A Sednaya prison inmate recalls the torture he endured under Assad’s reign

When President Bashar al Assad was ousted by Syrian opposition groups, they also opened the doors of the regime’s notorious prisons, into which tens of thousands of people disappeared during nearly 14 years of civil war.

For years, Sednaya Prison has symbolised the Assad regime’s darkest horrors—a place where hope was systematically erased. Inside its walls, torture was not merely punishment but a tool of annihilation.

Syria’s civil defence organisation, known as the Syrian White Helmets, have helped free around 25,000 prisoners from Sednaya. According to Raed al-Saleh, director of White Helmets, “Sednaya is not just a prison but a human slaughterhouse in which humans are slaughtered and tortured.”

As the doors to the Sednaya opened, chilling detail emerged, shaking the world.

A labyrinthine facility, the prison designed to disorient and dehumanise, was a site of unimaginable suffering. Its vault-like doors, and windowless walls concealed cells crammed with dozens of prisoners, who endured starvation, asphyxiation, and relentless torture.

Each wing allegedly specialised in a different form of brutality, with screams echoing through the corridors as guards enforced silence. Videos revealed women, stunned and hesitant, being freed from the grim cells, which still bore the traces of sudden evacuations.

Amnesty International estimates up to 20,000 detainees were held after sham trials lasting minutes, enduring rape, electric shocks, and beatings, with many tortured to death.

Survivors describe Sednaya as a living nightmare of systemic cruelty.

“Sednaya isn’t just a place where people die—it’s a place where they’re forgotten,” says Munir Mulki, who is a survivor of unimaginable brutality at Sednaya.

The story of Mulki, who spent more than six years in Syria’s prisons, is one of many that shed light on the brutality of the Assad regime. “They couldn’t break me,” he declares. But Sednaya’s shadow looms, and Mulki refuses to let the voices of the vanished fade into silence.

The German Chair and more

Mulki’s ordeal began in 2005, when the then-23-year-old software engineering student was arrested at the Syrian-Jordanian border on charges of supporting Hamas. What followed was a descent into unthinkable cruelty.

At the Palestine Branch detention centre, he was packed into a cell with 70 others, enduring beatings, electric shocks, and grotesque forms of torture such as “Shabah” and the “German chair.”

“It felt like my arms would rip out of their sockets,” Mulki recalls. Another method involved the “German chair,” a device that contorted his spine until he thought it would snap.

Transferred to Sednaya two years later, Mulki faced starvation, psychological torment, and constant executions. “It wasn’t just a place where people died,” he says. “It was where they were erased.”

When TRT World visited Munir Mulki at his modest home in Istanbul, he was deep in conversation with friends in Syria, discussing Sednaya’s labyrinthine corridors and the fate of those still missing.

“My survival obligates me to speak for those who cannot,” he says. “Sednaya is not just a Syrian tragedy. It’s a human tragedy.”

The memories clearly weighed on him, his trembling hands and weary expression reflecting years of physical and emotional scars. Sitting in his living room, Mulki seemed to wrestle with the pain of revisiting the past – the torture that he endured in Sednaya that still haunts him and shapes his search for justice.

Crawling to the toilet

The torture methods that he shared were nothing short of grotesque.

“Nothing about that place felt human,” Mulki says. The overcrowding was suffocating. We were seventy people crammed into a cell for ten. There was no room to lie down or sit properly,” he recalls.

Mulki was hung by his wrists for hours, his shoulders straining under the weight of his body.

“They didn’t just want to hurt you. They wanted to erase every part of who you were,” he adds.

"In the cramped room, each prisoner had only a few centimetres of space to lie down. We were arranged in tight rows, and often, someone would push us with his feet to make room for the others. Due to the lack of space, we had to take turns sleeping, as the room was far too small to accommodate everyone at once." Mulki explains.

He recalls the brutality of guards that set to work breaking his body. “They beat me with cables until my legs turned black and swollen. Crawling to the toilet took hours. Every inch was agony,” he says.

"Other torture methods were nothing short of horrifying: 'Shabah,' where my hands were suspended from the ceiling until the pain became unbearable; 'Dolap,' where I was crushed into a rubber tyre, my body contorted; electric shocks that coursed through me, leaving me trembling in agony; and cigarette burns that scorched my flesh. Cigarettes being pressed into my shoulders became so frequent that the excruciating pain almost felt routine—almost," he recounts.

