The first time I understood I had left was September 2011, and for the first time I understand I’m returning to Damascus is winter 2024 after the head of the despotic Syrian regime Bashar al-Asad fled on 8 December to Moscow. I won’t say the fall of Asad because Asad didn’t fall – he fled, leaving the country behind making a deal with the armed group Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS). Meanwhile, we the people are still grasping the details of this deal through leaks from Turkey and political actors in Qatar. We grasp the reality that is paving the way for the future by the appearances and statements of Ahmad al-Shara’, the leader of Hay’at al-Sham. But the statement that perhaps we were hoping would be delayed a bit so as not to corrupt our joy from the despot’s flight was the incendiary statement by the spokesperson for the political administration under the military operations administration, Ubayda Arna’ut, when he said: “Woman’s being and her biological and psychological nature is not compatible with all employment positions, like the Ministry of Defense, for example.”
I’m focused on my travel bag thinking about my being a woman and look over every piece of clothing I’ve packed: Is this piece appropriate? Is it too colorful, drawing too much attention? I notice that clothing is a solution and not the problem. I notice my non-feminine physique: my very short hair, my nose ring, and the shape of my body in general. I start outlining some plans: Should I wear a hat all the time? Should I take out my nose ring? Should I exaggerate my feminine appearance? Actually, I forget how to do that.
I wrote these lines while I’m still in my house in Amsterdam, two days before traveling. I try to gather my emotions, my thoughts, my memories. I try writing a list of places that I want to walk around, the friends and acquaintances that never left. Who stayed there! Who will I meet spontaneously on the street? With whom will be the first cup of coffee and feminist Damascene talk?
The road is a border
Syrian voices rang out in the plane heading to Amman from Istanbul. Young men fidgeted restlessly with each minute of delay. Happily telling jokes here and there, trying to ease the anxiety of some. As soon as the plane took off, one of them shouted out “Hold on, guys.” I laughed as so many others did together, this taking us back to a Syrian TV series. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t relax, overwhelmed with excitement. I was happily following the chatter of a group nearby. One of the young men started talking about secularism, cursing those who demanded it, saying: “Hey, someone said they want secularism, but the tears of the martyrs’ mothers haven’t dried yet. Isn’t that so?”
I wanted to say something. I wanted to say to him that secularism doesn’t disregard mothers’ tears. Don’t use them for political gain. I wanted to burst into the conversation saying the secularism of the State has nothing to do with mothers’ tears! But I stayed silent, and tried to hibernate my mind by closing my eyes, imagining the moment of my arrival in Damascus. The road to Damascus would be long and expensive. I had to stop in Amman and pay the price of the visa twice as a friend who preceded me to Syria advised; one when arriving at the airport, and another for when returning from Syria.
Crisis money is quick, inventive, and reiterative. In Amman, when I asked about a rental from Amman to Damascus, the first response was $200, then $100 reiterated. I started to consider my finances. I had to economize as best as possible so that I would be able to offer something later to my family as some salaries were delayed and others feared the lose of jobs. I thought of taking the bus; it’s not as fast as a rental, but cheaper. I convened with some female acquaintances in Amman to find out what was available. My friend, as usual, took it upon herself to lay out the choices in front of me.
We ask around at the travel offices in Amman about the way to al-Sham (Damascus), and I discover that the option of $100, $200 USD is highway robbery for someone who’s trying to get to a place they have dreamed about for years. It seems the old way is still possible, the Damascus-Amman Road – four riders, each paying 50 JD which is about $70 USD. My friend says we used to go to Damascus for 20 JD, this option is not bad. The owner of the travel office says, ‘Tomorrow you’ll set out at 7 or 8 o’clock in the morning.” My pulse quickened, as I felt that which was a dream come within reach. We ask for information from the office next door. It’s only slightly different here; he heads out in the afternoon. I say to my friend, “Maybe this is a better option.” I find myself wavering, running away from initiating more distance that separates me from Damascus. I feel my chest get heavy, my pulse rise. It’s anxiety. I know it well. I relieve myself by smiling and saying to my friend so that I know why I would want to delay my departure: “Alright, it’s decided, tomorrow at 9:00, off to al-Sham.”
