From the moment our baby is born, mothers feel, to the depths of our souls, that we will do anything for our child. It's a bond of life that cannot be broken, even by death. And so, for my beloved son Abbas, I travelled to Geneva last week: to fight for him, even though he is gone from this world.
I went to Geneva because the representatives of President Assad, the dictator of Syria, were there for talks with the Syrian opposition. I believe that Assad's regime murdered my son, and so I went to do what any mum would do - fight for my child in death, as I did in life. I went to demand answers, to confront them with what their regime did. I knew that, because there was media at the conference, I would get maximum publicity and could shine a light onto Assad's barbarity.
Abbas, whose dream of becoming a doctor gave us such pride, had travelled to Syria to save civilians dying from the regime's bullets, barrel bombs and starvation. He was arrested and thrown in prison; he died in his cell days before he was due to be released home to us in Britain. They claimed that he committed suicide, but we are certain he was murdered.
A mother losing a child is always terrible tragedy, ripping out part of your very being. If they are murdered, the grief is even greater - and when you cannot get justice, the pain, the anger, is too much. All I can do now is fight - for truth and justice.
And that is what I did in Geneva. Twice I confronted the official delegation of the Assad dictatorship as they moved around Geneva's United Nations headquarters, where the talks were held. I wasn't scared as I shouted at these people in their mink coats, designer sunglasses, expensive suits. Of course I didn't expect honour from those who are the public face of Assad’s regime. I didn't expect respect, or sympathy. I was just an irritant to them, a fly to be swatted. But I shouted, yelled and chased these ghouls.
A spokesperson for the regime delegation, and personal representative of Assad, had the gall to say to me, "Yes, we killed your son. Go back to Britain and tell your British government we killed him." Another official, who works for the Syrian deputy foreign minister, insulted me, telling me Abbas was killed "because his upbringing was wrong". He mocked me: "why teach your son to be a humanitarian aid worker?" Even the women in the delegation showed no remorse, no empathy for a grieving mother.
It shocked me, it was upsetting - but in reality it is normal behaviour for those working for a regime which used chemical weapons on civilians last August, killing over 1,400 people, including 426 children in a single day.
Abbas's killers were the opposite of all he stood for: they snub out life without a thought; he rushed towards danger to protect life, without sparing a thought his own safety. In Geneva, the regime’s spokespeople couldn't look me in the eye, couldn't answer me; tried to show defiance and strength, but in reality scuttled away like rats.
I have a mother's love and all they have is hate. I have honoured Abbas's courage and his compassion, by showing defiance in the face of evil; truth in the face of lies. Each hour of each day, I grieve for my dead son, Abbas. It's too late for him - but I can at least seek justice.
Abbas can never be just a number, but numbers count - he is just one amongst 130,000 who have died so far in Syria. Countless thousands of mums, dads, brothers, sisters, cousins, friends, colleagues left with a gaping hole in their world. In Geneva I did something for my son, but hope too that I've helped ensure that in the future, the terrible things that happened to Abbas can never happen again in Syria. There could be no greater tribute to him.