MAJDAL SHAMS, Golan Heights — The four sisters stood at the roadside, their gaze fixed on the distant landscape beyond the barrier of razor wire that zigzagged across the mountains. One sister, in a moment of excitement, removed her jacket and waved it overhead.
In the distance, a small white figure could be seen enthusiastically waving back from the hillside. “We can see you!” Soha Safadi shouted joyfully into her cellphone, pausing momentarily to wipe away the tears that blurred her vision. “Can you see us too?”
That white figure was Soha’s sister, Sawsan, who has been separated from her siblings for two decades due to the ravages of war and ongoing occupation. The Safadi sisters belong to the Druze community, one of the Middle East’s tight-knit religious minorities. Their community is dispersed across Syria, Lebanon, Israel, and the Golan Heights, a hilly plateau Israel captured from Syria in 1967 and later annexed in 1981—a move only recognized by the United States, while the global consensus views it as occupied Syrian territory.
The division of the Golan Heights has torn families apart, including the Safadi sisters. While five of the sisters and their parents reside in Majdal Shams, a Druze town adjacent to the buffer zone between Israeli-occupied Golan Heights and Syria, the sixth sister, 49-year-old Sawsan, has lived in Syria for 27 years after marrying a local man from Jaramana, a town near Damascus. Sawsan’s family tends to their land within the buffer zone, cultivating olives and apples along with maintaining a modest home.
The restrictions over the years have dramatically limited visits between family members, leading to the creation of “Shouting Hill.” This location has served as a meeting point for families to communicate across the fence with the help of loudspeakers. However, this practice has diminished with the advent of internet access and video calling technology. Complications due to the Syrian war, which erupted in 2011, have further hampered those living in Syria from reaching the buffer zone.
Nonetheless, with the recent shift following the fall of Syrian President Bashar Assad’s regime on December 8, families such as the Safadis are beginning to reignite these mostly forgotten practices. They cling to the hope that governmental changes may lead to eased restrictions between the two areas, allowing them to reconnect with loved ones after so many years apart.
“It was something different. Seeing her in person feels as if you could drive there in just two minutes,” said Soha Safadi, 51, after catching a glimpse of her sister. “This experience is much better, much better.”
Since the downfall of Assad, the sisters have made a daily pilgrimage to the fence to witness Sawsan. They coordinate schedules via phone to ensure they can connect at a specific time, hoping to spot each other while also video calling across the hill.
“I could see her even though she was very small,” Soha remarked. “It brought a mix of feelings—sadness, joy, and hope. God willing, soon, we will see her in person.”
In the aftermath of Assad’s regime change, the Israeli military has advanced deeper into the buffer zone, placing it firmly into Syrian territory. Notably, it has taken control of Mount Hermon, the tallest mountain in Syria, known as Jabal al Sheikh, located near Majdal Shams. This shift has turned the buffer zone into a bustling area of military and construction work, making it impossible for Sawsan to approach the fence.
While it remains uncertain whether relations between the two nations will improve after years of tension, the recent developments in Syria have sparked renewed optimism among families that they may, at last, reunite.
“This gives us hope that we can see one another, that all families in similar situations might finally meet again,” stated another sister, 53-year-old Amira Safadi.
Yet, standing so close yet feeling worlds apart from Sawsan adds to the sisters’ anguish. Their tears flowed freely as they waved goodbye, and they wept even more when Sawsan introduced their nephew, 24-year-old Karam, on the phone. Their encounters have been limited; they last saw him as a toddler during a family reunion in Jordan when he was just two years old.
“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts deep inside my heart,” Amira lamented. “Being so close yet so far away feels unbearable. It’s as if she were right here, and yet we cannot reach her, cannot embrace her.”