I woke up early, waiting for it to be 9:00 am. My dear friend, who has hosted me with such infinite generosity, made the hours of waiting in the early morning sweet with a glass of maté. It was time to set out. The driver held off leaving Amman because he needed a third rider in addition to me and a young man. He kept saying to himself so that we could hear him, “To make this trip worth it, I need one more rider. I mean, tomorrow’s Saturday - there isn’t anyone?!” We smoked while he went from one travel office to another asking his colleagues for another rider. If I hadn’t learned patience over the years of my exile, I would have been screaming angrily in his face from all his huffing and puffing, creating tension and making this trip even longer. I calmed down and tried to think, “Let it be.” At last, he decided to set out, and I started making calls to coordinate the exchange with another hired car at the Syrian border.
Until 28 December, Jordanian cars were not allowed to leave Jordan by government order, even those with Jordanian nationality couldn’t enter Syria, even if they were of Syrian origin. As for Syrians who left, they were stamped “no return.”
By returning in this act of exchange, I felt as if it carried a much heavier meaning than what it actually is as a logistical matter, a practical solution created to keep the work of the travel offices in the two countries alive, and to make it possible for people to travel. The drivers especially make the matter seem much more important, as if it was a smuggling operation.
The time passed, and at the moment we arrived at the Jordanian border I said to myself, “What good luck that I guarded over my Syrian identity card and took it with me,” since I wouldn’t be allowed to enter Syria with my Dutch passport only. The procedures on the Jordanian side – stamping the visa, checking our bags, and waiting for the young man who was with me for an hour because of the close scrutiny of his papers were all done. Before arriving in the region of “No man’s land”, i.e. the neutral zone between borders, we got the news that the driver of the hired car who would take us to Damascus was going to be late because of an accident! And for some reason he had to exchange the car for another. This meant that I had to carry, move, and lift up my suitcase laden with gifts a few more times. I muttered, “I’m so tired, dear God. I just want to get there.”
Before entering Syria our driver explained to us that a Red Cross bus would be transporting us from the Jordanian border to the Syrian one. I no longer heard anything the instant Syrian land was in reach, and in the moment my right foot crossed the iron gate, I said, felt, smelled, and saw that, “I had arrived. Here is Syria.” I got on the bus and started to cry. A cry that could heal homesickness. A cry that we were right.
When we arrived at the Syrian border, the first change caught our attention; the new old flag flapping welcomingly in the wind. At the passport stamp office, my journalistic mind started to engage and be alerted to the slightest movements, talk, expressions. I try to find something, then I stopped and reminded myself, “Let it be.” The process of stamping my passport was smooth despite my apprehension of any escalation because of my family name and its resemblance to tyrant’s family name. Elements of HTS are trying to take charge of organizing passport control and the hired cars, and other simple logistical matters. The young men of HTS are organizing the release of the hired cars and explain the expected rate to prevent exploitation. They prefer talking with the young man with whom I agreed to complete the trip to Damascus. They didn’t ask this person about me. It was enough that he is a man in order to speak with him and ignore me. We arranged the matter of the car to Damascus and got in. At the check point there was another check of papers and riders. One of the members noticed my appearance and smiled, a smile somewhere between wonder and chagrin. He hid his laughter and whispered to his friend to look at me in the back seat. I watched the whole thing in silence, thinking, “Ah, we’ve started the first step of the dance.”
The Road to Damascus
A driver from Dara’a started by acquainting us riders to Syria, pointing out landmarks on the road, saying: “The despotic regime’s worst checkpoint” was here. He cursed those days. He cursed Hafez and Bashar for what they did to the country. He told stories of how the drivers of the hired cars were exploited at the checkpoints. I observe the street and smile every time I see walls and images of Bashar defaced, smashed, graffitied over with expressions of liberation or insults. The road seems wider to me after being purged of all the statues of the repressive father.
