Ibrahim al-Azm, a young Syrian man born in Damascus on January 7, 1924, could never have imagined that one day thousands of his fellow Syrians would seek refuge in the Netherlands, the very country he once died defending. Unlike al-Azm, who arrived as a soldier during World War II, these Syrians would come as refugees, fleeing a conflict in their homeland that had deteriorated into something akin to a civil war.
Before his death, al-Azm spent several days in the northernmost part of the Netherlands, near the German border. He had arrived there with a group of Arab and French fighters following an Allied parachute landing, to support those battling against the Germans.
Sadly Syria, al-Azm’s homeland, neglected his story, omitting him from official records. For many years, his tale remained untold. Meanwhile, the Netherlands honored him with a special medal for foreign fighters who helped liberate the country from German occupation. Three years ago, they commemorated him again on the 75th anniversary of his death. A mass was held in his honor, a short film was made about his life, and his brief time in the Netherlands became part of a book written by a World War II veteran, after the British government archives had released the diaries of soldiers who participated in the conflict.
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The influx of Syrian refugees to the Netherlands has given new significance to Ibrahim al-Azm’s tomb in the military cemetery near Capelle, close to the Belgian-Dutch border. Once simply the resting place of a fallen soldier, it has now become a powerful symbol. For Dutch supporters of the rights of those fleeing conflict to seek asylum, it represents resistance in the face of far-right opposition. For Syrian refugees, particularly the elderly, the grave offers a sense of connection, helping to ease feelings of displacement and alienation. Unlike younger refugees focused on building new lives through work and education, older Syrians find in al-Azm’s grave a way to anchor themselves in their adopted country.
As Syrian refugees, both before and after gaining Dutch citizenship, we visit Ibrahim al-Azm’s grave much like our mothers once visited the tombs of Sufi saints. We pay our respects, hoping he might serve as a bridge – not to God this time, but to our blond-haired Dutch neighbors – as if to say, “We have a history here; we didn’t just come as refugees! We once came to defend your land, too.” And so, unexpectedly, Ibrahim al-Azm’s story has become a symbol of shared history between Syrian refugees and their new home. Many have displayed his picture in their homes, used it as phone backgrounds, shared his story with the media, and celebrated his memory in various ways.
Recently, a Dutch mayor asked a newly naturalized Syrian citizen if he was considering returning to Syria. The man glanced around before replying, “I’m currently focused on tracking down the family of Ibrahim al-Azm, who died here long ago.”
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What brought you to this land, Ibrahim?
Historical records show that the Syrian paratrooper was part of Operation Amherst, a mission conducted by French forces in collaboration with the Allies during the final days of World War II. The operation took place on April 7 and 8, 1945.
The mission involved the deployment of 700 French paratroopers behind German lines, including the young Syrian, Ibrahim al-Azm. However, poor weather caused about half of the troops to land several kilometers off their intended drop zone. Around 12 paratroopers suffered fractures from landing in small craters; 33 were killed, 60 were wounded, 68 were captured, and 28 went missing.
The operation also ignited local conflicts between Dutch citizens loyal to Germany and those supporting the Allies, as detailed in books about the mission. One of the primary objectives was to target the German headquarters in the Dutch city of Drenthe, which housed about 50 soldiers. During the operation, German forces destroyed around 140 bridges to impede potential Allied advancement. With the help of Dutch collaborators, German forces also killed several Dutch civilians suspected of aiding the paratroopers or providing intelligence.
Operation Amherst lasted 72 hours, during which Canadian troops were expected to rendezvous with the French forces and jointly liberate the region from German control. The mission’s commander, Brigadier Mike Calvert, aimed to mislead the German high command into believing the operation was much larger than it actually was. To achieve this, soldiers were dispersed across a wide area near the Dutch-German border. Unlike in other operations, the paratroopers were instructed not to hide or bury their parachutes – instead, they were left visible to further support the illusion of a large-scale operation. Dummy paratroopers were also deployed to further confuse the Germans. On the day of the attack, both the BBC and Radio Oranje (the Dutch station broadcasting from London during the war) announced that a large-scale military operation was underway in the northern Netherlands.
