father, it was like nothing that had happened before that moment mattered. There was my dad. His body was littered with injuries. They had covered most of his corpse with a white sheet, but his face was still showing. I could see blood seeping through the sheet from numerous cuts. The telltale sign of shrapnel wounds.

I was overwhelmed with a sense of absolute loneliness and collapsed on the floor. I had lost my mentor, my guide in life, the man who always had an answer to everything. This was one of the darkest moments of my life. My father’s death has continued to haunt me. It’s changed something in me.

“Your mother is being treated in here,” a voice said quietly, “but don’t go in yet.” Two hours passed and finally a doctor came out. I told him that I was her son. “I’ve managed to save her life, but she’s very sick,” he said.

After my father’s funeral my family’s dear, generous friend, Abu Muhammed, joined with our neighbours in helping to repair our bomb-damaged home. One gave us some cement and another provided metal rods, which enabled us to put two rooms back together again and repair the courtyard outside. Some parts of the house were so badly damaged that they were impossible to put right, but we managed to make most of the rest of it habitable again.

My mother’s health has been deteriorating and she has been feeling very frail and vulnerable while we’ve been staying with friends. She was so relieved to be able to move back home.

Late May 2016

I stuck to my city for as long as I could. It gave me some of my most beautiful memories and I wanted to stay and help in its time of need. I was willing to bear the difficult times. I was prepared to die there too.

If it weren’t for my mother, I would never have left. But she was so afraid. She knew that I was in their sights and it would not have been long before they pulled the trigger.

So my new life in exile has begun.

The area I am in is full of people like me. Thousands who have fled their homes, running from either Daesh or Assad’s regime. Their suffering, and mine, is not over yet. It’s not even close to being over.

An aerial illustration of Raqqa. Illustration: Scott Coello/Hutchinson Books

There isn’t enough food or medicine in the camp; the regime’s warplanes circle above us. Many people here tell me they wish they were already dead. Many are hoping to cross into Turkey, but the border is completely closed. It’s hopeless. Many have been maimed by the regime’s war machine. Some are missing limbs. These injuries have a dramatic impact on them and those who care for them. Every single person here has lived with horror. Yet instead of weeping or cursing, they all try to help each other.

I carry many of my memories in a small bag. Photos of people and places. Stray, random bits of my past, which probably don’t exist any more. Among them is a picture of an old school friend. For all I know, he may be dead now. Then there’s a photo of our neighbour, who died alongside his children in an air strike. One of an old friend, who was crucified by Daesh. Here, a picture of our destroyed house. Others of our street, which is now ruined and empty.

But I keep some of my dearest pictures in my head. There’s the beautiful girl I spent the happiest moments of my life with, until fate tore us apart [she was forced into marriage with an Isis fighter]. Fellow students who studied alongside me. I have no hope of ever seeing these people again.

I try to get my mind off such things by looking around me. The present is full of problems, and by engaging with these I help free my mind from the past. I cling to the hope that although these precious memories are gone, I may find new ones if, one day, I can return to my home. This is my hope.

This is an edited extract from The Raqqa Diaries: Escape from Islamic State by Samer, published by Hutchinson (£9.99). To order a copy for £8.49 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of £1.99

• Raqqa is still occupied by Islamic State, and there is an ongoing military campaign led by the US-backed Syrian Democratic Forces to drive them out.

Q&A with Samer: ‘Assad is committing atrocities on a much larger scale than Isis. We are suffering from both evils’

Illustration of an anti-Assad protest. Photograph: Scott Coello/Hutchinson Books

When and why did you start writing the diaries?

I had the idea just before the revolution began, when the Arab spring started unfolding. Syrian people knew that the winds of change were approaching, but the idea truly manifested itself after Islamic State took over Raqqa. Diaries are normally private, and are mostly only read after the passing of the diarist. But, as I detail in my diaries, because of the crimes and oppression that Isis were committing against our people, I felt I had to fight back by telling the world what they are continuing to do to us.

