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Abbas Khan's death in Syria: why his family don't believe the official story Abbas Khan's death in Syria: why his family don't believe the official story
(about 3 hours later)
On Friday, Abbas Khan, a British orthopaedic surgeon, was due to arrive home after 13 months in a Syrian jail. His bedroom had been redecorated in the sort of soothing colours his family thought might help him after more than a year of incarceration, and his seven-year-old daughter had planned to make him a welcome home card. The family – his six siblings in Britain, and his mother, who has spent the last six months in Damascus trying to free him – could finally see the end of it. Then came the call, on Monday, that Dr Khan was dead. He had apparently killed himself. It made no sense – when his mother last saw him, on Wednesday last week, he was ecstatic to be coming home. He had talked about what presents he would bring his children. He had written to his younger brother, Shah, who is training to be an orthopaedic surgeon, and talked about getting his career back on track.On Friday, Abbas Khan, a British orthopaedic surgeon, was due to arrive home after 13 months in a Syrian jail. His bedroom had been redecorated in the sort of soothing colours his family thought might help him after more than a year of incarceration, and his seven-year-old daughter had planned to make him a welcome home card. The family – his six siblings in Britain, and his mother, who has spent the last six months in Damascus trying to free him – could finally see the end of it. Then came the call, on Monday, that Dr Khan was dead. He had apparently killed himself. It made no sense – when his mother last saw him, on Wednesday last week, he was ecstatic to be coming home. He had talked about what presents he would bring his children. He had written to his younger brother, Shah, who is training to be an orthopaedic surgeon, and talked about getting his career back on track.
"It's like someone's playing a prank, because we came so close, after having gone through so much," says Sara, Abbas's 24-year-old sister. "Our world has come apart. We had kept so strong because we had known he was coming home." We sit in the living room of the large house in south London that Abbas, his wife and two young children had shared with his brother and his family. The house bursts with activity, and the noise of children – nieces and nephews and the kids of visiting friends, happily oblivious to the phone calls and stream of official-looking visitors. Abbas's wife is upstairs in her room. The rest of the family seem to be coping in a kind of numb daze, while there is lots to do, and questions to be asked."It's like someone's playing a prank, because we came so close, after having gone through so much," says Sara, Abbas's 24-year-old sister. "Our world has come apart. We had kept so strong because we had known he was coming home." We sit in the living room of the large house in south London that Abbas, his wife and two young children had shared with his brother and his family. The house bursts with activity, and the noise of children – nieces and nephews and the kids of visiting friends, happily oblivious to the phone calls and stream of official-looking visitors. Abbas's wife is upstairs in her room. The rest of the family seem to be coping in a kind of numb daze, while there is lots to do, and questions to be asked.
"I can't compute it," says Sara. "If it had happened a year ago, I would be like, OK, he was taken, maybe they wanted to vent their frustration on the British, let it be an example, to say: 'We don't want your doctors.' Maybe I would have been able to compute that, but at the moment I don't understand.""I can't compute it," says Sara. "If it had happened a year ago, I would be like, OK, he was taken, maybe they wanted to vent their frustration on the British, let it be an example, to say: 'We don't want your doctors.' Maybe I would have been able to compute that, but at the moment I don't understand."
Abbas Khan, 32, went to Turkey on 12 November last year to treat refugees coming over the Syrian border, and put together medical kits and a guide to help civilians to treat each other. The trip was meant to last barely two weeks. At some point he decided to cross the border, and for around 48 hours he worked in a hospital in Aleppo before being detained at a checkpoint on 22 November.Abbas Khan, 32, went to Turkey on 12 November last year to treat refugees coming over the Syrian border, and put together medical kits and a guide to help civilians to treat each other. The trip was meant to last barely two weeks. At some point he decided to cross the border, and for around 48 hours he worked in a hospital in Aleppo before being detained at a checkpoint on 22 November.