Operation Amherst remains puzzling in both its timing and its execution. As World War II was drawing to a close and most Allied forces were avoiding unnecessary risks as World War II neared its end, the two French battalions involved seemed to take a particularly dangerous approach. Military evaluations found in two books on the operation suggest that the leaders’ planning, alongside the participants’ enthusiasm, was driven by a desire to prove themselves and demonstrate the value of their specialized unit, embodying their motto, Qui ose gagne (“He who dares wins”).
Opinions differ on the success of the French paratroopers in Amherst. Some argue that the deployment of two Special Air Forces battalions played a significant role in the Allies’ rapid advance. Others contend that it didn’t accelerate the liberation of the northern Netherlands, despite the eventual German defeat. Regardless, Dutch leadership affirmed that the French paratroopers earned lasting gratitude and appreciation from the Netherlands. Charles de Gaulle himself praised these units, stating: “I look at the ground without shame.”
Official records document the lives of those involved in this operation. Information from the French government confirms that Ibrahim al-Azm was born on January 7, 1924, and died on April 10, 1945, in Drenthe, northern Netherlands. He was buried in the French war cemetery in Capelle, southern Netherlands. The documents specify the precise location of his grave, note his Syrian nationality (under the First Republic), and record that he served in the first squadron of the French army. They also confirm he was awarded the Bronze Cross by Royal Decree, and that he parachuted into Drenthe, where he “fought bravely, ultimately losing his life.”
Ibrahim al-Azm didn’t cower in hiding while waiting for his companions who got lost in the fog and bad weather. He faced his enemies and fought to the death, according to the account of a surviving French soldier. This account was corroborated by Colonel Harold de Young and author Roger Flamand in their book on the French operation in Drenthe, Operation Amherst. Unlike other French soldiers who perished in a warehouse fire, Azm ventured into the street with two comrades, hoping to regroup and complete the mission while protecting the family that had sheltered them for a few hours. He faced his fate and was “martyred.” We do not say “killed”, as they do in Dutch: instead, “our Ibrahim” acted bravely, gallantly – otherwise we would have condemned him with our own convictions, which demands war until the last drop of blood.
The Dutch War Graves Foundation maintains ownership of the grave of Ibrahim al-Azm and his comrades. Their commitment to preservation, as explained in their documents, aims to help Dutch children understand that people from entirely different parts of the world contributed to their country’s liberation. Moreover, they believe the Dutch must continue to contribute to the freedom of others around the world, just as people like Ibrahim al-Azm contributed to theirs.
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Although the curriculum in the Netherlands focuses entirely on developing self-learning skills, I remain actively involved in my children’s schooling, drawing on my own background in education. So I wasn’t surprised when my daughter asked me to suggest a “personality” she could write about for her school assignment. Without hesitation, I told her: “Write about the immortal leader Hafez al-Assad and his historical achievements. There’s no greater figure.”
My daughter smiled and reminded me, “We live in the Netherlands!”
That same day, by complete coincidence, I received an email from an organization commemorating the 75th anniversary of Ibrahim Al-Azm’s death. They sought help with the correct pronunciation of his name, which appeared as both “Asem” and “Azem” in Dutch documents. I had previously assisted this organization in gathering information about Ibrahim al-Azm from Syria, and we had exchanged documents about him. My daughter, who had declined to write about the “immortal leader”, was helping me read the Dutch emails. She asked, somewhat reproachfully, “Why didn’t you tell me to write about Ibrahim al-Azm instead?”
Explaining the pronunciation of the Arabic letter ظ (ẓā’) to Europeans is challenging: it’s understandable for Dutch speakers to struggle with it, as even many Arabic speakers have dialectal variations. When I registered at the University of Damascus in 1978, coming from a province in eastern Syria, I struggled to pronounce the letter ض (ḍād), pronouncing it instead as ẓā’ – my professor, Dr. Muhammad Radwan al-Daya, corrected me, and later a girl helped me perfect the pronunciation. I found myself captivated by both her and the way she articulated ḍād, mesmerized by the movement of her mouth and the agility of her tongue.
In response to the Dutch organization’s request, I posted a call on Facebook to try to locate the family of Ibrahim al-Azm – partly out of a desire to tell the Dutch, “We were here before the refugee crisis!” Within days, a man with the same name reached out to me – Ibrahim’s cousin from the Netherlands. I told him about our hero, and he shared that Ibrahim’s mother had received a pension from the French Ministry of Defense. I asked him for the civil registration of Ibrahim al-Azm, and he provided it willingly.
