Samar Yazbek, for Liberation, January 26, 2025
Photo credit: Sameer al Doumy, AFP
Before reaching Damascus, we had to pass through Beirut as Damascus International Airport was closed, and I couldn’t wait any longer! At the border in the Masnaa area, the frost began to creep into my extremities. I anticipated joy, but I felt a terrible contraction. I didn’t have any documentation proving that I was Syrian, but that didn’t stop the kind young man behind the desk. When he saw my name on the computer screen, he smiled and said, “At your service.” For a moment, I felt as though Assad had fallen, only to be quickly reminded of my possible arrest. The young man joked that I was wanted by five different security branches, yet he continued to laugh, and with his laughter, I suddenly found myself inside Syria.
The blue sky was vast, and the clouds were pure white. The winding road between the hills descended and twisted toward the capital. The remains of burned cars and the remnants of security checkpoints still told stories of pain and horror. The Fourth Division checkpoint loomed before us—then another, and another…
I looked around and asked myself: Why did I come back? I don’t know the answer. I have little tolerance for language and its mute expressions in such cases. The youth deployed at the checkpoints appeared tired, yet they were capable of being polite and courteous. We raised our hands in greeting, and they returned the gesture shyly, burdened by worries.
I didn’t know how to cheer myself up or feel happy as I watched the roads lined with destroyed military vehicles and civilian cars. The sloping road resembled a desert. I tried to remember what the Beirut-Damascus road had once been like, but I couldn’t. There was a complete void in my mind.
Then we entered Damascus. I didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t that long ago, but I didn’t remember! I felt that Damascus didn’t recognize me either, rejecting me. It was as if we were strangers. Shabbiness and deterioration were evident in every corner, in every detail. People crossed the roads, tired and rushed. Traffic was heavy. There was no police presence, nothing to suggest the existence of authority. Dust colored the sky. The sidewalks were cracked, and stalls overflowed. Empty shops were crowded with random stands of plastic products.
Children emerged from the shadows and begged. Tall men begged. Women begged. A long line of beggars flowed—people cast aside on the roads.
I had forgotten so many details. I knew the main exits of Damascus’ roads, but I struggled to scrutinize the new faces that appeared in the city. I could not recognize my own reflection in the driver’s mirror. This was not me!
Youssef al-Azmeh Square remained the same, perhaps with some renovations. Gone were the pictures of the Assads, no trace of their statues remained. In Rawda Café, many people gathered. Kisses and longings were exchanged between those who returned and those who welcomed them. The joy on everyone’s faces was evident. I tried to convince myself that all those entering and exiting must have felt ecstatic, unable to believe they were in Syria and that the Assad family was no longer in power. They danced, laughed, and rejoiced.
I looked at the man standing in front of Al Rawda Café, asking for a loaf of bread. On Al Salihiya Street, the White Helmets were washing the streets while a group of young men painted and cleaned some facades. Civil initiatives were spreading everywhere, attempting to change the bleak face of the city.
Syrians want to return to life. They believe they now have a future and hope for the days ahead.
In Syria, walking was like passing through multiple layers of intertwined realities. There were civil society activities, evenings of dialogue, and young men and women cleaning the streets with enthusiasm. Some went door to door offering help, while the HTC men roamed the streets without causing harm. Each time, I tried to approach them and greet them. I love saying “Peace be upon you,” and they would respond with joy and shyness at the same time. They seemed, like all of us, surprised by what was happening around them.
Damascus resembled the circles of Dante’s Inferno, spiraling together at an accelerating pace. On one street, I saw women passing by, their paths colliding. Unlike Dante, no one here was seeking love or a Beatrice. I was searching for my city and for myself.
Everyone was afraid. Everyone was waiting. They were hungry too!
In Bab Touma, I saw returnees everywhere—activists, journalists, and people who have come from foreign countries. Bab Touma’s hotels are filled with those who did not hesitate to come back. Everyone is eager to return, but Bab Touma is no longer what it used to be. People try not to go out at night. There are initiatives on every corner, with some declaring, “We have returned to build Syria.” Yet no one knows if their return is permanent or just a passing visit to quench their longings. The possibilities are open, and I watch the circles of hell spiraling heavily from one layer to another.
