Je suis allé en Syrie à deux reprises, en 2004 et en 2006. Puis, la guerre. J’y ai gardé des amis, mais au fil des combats et des horreurs, ils ont quitté le pays un à un. Sauf Samia.


2015. Au sommet des affrontements, pendant que les bombes barils larguées des hélicoptères engouffrent des édifices au complet, Samia m’écrit sur Facebook :


I am struggling to live. I still have 2 friends; all the others went out of Syria. I am trying not to stop. When I stop working for a day, I stop breathing. But I have hope. Dreams have become small, you can’t dream of a future, you can only dream not to die today, or to end what you are doing before something happen, or to have some place to sleep. I can’t stop laughing; my friends too, when we can’t cross a street, when we can’t see each other, when the shells fall on us, when death is so close.


I am scared. But not from death, I am scared to lose my humanity.


I will write to you again, I just need to talk. You don’t know how important it is to find someone to talk to, in all of this.




2019. Je tente d’aller la rejoindre.


Chambres d’écho est né de ce désir de rencontre.

© Philippe Ducros / Syrie, Liban / 2004, 2006, 2019