The following day, the family got a phone call from the hospital, saying he hadn't returned. The next day – when Abbas was due to fly back – Sara went to the airport in the hope that somehow he would be on the flight. "It was wishful thinking," she says. The family called the Foreign Office.The following day, the family got a phone call from the hospital, saying he hadn't returned. The next day – when Abbas was due to fly back – Sara went to the airport in the hope that somehow he would be on the flight. "It was wishful thinking," she says. The family called the Foreign Office.
Months went by, with no news – and little help from the Foreign Office. Because the family is of Indian origin, they had also been in touch with the Indian embassy in Damascus, which was still just about functioning, and finally they got confirmation that Abbas had been taken and held. "Nothing else," says Sara. "They weren't told where." She and her mother, Fatima, 57, went to Lebanon to see if they could get a visa to Syria. They couldn't immediately, but four months later a visa came through – though only for her mother.Months went by, with no news – and little help from the Foreign Office. Because the family is of Indian origin, they had also been in touch with the Indian embassy in Damascus, which was still just about functioning, and finally they got confirmation that Abbas had been taken and held. "Nothing else," says Sara. "They weren't told where." She and her mother, Fatima, 57, went to Lebanon to see if they could get a visa to Syria. They couldn't immediately, but four months later a visa came through – though only for her mother.
Fatima had been born in India but moved to Britain when she was 18, and spent her adult life raising her seven children and running the family home. She had never been abroad on her own before, and here she was preparing to enter war-torn Damascus. Her children didn't want her to go, but she had made up her mind. She booked a ticket for a month. "We were like: 'A month? In Syria? No way,'" says Sara. "Now it's been six months." She remembers looking in her mother's suitcase and seeing she had only packed two changes of clothes – the rest of the space was full of biscuits. She laughs. "I said: 'They're going to have biscuits there, Mum.' And she said: 'These are Abbas's favourite.'"Fatima had been born in India but moved to Britain when she was 18, and spent her adult life raising her seven children and running the family home. She had never been abroad on her own before, and here she was preparing to enter war-torn Damascus. Her children didn't want her to go, but she had made up her mind. She booked a ticket for a month. "We were like: 'A month? In Syria? No way,'" says Sara. "Now it's been six months." She remembers looking in her mother's suitcase and seeing she had only packed two changes of clothes – the rest of the space was full of biscuits. She laughs. "I said: 'They're going to have biscuits there, Mum.' And she said: 'These are Abbas's favourite.'"
Shah, who has been in another room dealing with officials in the hope of getting Abbas's body home, comes in. We were just talking about your remarkable mother, I say, and he smiles. "We were pleading with her not to go. We were trying to stay away from over-emotional behaviour and be rational, and she just said: 'I'm going.' And everything has snowballed since then. She has been the driving force, but the way she has been treated in Damascus … At every turn she has been humiliated."Shah, who has been in another room dealing with officials in the hope of getting Abbas's body home, comes in. We were just talking about your remarkable mother, I say, and he smiles. "We were pleading with her not to go. We were trying to stay away from over-emotional behaviour and be rational, and she just said: 'I'm going.' And everything has snowballed since then. She has been the driving force, but the way she has been treated in Damascus … At every turn she has been humiliated."
Fatima arrived in Damascus in July, moved into a hotel and started the search for her son. She found him. An official she had befriended arranged for Abbas to be brought to a ministry building so she could see him. "She was so happy," says Shah. "She called me up, and she was really childlike in her joy. Then after she met him, she called me in tears saying, 'I haven't seen my son, I've seen a skeleton.' He was limping, and Mum said he had burn marks on his legs where they had burned cigarettes into him and stuff like that. He was covering up his feet because she could see it, saying, 'Don't worry, it's nothing.'" Abbas, who had been kept at Far' Falastin, a notorious detention centre outside Damascus, could barely walk, and his weight had dropped to five stone.Fatima arrived in Damascus in July, moved into a hotel and started the search for her son. She found him. An official she had befriended arranged for Abbas to be brought to a ministry building so she could see him. "She was so happy," says Shah. "She called me up, and she was really childlike in her joy. Then after she met him, she called me in tears saying, 'I haven't seen my son, I've seen a skeleton.' He was limping, and Mum said he had burn marks on his legs where they had burned cigarettes into him and stuff like that. He was covering up his feet because she could see it, saying, 'Don't worry, it's nothing.'" Abbas, who had been kept at Far' Falastin, a notorious detention centre outside Damascus, could barely walk, and his weight had dropped to five stone.