Were you surprised by the response?

The amount of attention my diaries got made me wonder whether the areas of Syria suffering under Assad’s criminal regime are getting the same attention as those controlled by Isis? Let’s be realistic: the Assad regime is committing atrocities on a much larger scale than Isis. We are suffering from both these evils.

Tell us about the dangers of being an activist in Raqqa/Syria.

Being an activist under Isis’s oppressive rule is a serious crime and you face terrible punishment. These dangers mean that every decision I make has to be thoroughly thought through, because there could be grave consequences – not just for myself but for those around me. You have to completely believe in the worth of what you are doing. When I think of a future life free from the criminality of Isis, it gives me a glimmer of hope. It keeps me going on this difficult road.

Explain how you make contact with the BBC.

My communication with the BBC is through members of the Al-Sharqiya 24 network in Turkey. They communicate with Nader Ibrahim in London, who translates the communication to the rest of the BBC team, Mike Thomson and John Neal.

After you escaped from Raqqa, you were in a refugee camp in the northern Aleppo countryside. How was it?

The camp I was in had many families fleeing areas controlled by Isis and the regime. There was a lot of suffering. Every tent housed a tragedy of its own. It eased my suffering slightly and put things in perspective, because I realised things could have been even worse for me. The people in the camps have got used to living in difficult conditions, but I saw hope in the eyes of children there. I thought to myself, we should sacrifice all we have to help end the suffering of these children, because they deserve it. The camp was lacking even the most basic amenities, but life goes on for our people. Hope is born from the womb of pain.

Describe a day in your life at the moment. [Samer is currently in an area near the Turkish border in northern Syria].

My days are now filled mainly with anxiety and exhaustion, as I await my unknown fate. But such feelings are dwarfed by the suffering our people are enduring in Raqqa and the rest of Syria.

Are your mother and siblings still in Raqqa?

Yes, they are still there.

Can you communicate with them? How are they? How is life currently in Raqqa?

Communication with them is very limited. It’s very frustrating. Life in Raqqa is like a slow death. There’s no way you can live a decent life there.

In the diaries you say Isis is an offspring of Assad.

I say that because Isis and the regime are very similar in the way they go after activists. The way they arbitrarily arrest people and torture them. They even have similar detention centres. Both arrest civilians and force them to fight on the frontlines with no regard for their lives. And those who dare to speak the truth against either the regime or Isis are treated with the same level of brutal criminality. The injustice of the regime made it easier for Isis to take control of more and more land. Isis convoys would pass in front of the regime and not a single shot would be fired at them. The drama between the two is all made up! When the regime or Isis take over an area from each other, they merely swap land according to secret deals they had made before.

Will you go back to Raqqa one day?

Hope is the only thing that keeps me going; there is no life without that. I am certain that what we’re going through now is a test of the strength of our will and our patience.

Have you found out what happened to the woman you fell in love with? [They met at university – after Isis took over the city, she was forced to marry one of their fighters.]

I heard that, like me, she managed to escape from areas controlled by Isis. But I can’t be sure of that, as I have no direct communication with her or any of her relatives.

Can you comment on President Trump’s attempt at a travel ban on people travelling to the US from seven Muslim-majority countries, including Syria?

I’m no expert in politics. Most of my interest is in the humanitarian aspect of things. But if I can freely express my opinion then I would say that countries are not owned by their leaders, but by their people. The leaders are only there to serve the people. This is how I view democracy. Apart from the racist basis of his decision, did the people have a say in what he’s doing?

Do you feel let down by the wider world?

Is there any other way of putting it?!

What do you think the future holds both for you personally and your country?

We’re optimistic. Life is suffocating without hope.

Do you still believe “freedom, dignity, justice” is possible in Syria?

It will be possible when we can completely get rid of the enemies of those principles. When we hold the killers accountable, and when all the idols of terrorism, murder and corruption are brought down.