The electricity was gone. The atmosphere was becoming more and more suffocating. We could hear the roar of a fighter jet and then intense bombing. The shelling was getting fierce, the sound of bombs louder. It was very close. The children over 10 were growing anxious but remained silent. Younger children had started to scream.

The women in the shelter tried to come up with things to talk about. Only F.S.A. men were outside now. They refused to take me with them, saying that I had to stay in the shelter with the women and children until the battle was over. None of the F.S.A. guys were hitting the tank convoys; it was the regime’s tanks that were firing, and the snipers who were shooting and launching rockets. A young man from the F.S.A. told me, “We know they have bigger and more powerful weapons but we have our courage and our conviction in our revolution. We won’t let them humiliate us. We’re ready to defend our homes to the death.”

The women started singing. The shelter was getting hot. The children gathered around us were playing with some missile debris. “O young men, they call it Idlib, you can only back away from it,” they sang, in a taunting chant at Mr. Assad’s forces, mentioning one of the first provinces to rise up. “Don’t be surprised by these times of awakening, times of strength and victory. And fallen, fallen, is Bashar.” The children repeated the same verse, then raised their voices up high, “Fallen, fallen, is Bashar.”

When the singing was done, a woman added, “We haven’t had a decent night’s sleep for a year. As you can see, the bombing is continuous. This is how we and our children live. Those who haven’t yet died from the bombing and the arrests here are waiting out a slow death. And all of this because we dared to go out and demonstrate against Bashar.”

By 2 p.m. the tank convoy heading for Aleppo seemed to have changed course, which meant that the shelling might lighten up a little bit, but the sound of sniper fire had not abated. Nevertheless, in less than a half-hour a group from the F.S.A. showed up.

The leader was named Amjad, a young man with a degree from a midlevel technical institute who owned a clothing store in Saraqib’s souk until it was burned and looted by the regime’s army. He was quiet, his eyes shining. He seemed a bit sad. He didn’t shake my hand but bowed out of respect and sat down with the group.

While we talked, the planes returned, flying low over the skies of Saraqib. We heard the sound of a bomb but the conversation didn’t stop. Their arsenal was no match for the weapons of the regime’s army. The success they had achieved on the battlefield against Mr. Assad’s army depended on their bravery. The commander of the group didn’t speak at first but soon got involved in the conversation.