Separated for decades, Assad's fall spurs hope for families split by Golan Heights buffer zone

MAJDAL SHAMS, Golan Heights — The four sisters gathered by the side of the road, craning their necks to peer far beyond the razor wire-reinforced fence snaking across the mountain. One took off her jacket and waved it slowly above her head.

In the distance, a tiny white speck waved frantically from the hillside.

''We can see you!'' Soha Safadi exclaimed excitedly on her cellphone. She paused briefly to wipe away tears that had begun to flow. ''Can you see us too?''

The tiny speck on the hill was Soha's sister, Sawsan. Separated by war and occupation, they hadn't seen each other in person for 22 years.

The six Safadi sisters belong to the Druze community, one of the Middle East's most insular religious minorities. Its population is spread across Syria, Lebanon, Israel and the Golan Heights, a rocky plateau that Israel seized from Syria in 1967 and annexed in 1981. The U.S. is the only country to recognize Israel's control; the rest of the world considers the Golan Heights occupied Syrian territory.

Israel's seizure of the Golan Heights split families apart.

Five of the six Safadi sisters and their parents live in Majdal Shams, a Druze town next to the buffer zone created between the Israeli-controlled Golan Heights and Syria. But the sixth, 49-year-old Sawsan, married a man from Jaramana, a town on the outskirts of the Syrian capital, Damascus, 27 years ago and has lived in Syria ever since. They have land in the buffer zone, where they grow olives and apples and also maintain a small house.

With very few visits allowed to relatives over the years, a nearby hill was dubbed ''Shouting Hill,'' where families would gather on either side of the fence and use loudspeakers to speak to each other.

The practice declined as the internet made video calls widely accessible, while the Syrian war that began in 2011 made it difficult for those on the Syrian side to reach the buffer zone.

But since the Dec. 8 fall of Syrian President Bashar Assad's regime, families like the Safadis, are starting to revive the practice. They cling to hope, however faint, that regime change will herald a loosening of restrictions between the Israeli-controlled area and Syria that have kept them from their loved ones for so long.

''It was something a bit different. You see her in person. It feels like you could be there in two minutes by car,'' Soha Safadi, 51, said Wednesday after seeing the speck that was her sister on the hill. ''This is much better, much better.''

Since Assad's fall, the sisters have been coming to the fence every day to see Sawsan. They make arrangements by phone for a specific time, and then make a video call while also trying to catch a glimpse of each other across the hill.

''She was very tiny, but I could see her,'' Soha Safadi said. ''There were a lot of mixed feelings — sadness, joy and hope. And God willing, God willing, soon, soon, we will see her'' in person.

After Assad fell, the Israeli military pushed through the buffer zone and into Syria proper. It has captured Mount Hermon, Syria's tallest mountain, known as Jabal al Sheikh in Arabic, on the slopes of which lies Majdal Shams. The buffer zone is now a hive of military and construction activity, and Sawsan can't come close to the fence.

While it is far too early to say whether years of hostile relations between the two countries will improve, the changes in Syria have sparked hope for divided families that maybe, just maybe, they might be able to meet again.

''This thing gave us a hope … that we can see each other. That all the people in the same situation can meet their families,'' said another sister, 53-year-old Amira Safadi.

Yet seeing Sawsan across the hill, just a short walk away, is also incredibly painful for the sisters.

They wept as they waved, and cried even more when their sister put their nephew, 24-year-old Karam, on the phone. They have only met him once, during a family reunion in Jordan. He was 2 years old.

''It hurts, it hurts, it hurts in the heart,'' Amira Safadi said. ''It's so close and far at the same time. It is like she is here and we cannot reach her, we cannot hug her.''