After more wrangling, she managed to get him transferred to a civilian prison, where she could visit him every week. One guard she got on side would take letters in and out to Abbas, which she would then take to an internet cafe, scan and send to the family.After more wrangling, she managed to get him transferred to a civilian prison, where she could visit him every week. One guard she got on side would take letters in and out to Abbas, which she would then take to an internet cafe, scan and send to the family.
While Abbas's health improved in the new prison – he started putting on weight, could exercise, and even started working in a small clinic – there still didn't seem any breakthrough in terms of his release. Day after day, his mother would go to court, fill in forms, speak to lawyers and judges – and pay them thousands. She tried the Russian and Czech embassies to see if they could help. "That dragged on for maybe three months," says Shah. They were told by some that it was a diplomatic issue; by others that it was a legal one. "We just didn't know whether to go back to the political hierarchy, the legal hierarchy. We befriended judges, we changed judges, we made complaints. Mum was going to the courts every day. I was on the phone to her when she was thrown down the steps once [at the court]. Humiliated at every step, but she'd say, 'As long as I get my son, that's fine.'"While Abbas's health improved in the new prison – he started putting on weight, could exercise, and even started working in a small clinic – there still didn't seem any breakthrough in terms of his release. Day after day, his mother would go to court, fill in forms, speak to lawyers and judges – and pay them thousands. She tried the Russian and Czech embassies to see if they could help. "That dragged on for maybe three months," says Shah. They were told by some that it was a diplomatic issue; by others that it was a legal one. "We just didn't know whether to go back to the political hierarchy, the legal hierarchy. We befriended judges, we changed judges, we made complaints. Mum was going to the courts every day. I was on the phone to her when she was thrown down the steps once [at the court]. Humiliated at every step, but she'd say, 'As long as I get my son, that's fine.'"
Back in the UK, the family tried every avenue they could think of. "This last 13 months has taken us to places we weren't expecting," says Shah – who had been due to go to Syria at the invitation of President Assad. They lobbied politicians, spoke to charities, even met Assad's London-based father-in-law. At one point they were told by a Syrian official that if they could get a delegation of four MPs or members of the House of Lords to visit, Assad would grant clemency, so they spent weeks trying to convince politicians to help them. Back in the UK, the family tried every avenue they could think of. They met the leader of the BNP, Nick Griffin – "this last 13 months has taken us to places we weren't expecting," says Shah – who had been due to go to Syria at the invitation of President Assad. They lobbied politicians, spoke to charities, even met Assad's London-based father-in-law. At one point they were told by a Syrian official that if they could get a delegation of four MPs or members of the House of Lords to visit, Assad would grant clemency, so they spent weeks trying to convince politicians to help them.
"It is very difficult to have had so little assistance from every corner," says Shah. "He was a political prisoner, solely because he was British. If they had applied some pressure behind us, then he would have come back alive – of that I have no doubt.""It is very difficult to have had so little assistance from every corner," says Shah. "He was a political prisoner, solely because he was British. If they had applied some pressure behind us, then he would have come back alive – of that I have no doubt."
Behind it all is the suspicion, hard to shake, that had Abbas been white, or from a non-Muslim family, things might have been different. "When you have career politicians, everything is seen as political currency. Because some British nationals are going there to take part in the civil war themselves, and with my brother probably having an appearance closer to theirs than the average member of the British public, they were maybe worried that if he came back, and was found to be a member of any [jihadi] organisation, it would look bad for them. Despite the evidence we put forward, they kept him at an arm's length."Behind it all is the suspicion, hard to shake, that had Abbas been white, or from a non-Muslim family, things might have been different. "When you have career politicians, everything is seen as political currency. Because some British nationals are going there to take part in the civil war themselves, and with my brother probably having an appearance closer to theirs than the average member of the British public, they were maybe worried that if he came back, and was found to be a member of any [jihadi] organisation, it would look bad for them. Despite the evidence we put forward, they kept him at an arm's length."