I ventured into the countryside of Damascus. In Jobar, very close to Abbasid Square, the world is starkly different. We emerged from the suffocating crowds and polluted air into a ghost town. I often contemplate language’s ability to express such situations, and in the eyes of the onlookers who regard us as returnees, I feel a profound sense of shame. If only I could tell them: “Take from my flesh and eat.” But these remain narrative metaphors in the mind of a writer who feels ashamed of the existence and subsistence of this savage world—ashamed that I belong to the human race.
In Jobar, the city is completely destroyed. It is clear that immense hatred has been directed at it. I met a group of young men, and then I spoke with a man who told me that his house here was destroyed, and he was visiting it. He returned to Jobar after the fall of the regime; he was wanted by the secret services, and his family was displaced. I asked him if he would return to rebuild his house, and he replied that he was waiting for the government to take action, but he was patient. He said, “Many horrors and difficulties lie ahead for this government.” Then he added, “As Syrians, we must help them and not rush them.” I swallowed my tears; such kindness! Kindness, is a political tool. I asked him, “Would you recommend that we be patient with them?” He replied, “Syria is in ruins, and it will take years and years for it to get back on its feet. Let us be kind!”
I cannot stop crying. Some young men warn us not to go between the houses because they are about to collapse and are dangerous. We have a group of friends with us, and I don’t want to spoil their joy at the fall of the regime. So, I step away from them and venture into the ruins of the houses.
In Darayya and Douma, the situation appears different. The destruction is extensive, but some houses still stand, and people are trying to restore life. They live in their destroyed homes, replacing window glass with plastic. These families inhabit empty spaces, except for pillows and foam mattresses. Children rummage through the rubble, perhaps seeking something to sell in order to buy bread.
The image of destruction is horrific—twisted cement slabs, solid material turned to rubble. Everything around me seems to be collapsing and flowing, as if an entire world is turning to water. The boundaries between the material and the tangible are disappearing. Everything is fluid, on the brink of dissolving into nothingness.
In Douma, the people are more active. Despite the city’s destruction and history of struggle, residents are running, striving, gathering, and moving. The city seems less ready to succumb to death; it is a fighting city that does not surrender.
In Harasta, Zamalka, and Arbin—towns that were subjected to chemical weapons—the scene is no less brutal. Destruction is everywhere, yet families continue to live their lives. Children in these towns do not beg, unlike the children of Damascus, where beggar children grow like grass in the parched soil of the city.
I return to Damascus, observing new faces—not just those of the fighters. Damascus seems to be welcoming its people as a capital for the first time. They wander everywhere, walking the streets. In the heart of Marjeh Square, families sit, displaying pictures of the missing and disappeared, waiting. Women in traditional black clothing, families from Raqqa, Deir ez-Zor, and the Aleppo countryside, as well as children, women, and girls—all gather in the square. Marjeh Square itself has changed. I felt a glimmer of happiness because I remembered it. The last time I was here was in March 2013, during a peaceful demonstration in which we called for the release of detainees and the abolition of the state of emergency.
I do not want to visit the affluent areas of Damascus. I have never liked Umayyad Square, unlike friends who denounced my attitude and insisted it was worth a visit, but I refused. The images of the towns in the Damascus countryside never leave my mind—those towns that the new administration ignores, avoids, and fails to mention. The interim government resides in the People’s Palace while abandoning the people; kind individuals, like the one who said he would be patient with the new regime, remain displaced until it finishes its mission.
At the hotel, the cleaning lady shares her story with me. I kept the habit of carrying a small notebook in which I write down the stories of those I meet. She tells me that she lost two of her sons in Sednaya prison. The young man who serves us breakfast lost his brother. The girl in charge expresses her fear of the new administration, yet she has not been subjected to any violence.
The sentence that burns in my throat lingers. I have seen it—I have witnessed it with my own eyes in the squares, in the streets, amid people’s faces, in Salihiyah, Hamra, Daraya, Jobar, and everywhere. “Assad or we burn the country.” The country has indeed burned.
I feel that every step I take on Syrian soil carries an unbearable weight, as if I were treading on the memories of my deceased friends. This land is a vast cemetery; the moans of scattered bones in mass graves spread throughout pierce my skull, depriving me of the victor’s privilege of rising above wounds and looking forward. I apologize to my friends once again for not being joyful enough after the tyrant’s departure. Even that joy, he has stolen from me!