In collaboration with the Dutch organization for World War II victims, and after consulting with Ibrahim’s cousin, I submitted a request to the Ministry of Defense. We explained the difficult situation in Syria and the circumstances of his relatives, who might wish to seek asylum. Since Ibrahim was martyred on Dutch soil and honored with a grant, we suggested that one way to honor his legacy could be to bring his family to the Netherlands through the visa system, sparing them the ordeal of human smuggling.
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Being neglected in one’s home country is not always a bad thing. Had Ibrahim al-Azm’s story gained attention in Syria, he might have been branded a traitor under the patriotic definitions imposed by the ruling regime. Some nations and peoples focus primarily on preparing for the future, while others remain fixated on the past. Some countries delve into their history, illuminating it, recalling stories of asylum seekers, and telling extremists: “These people stood with us!” They revisit their past to “separate the wheat from the chaff”, unafraid to apologize for their dark history and mistakes.
Then there are countries that cling to the past to preserve their legacy, raising questions about the future that awaits their children. They spend much of their lives looking backward.
For a long time, Western literature on World War II was dominated by the “Israeli narrative”, portraying Arab positions as wholly supportive of Hitler. Recently, however, there has been growing interest in documenting Arab participation in the war. Arab readers now have access to books on this topic written by Western historians, though it’s unclear whether these historians have fully moved beyond stereotypical images of Arabs in Western culture. The interpretation of data also varies from one researcher to another, depending on which Arab country they focus on. For instance, Moroccan soldiers played a significant role alongside the Allies, encouraged directly by the Moroccan king. The picture becomes more complex when considering contributions from countries like Egypt, Sudan, Syria, and Palestine, with motivations ranging from governmental decisions to individual choices.
An intriguing question is whether Arab soldiers’ participation in World War II was due to coercion by de facto authorities (i.e. local governments or colonial powers) or whether it stemmed from personal conviction, or perhaps simply from the need to financially support their families during times of scarce job opportunities. In this context, one cannot ignore the Seferberlik, the mobilization enacted by the late Ottoman Empire, or forget the stories grandparents told their grandchildren about the coercion and intimidation faced by those who did not align with the choices and battles of the ruling powers of the time.
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In his book, Colonel Harold De Jong reflects poignantly on Ibrahim al-Azm:
What touches me most is that a young man like him would die so far from home, in order to free people he did not know, in a place completely foreign to him. His fellow countrymen might have asked: Why on earth are we going to Europe to fight? We have enough problems here in Syria – why should we participate in this war? No doubt, Ibrahim’s parents hoped their son would grow up in peace and prosperity. They may have believed that the French army offered him the prospect of a better future, a good education, stable employment, and a decent income. Perhaps they thought they were contributing to peace and order in Syria. So, they likely had no objection to their eighteen-year-old son joining the French army, training as a paratrooper to soar like a bird, and then heading to Europe. They bid him farewell with tears in their eyes, only to learn later that their son had died in the Netherlands, far from home.
The memorial to Ibrahim al-Azm and his comrades in Assen has been incorporated into the Dutch Walking Tour, as has the cemetery where he is buried. These memorials, part of the renewed commemoration of World War II victims, remind passersby that there were those who sacrificed their lives for the Netherlands without even being its citizens.
During the presentation of the book The French Paras in Drenthe by Harold De Jong at the 75th anniversary celebration of Operation Amherst three years ago, The Serenade Sisters choir performed a moving tribute to Ibrahim al-Azm titled “Requiem Azem.” The song resonated deeply with the audience, many of whom were either directly or indirectly connected to the operation. Syrian refugees were also present at the event. Though they had no direct connection to Ibrahim al-Azm, they shared a common bond in their Syrian heritage.
From “Requiem Azem”, dedicated to the Syrian paratrooper Ibrahim al-Azm:
It was April 10th, a spring day
He didn’t know where Drenthe would be
He simply fought, driven by will
He hated the hell of war
He wanted Damascus to be freedom
Though he didn’t even know what freedom meant
He was afraid.
Ibrahim al-Azm, the hero
Was a Syrian paratrooper
Obliged into the French army
And the rotten colonial system.
War brought you here, Ibrahim
He fought here, driven by his will
He hated the hell of war
He wanted Damascus to be freedom
And he was afraid.
He wanted to go home, he didn’t want to die
Syrian Ibrahim al-Azm: His name is a symbol!