"We don't know that," says Sara quietly. "We hope that's not the case. It would be terribly disappointing." But she adds that the family has constantly had to justify her brother's character and career history, "because everywhere we went we were asked that question". For months, the family were trapped in the position of being, on one hand, terrified that Abbas had been taken and murdered by a jihadist group, and on the other, trying to persuade people he wasn't one of them."We don't know that," says Sara quietly. "We hope that's not the case. It would be terribly disappointing." But she adds that the family has constantly had to justify her brother's character and career history, "because everywhere we went we were asked that question". For months, the family were trapped in the position of being, on one hand, terrified that Abbas had been taken and murdered by a jihadist group, and on the other, trying to persuade people he wasn't one of them.
For the last 13 months, they have coped, despite everything, as a closeknit family. "Everything we've done has been about getting him back, and we never entertained the idea that he wouldn't come back," says Sara. "It was always a case of 'when'." In the last couple of weeks, it looked like it was going to happen. Fatima received a phone call from Syria's ministry for foreign affairs saying Abbas was to be released, and the family got a call from the MP George Galloway, who had been negotiating with the Syrian authorities, saying he was being allowed to go and collect Abbas. "We were like, finally, in 10 days this is going to end," says Shah. "Every day of the last 13 months has felt like a year. I told Mum to come back, but she said: 'No, I want to come back with him.'"For the last 13 months, they have coped, despite everything, as a closeknit family. "Everything we've done has been about getting him back, and we never entertained the idea that he wouldn't come back," says Sara. "It was always a case of 'when'." In the last couple of weeks, it looked like it was going to happen. Fatima received a phone call from Syria's ministry for foreign affairs saying Abbas was to be released, and the family got a call from the MP George Galloway, who had been negotiating with the Syrian authorities, saying he was being allowed to go and collect Abbas. "We were like, finally, in 10 days this is going to end," says Shah. "Every day of the last 13 months has felt like a year. I told Mum to come back, but she said: 'No, I want to come back with him.'"
Last Saturday, the family were told Abbas had been moved to another prison. "We thought it sounded like normal protocol and was in some way a good thing – like the ball was rolling, and maybe they're moving him to debrief him, tell him Syria is the best place in the world. We were laughing and joking, saying they're fattening him up, probably feeding him as much as they can so he looks a bit better."Last Saturday, the family were told Abbas had been moved to another prison. "We thought it sounded like normal protocol and was in some way a good thing – like the ball was rolling, and maybe they're moving him to debrief him, tell him Syria is the best place in the world. We were laughing and joking, saying they're fattening him up, probably feeding him as much as they can so he looks a bit better."
Then, two days later they were told he was dead. "Mum called my brother straight away," says Shah. "It was just before 2pm. He called me in a state of shock and at that moment I thought something has happened to Mum or my brother. He said Abbas is no longer with us." He stops for a moment and stares out of the window. "From there to now, it's been a blur."Then, two days later they were told he was dead. "Mum called my brother straight away," says Shah. "It was just before 2pm. He called me in a state of shock and at that moment I thought something has happened to Mum or my brother. He said Abbas is no longer with us." He stops for a moment and stares out of the window. "From there to now, it's been a blur."
They can't accept the official version of events. Clearly Abbas had been under a huge amount of psychological stress, but in recent months his health was improving and he knew he was about to be released. "He was happy," says Shah. "The letter he had written on 8 December said hopefully he would be home before Christmas. There was a shift in his mind from survival to planning a life back here with his family. That's why suicide doesn't make any sense."They can't accept the official version of events. Clearly Abbas had been under a huge amount of psychological stress, but in recent months his health was improving and he knew he was about to be released. "He was happy," says Shah. "The letter he had written on 8 December said hopefully he would be home before Christmas. There was a shift in his mind from survival to planning a life back here with his family. That's why suicide doesn't make any sense."