We arrived at al-Baramka, a district of Damascus. I took off from the car on my own to exchange some money and buy a local “Syriatel” phone card, as my friend advised me to do, “It’s much better these days.” The section of the city al-Marja was packed and crowded as usual. Money exchangers abound in the streets, identifiable by the small and thick black bag they carried. It shocked me how many Syrian banknotes were equal to $100. I chatted a bit with the driver. His adage how the situation had improved a bit gave me pause: “Before December (the month Bashar al-Asad fled) it was the platter that chose us, but now we choose what we eat.”
I arrive at Saba’ Baharat Square and wait for my friend with whom I’m going to stay while in Damascus at a new café overlooking the square, and where the Central Bank of Syria is located. I remember that the day after Asad fled, some men entered the Central Bank and some stole money. Brigade fighters from Dara’a intervened to protect the bank and to capture those that got away. At the café, I order a cup of sahlab and look around. At the table next to me is a group of young men. They appear to be from HTS. They’re often recognizable by their Idlibi accent as well as their dark colored clothes and pants with a side pocket. Also by the way they place their scarf on their heads. My friend arrives and we congratulate each other. I say to her, “I celebrate the Sunni way; I ordered sahlab to whiten my first day here in Damascus.”
I walk and walk on Damascus streets. A Fairuz song blares in my head, repeating the verse, ”I’m more afraid of this homesickness and that my country won’t recognize me.” I tell myself over and over, “My homesickness and exile are over. I’m here in Damascus.” I walk from al-Abed Street to al-Sha’lan, then to al-Bahsa, cut through al-Harimi market to al-Hamidiya in the direction of Midhat Pasha and Bab al-Sharqi, and from there to Bab Tuma. I relax a bit and say my country knows me and my feet have a memory of the place.
It was raining in Damascus. I put on a hat and pull my scarf up to cover my breath. My features disappear behind the dark colors; loose black jackets and pants with a side pocket make it hard to know my gender. Suddenly I hear a woman say to me “My God protect us, dear fella.” I’m surprised and smile. The woman thinks I’m part of HTS. This happens a few more times on this first day for me in Damascus.
The Smell of the Country
The air in the streets is thick with the smell of smoke, cigarettes, and diesel fuel. Al-Rawda Cafe has become the central locale for those returning, male and female, and the atmosphere there was exceptional: revolutionary songs abound, from al-Sarut ‘s “Paradise O Nation” to “‘al-Hudalak” (عالهودلاك - “Take It Easy”) by Wasfi Ma’sraani to the repetitive kinetic motion unleashed every time “Curse your soul, Hafez” was sung, rushing to sing and dance loudly while the rest watch and hum along. Then we return to talking about politics, everyday life, the pronouncements of “the new Syrian rulers,” especially, at this time, the pronouncements of the new administration’s director of the Office of Women’s Affairs Aisha al-Dibs: “...But I will not open the field to whomever differs with me in thought...We have suffered from organizations whose agendas were harmful to children and women, such that they were offering unsuitable programs that led to disastrous results.”
This pronouncement was passed around Damascus quickly somewhere between sarcasm and not being taken seriously. I tried to deconstruct it with some female friends. It brought us back to a memory female friends from Idlib shared with us of their suffering under the systematic repression of HST, one that didn’t appear all at once but was constructed slowly between the choice of submission to their laws or intimidation and violence. The daily immersion in everyday concerns made everything else less important, especially for those who stayed in Syria: the lack of electricity made daily priorities obvious - washing, bathing, phone and computer charging, etc. I lived with this worry for only ten days. I can’t imagine how much time is lost on daily logistics. But I understood how the Asad regime put the people in a state of constant distraction trying to live and stay alive in the shadow of extreme cold and hunger.