'Women and children weren’t spared either'

UN reports expose the systematic torture, executions, and inhumane conditions faced by detainees, including women and children. However, the continued absence of concrete action raises serious doubts about the effectiveness of international mechanisms in delivering accountability and justice for the victims.

"There were children with us in Sednaya. I couldn’t bear seeing a 7-year-old boy, arrested alongside his father, subjected to the same torture as us."

Psychological torture was constant. “We listened to the screams of women being assaulted in nearby cells. Those screams still haunt me. You feel their pain, their helplessness, and you can do nothing,” Mulki says, his voice faltering.

Executions were carried out with chilling regularity. “At night, we would hear the screams and the gunshots. Some were hanged in front of us as a warning,” he says.

Other than recounting the horrors he and other inmates were subjected to, Mulki spoke of desecration of the faith.

“They spat on the Quran, tore it apart, and made us curse our religion. They wanted to break not just our bodies but our souls,” he says.

A brotherhood behind bars

Even in the depths of Sednaya, moments of solidarity persisted. Prisoners whispered prayers, shared scraps of food, and in one defiant act, broke down the walls between cells to stand together.

Mulki recounts how they whispered prayers together, a small but significant act of defiance and staged a rare rebellion, he shares. “We broke down the walls between our cells and stood together, shoulder to shoulder,” Mulki says.

The retaliation was swift and brutal. Guards isolated the leaders and increased the frequency of torture. “They wanted to remind us that resistance was futile, but we held on to each other. That unity gave us strength,” he says.

The unity he witnessed in Sednaya remains a beacon of hope.

He recalled stories of prisoners risking their lives to help others. “Some volunteered to deliver food or carry messages, knowing it could get them killed. Their bravery kept us alive, even in the darkest moments,” Mulki says.

After Sednaya

Mulki was among the lucky ones. He was released in 2011 as part of Bashar al Assad’s attempts to pacify protesters who had taken to the streets across Syria against his regime.

Mulki staggered back to life.

“When they opened the prison gates, I could barely walk. My body was broken, and my mind haunted.”

He recalled his reunion with his family as a bittersweet experience. “My mother hugged me tightly, but I could see the pain in her eyes. She knew I was no longer the person I used to be,” Mulki says.

After his release, Mulki married a woman from Homs, a family that lost members during the conflict. His wife’s strength became a pillar for Mulki as he rebuilt his life. “She had her own scars, but she gave me hope to start over,” he says.

The couple settled in Türkiye, where Mulki sought asylum. Today, they live with their two daughters in a home filled with both the weight of the past and the hope for the future. “Türkiye gave us the chance to live without fear and more,” Mulki says.

'Do not forget us'

Despite the revolution’s heavy toll—disappeared friends, shattered families, a homeland in ruins—Mulki remains steadfast in his belief that the struggle is worth it. “We’re fighting for a Syria where no one has to endure what we did,” he says.

For Mulki, the Syrian revolution is more than a political movement. “It’s about reclaiming our humanity. We fought not just against a regime but for the right to live with dignity,” he says.

A similar sentiment is echoed by Fadel Abdul Ghany, director of the Syrian Network for Human Rights, amidst other activists and organisations that aim to dismantle the Assad regime’s machinery of repression, targeting the entire security apparatus.

The ultimate goal of the human rights activists and organisations is to see their efforts come to fruition with the deposed President al Assad standing trial.

Organisations, including the Commission for International Justice and Accountability, have worked to document abuses and crimes to lay the groundwork for future prosecutions.

Mulki urges governments, organisations, and individuals to act. “Awareness is not enough. The world must take action to ensure justice and freedom for those still imprisoned,” he says.

“Advocacy, justice, and action are needed—not someday, but now,” Mulki says. “There are thousands still in Sednaya, their voices silenced, their suffering unimaginable,” he adds.

“I am not just a survivor. I am a liberated prisoner,” he concludes. “My freedom is proof that they couldn’t break me, and their stories will not be forgotten as long as I speak.”