There is a quietness in the room. I ask what Abbas was like. Shah smiles. "I modelled my whole life on him. I went to the same university as him, I became an orthopaedic surgeon because of him. I was two and a half years younger, and he was always my hero and inspiration." Both motor racing fans, he remembers a conversation they'd had when Ayrton Senna was killed. "He said: 'That's what you want to have in your life Shah, something that you could die doing and you'll be happy.'" Before Abbas left, Shah asked him if he was apprehensive. "He said: 'We're trained to be surgeons, we have an obligation with the skills that we have and we can't be scared.'"There is a quietness in the room. I ask what Abbas was like. Shah smiles. "I modelled my whole life on him. I went to the same university as him, I became an orthopaedic surgeon because of him. I was two and a half years younger, and he was always my hero and inspiration." Both motor racing fans, he remembers a conversation they'd had when Ayrton Senna was killed. "He said: 'That's what you want to have in your life Shah, something that you could die doing and you'll be happy.'" Before Abbas left, Shah asked him if he was apprehensive. "He said: 'We're trained to be surgeons, we have an obligation with the skills that we have and we can't be scared.'"
Maybe he was naive to cross the border, says Sara, "but I can just imagine what he was thinking: these were simple, life-saving procedures he could do and I don't know how many people could draw themselves back from that, knowing people needed him. Yes, he did make a sacrifice, and I'm not sure how much he calculated the risk. That was the decision he took, but I think he would never have regretted it."Maybe he was naive to cross the border, says Sara, "but I can just imagine what he was thinking: these were simple, life-saving procedures he could do and I don't know how many people could draw themselves back from that, knowing people needed him. Yes, he did make a sacrifice, and I'm not sure how much he calculated the risk. That was the decision he took, but I think he would never have regretted it."
The family has barely had any time to themselves during the last few days, and it is too soon to think about what losing Abbas means to them. For now, there are practicalities – most importantly, getting Abbas's body home. "I don't think we'll ever be able to recover from this without having seen him," says Sara. She says she finds it really hard to see his wife and children. "I can't even look at them, I have nothing to say to them, I find it really difficult. His son is like a carbon copy of him." The family finally told Abbas's children on Wednesday night that their father wasn't coming home. "We wanted his wife to pick up a bit of strength first, and the first and second day were too hard. But we didn't want them to hear it from someone else. We told his daughter he was with God now, and that we'll see him again. She said, 'Does that mean he's dead? Does that mean that I don't have a dad any more?' I don't know what to say to that."The family has barely had any time to themselves during the last few days, and it is too soon to think about what losing Abbas means to them. For now, there are practicalities – most importantly, getting Abbas's body home. "I don't think we'll ever be able to recover from this without having seen him," says Sara. She says she finds it really hard to see his wife and children. "I can't even look at them, I have nothing to say to them, I find it really difficult. His son is like a carbon copy of him." The family finally told Abbas's children on Wednesday night that their father wasn't coming home. "We wanted his wife to pick up a bit of strength first, and the first and second day were too hard. But we didn't want them to hear it from someone else. We told his daughter he was with God now, and that we'll see him again. She said, 'Does that mean he's dead? Does that mean that I don't have a dad any more?' I don't know what to say to that."
Shah says he doesn't think he will be able to start grieving until his mother is home. "I talked to her straight after my brother told me Abbas had died. She said, 'How are you my son?' and I told her not to worry about me. She said, 'I haven't cried yet, I won't cry for him yet.' I feel really bad for her. She did so much. How do you recover? I don't know."Shah says he doesn't think he will be able to start grieving until his mother is home. "I talked to her straight after my brother told me Abbas had died. She said, 'How are you my son?' and I told her not to worry about me. She said, 'I haven't cried yet, I won't cry for him yet.' I feel really bad for her. She did so much. How do you recover? I don't know."
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