Everything was happening at the same time during this period in Damascus; solidarity and protest actions, dialogue sessions, demonstrations. The thirst to be present in the public sphere and the urgency to organize had robbed some of these actions the opportunity to mobilize people in a relevant way. The solidarity actions with refugees and the protest in front of the Ministry of Education after the announcement of changes to the educational curriculum were paltry in size.
I heard that the Ministry of Media had started to give out journalism permits. I said to a female journalist friend that I wanted to test out the process, so we went to the neglected Ministry which looked like it had just been looted. The first floor was covered in water dripping from the ceiling, the walls were tattered, the stairs filthy and broken, a strong humid stench dissipated throughout.
We entered the Office of Permits, some men were sitting in the room outside the office. One of them asks me what I want and asks me to sit. I present myself as an independent journalist for a number of outlets. I carry an electronic Dutch journalist ID card that shows membership in the Dutch Journalist Union. When he hears my family name (Asad), he gets a startled look on his face. Another man was next to him whom I didn’t know. He asks me for confirmation: Sunni? I reply: Alawi. The first person asks me for an example of my work. I send him one through WhatsApp after he gives me his number. I wonder: Do I have a choice? Does privacy matter? Is sharing private telephone numbers this simple? Is this a new form of surveillance? I think: What should I share with him? I decided to share a work I had written and published after studying for my master’s degree on Russian arms used against civilians in Idlib. I want to send him an implicit message that I was not what he thought I was politically. He clarified for me that permission from the security branch requires a special transaction because of the chaos that happened when it was open for anyone to enter; a young man tried to steal a hard drive two days ago (“Isn’t that a part of the performative aspect of freedom!” buzzed through my head). So, for this reason, a visit to the security branches was requested coordinated by phone with some young HTS men, guards of the main branch. In order to get the general permit, I had to go to another office.
I arrived at an office filled with journalists, men and women. They were all waiting for permits which had the signature of the minister. I approach and give my name saying that I want permission to cover my assignment in Damascus, Latakiya, and Jableh. The situation changed in the room, something like bewilderment. One of them condescended, saying: “Are you from Asad, Asad?” Another said. “May God protect you from this name. Change it - it should be easy in Holland. I say to him, ”It’s not a problem for me in Holland, here is where the problem is.” He laughs suspiciously, and I finish my fake one. The employee is inundated with compliments and random questions in an attempt to understand how the ministry will run, about the permits, and will things remain on paper or move to digital? In the end, I got a permit for three days while most of the others get one for 15 days.
Granting me a permit for only three days is a discriminatory sectarian decision and limits the scope of my journalistic work. This is mostly due to my desire to go to the Syrian coast where the majority are Alawis, where executions in central squares are taking place, and where young men who were in the army regardless of their military status are being hunted as I will learn when I visit my family in Jableh.
I’m still in Damascus. Today is New Year’s Day, a day that will not be repeated in my life. I started my day with my friend Mohammad Badran who lives in Amsterdam with some pastries from al-Sha’lan and coffee at Just Right Coffeehouse. Muhammad is returning for the first time to his house in the district of al-Yarmouk. I accompanied him out of curiosity, but also for support and a longing for the camp that binds me to memories of some female friends.
After visiting al-Yarmouk, I went with a female friend to al-Khatib security branch. She was held as a prisoner here, and wants to visit it to seek a cure and be cured, as far as I can tell. I use the same permit, showing it to the officer who is also surprised by its brevity. He lets us enter, and an HTS guard accompanies us. My friends look for her cell. I go with her and take photos. There’s no natural light, no electricity; darkness is a part of this place.
By using the flashlight on her mobile, my friend is able to recall her cell. She takes her time to sit on the floor, trying to take in the experience of what was before and what is now. I keep myself occupied with taking photos of whatever I can. I couldn’t stop myself photographing all of this ugliness – the vomit, the isolation, the walls, security cameras, the room of the files strewn everywhere. Here are some of the photos so that we don’t forget, so that we don’t allow the re-production of these prisons, dungeons, or security branches.
