'The violence is keeping many at home but it is not breaking the movement' – demonstrators refuse to bow to government pressure

"Every Friday he goes out and I fear he might not come back. We wouldn't know if he was dead or alive," says Ahmed's mother as the young man laces up his black running shoes. The university student straightens up and shouts goodbye to his family as he rushes out of the door to the mosque, promising to be back for lunch.

With the sound of gunshots echoing from a few streets away, Ahmed's mother sits on the sofa and quietly cries. Friday, the day of prayer for many families across the country, has become a day of anxiety over the past three months as children, brothers and fathers and, in lesser numbers, mothers and sisters, take to the streets.

The brutal suppression of protests has left more than 1,400 people dead, including soldiers and security men, since Syria's uprising started, according to estimates by human rights groups.

But rather than deterring demonstrators, the violence has bolstered their determination, adding to their anger at the government that they say offers them no hope.

The crackdown has been particularly intense in Homs, Syria's third most populous city about 100 miles north of Damascus. Regime tanks move around the neighbourhoods, leaving indents from their tracks on the roads lined by concrete low-rise buildings. Gunfire has become as common a sound on the streets as the ever-present honking of car horns, and the heightened security presence is obvious. But despite the violence, resistance has been fierce.

All around the country protests are dominated by young men such as Ahmed, lacking in work opportunities and dealing on a daily basis with corruption.

"We are meant to be able to buy a house before we get married but there are no jobs and everything has become expensive," says one man in Damascus, sitting in the courtyard of the house where he lives with his family. "We have neither a job nor can we start a family."

This anger is fuelling demonstrations from the hot and dusty eastern city of Deir Ezzor, where residents, many from powerful tribes, have come out in their thousands, to Deraa, the southern hub surrounded by agricultural lands where demonstrators still took to the streets even after their city was besieged. They are being aided by people of all backgrounds working behind the scenes, from family members to total strangers, women and men, young and old.

"They are trying to fight for their futures," says Ahmed's father, who often acts as a lookout while his son is on the streets. Although he fears for his son's safety, he supports the cause and would not stop him going out. "I too have had enough," he says.

His views are echoed by others of his age. Dressed in jeans and a checked shirt, a 50-year-old manual worker sitting on the balcony of one of many sandy-coloured block of flats in Homs says he has started a committee in his neighbourhood, trying to give a backbone to a spontaneous uprising not sparked by Facebook or any organised opposition. The committee draws posters and caricatures to take to the street and draws up slogans to emphasise unity between the religions.

The founder is trying to reach out to other small committees he knows have popped up in other areas of the city and in cities and villages beyond. "By showing we have a plan, more people, including doctors and professors, have come out," he says. "The violence is keeping many at home but it is not breaking the movement." Instead, he says, people are angry at citizens being shot dead.

The man, like most in Syria, asked not to be identified by name. He says rich families have been helping people from Bab al-Sbaa, his relatively poor neighbourhood, which has been among the most restive. "They are paying for rent and food so that people who have lost money because of the economy or have lost fathers in the violence don't have to worry," he says.

One such donor, a businessman father of two who asks that neither his name nor town is mentioned, runs prayer beads through his fingers as he explains how and why he is giving money to support people in besieged towns.

"I am appalled by the cutting off of towns such as Deraa and Rastan and I use relations and contacts from my work to find out what these towns need," he says. He has bought food and medicine for men to pick up and take to those places – often smuggled in using elaborate systems such as pulleys. "It is not just young people who want change," he says. "Perhaps I can best help this way."

From towns and cities across the country come reports of doctors moving round houses and setting up field clinics to help people too afraid to go to hospital, and religious leaders who have spoken out and tried to smooth relations between Syria's sects. Families have opened their houses to protesters fleeing from security forces, who are bussed into areas where protests break out.

"I was running away from the security agents and a woman opened the door and pulled me in," says one young professional, walking in the streets in the Damascus neighbourhood of Midan, an area of sweet shops and neon lights where families gather in the evening but which has turned into an area of chants and teargas on many a Friday. "I sat there until it was safe to go home."

Computer experts have been helping protesters upload videos to YouTube, which has become the primary way of getting out information. They have also made short films and cartoons mocking the regime. And, of course, activists have supported protesters by liaising with media and publishing information. This support is bolstering resistance to the regime and allowing protesters to go out on a daily basis.

In her office in Homs, a young mother prints paper signs with the date and location to take out to a women's demonstration. Wearing black jeans and a blouse, she adjusts her headscarf and pulls down her sunglasses to conceal her identity. She grabs a camera and heads out for the 20-minute protest that will keep her safe but show that women are supporting the anti-government movement.

Night protests have become routine, from the coastal city of Latakia to the Damascus area of Qaboun. For those too fearful to go outside, sit-ins are held inside private homes, taped, and the videos uploaded to the internet.

In Homs, Ahmed eventually returns home safely, eager to talk about another day on the streets. Between 500 and 800 people came out of his mosque, he says, others joined, they called for freedom and the toppling of the regime, then they broke off before security forces could arrive.

Smothered in relieved embraces from his family, Ahmed eats, simultaneously talking on his mobile to organise the next demonstration. Finished, he heads out to the gym – training, he jokes, to be able to sprint away quickly – as gunfire continues to ring out in the background.

All names have been changed to protect identity. Nidaa Hassan is a pseudonym for a journalist working in Damascus