We leave the al-Khatib branch. All I want is to be in a public space. I got to Umayyad Square and held up a sign that read: “Greetings to all Syrian women journalists from the heart of Damascus.” I feel contentment and pride that I was on the right side of journalistic work. I wanted to own public space if only for a moment for me and my female journalist colleagues. I wanted the world to see us and recognize our struggles and efforts as women journalists throughout the years of revolution and war.
My friend suggests we stage a “flight” demonstration, i.e. a short one, after midnight to greet the new year with a revolutionary spirit, harking back to the days of these flight demonstrations. People gather in and area between two hotels, Ummiya and al-
Sham, where most friends and acquaintances would be celebrating. We start off with the shout-outs: “One, one - the people of Syria are one,” “Nothing is forever, Syria lives, al-Asad falls.” One of the young men of HTS near the demonstration gets riled up and shoots live bullets into the air. We don’t understand, and crouch down on the ground to understand the bullet; is it celebratory or to disperse the demonstration? Promptly the call-outs return and voices here and there, “Don’t be afraid.” But also friends started calling out “That's a wrap!” (frakash). But the demonstration got bigger, even more kept coming to participate as did passing cars with their lights. No one wanted to leave the street. At that moment, everyone wanted public space and the freedom to demonstrate and sing.
The coast after an absence
I arrive at my family house after an absence of 13 years. I embrace my older sister with all my heart and strength, my mother and father, and nineteen other family members all eager to hear my news, asking me as an opposition journalist to the Asad regime lots of questions about the future of the country. I’m confounded because I don’t have a response and can’t bring them any reassurances while acts of violence escalate in the coastal region of Syria.
All I can do is to explicate some of the events that I had uncovered and they hadn’t heard about yet, or that the official narrative of the regime was a lie like the chemical attacks on eastern Ghouta, the practically complete destruction of Hums and Idlib. I show them some pictures on my phone from my visit to Yarmouk (camp) and al-Khatib branch.
I see the astonishment on their faces and then the return of fear for the near future. I don’t see pictures of my brother “the martyr” who, I was told in 2012, joined the army and was killed by a sniper’s bullet in Damascus in 2013. Crying, my sister says, “I buried my brother twice; when he died and when his picture was ripped off the wall. We are afraid, after the last decision to name the former army martyrs dead, to be provocative if they search the houses and notice the pictures.” I was quiet for a long time, nothing to be said at that moment. I’m afraid to think that history will repeat itself, and that the repressed will become the repressor and will be excessive in his repression.
My journalistic sense is driving me to understand the settlement process and the dissenting ID cards' that were given to former soldiers that some of the young men of the coast found humiliating. They argued that they were part of the national army, so why would they renounce it? In my view, the word “dissent” (al-inshiqaq) wasn’t humiliating. Actually it was an indication of the beginning of the revolution. I remember all the amazing videos when groups from the army would stand in front of cameras to announce their renunciation. Another time I try to explain to some the modern history of Syria that was absented and falsified by the Asad regime.
I go to the Settlement Center with my now outdated journalist permit. They let me enter the center and I met the officer responsible for the process of surrendering arms. The room is filled with arms. During the recording of the interview a man carrying two bombs in his hands enters and places them on the table. I think, is the room going to blow up with us in it?! I finish my job feigning concentration; it’s a short interview with the officer describing the process from the point of view of HTS in the city of Jableh.
There is no confidence, this is what I sense, despite the voluntary surrendering of arms by a number of young men from the coast. It seems there’s no confidence that this process is happening in all the regions of Syria. Everyone is wary of everyone else up until this very moment, and individual killings have not abated. The explanation by general leadership that “they are individual acts” brings to mind those by the despotic regime when there were acts of violence it didn’t want to take ownership of as “individual mistakes.” I was silent, afraid of the thought that history would repeat itself.
I return to Damascus, and immediately attend a concert by the Gardenia Choir. The choir’s concerts have turned into a meeting space for loved ones and those who have been absent to embrace, laugh, cry, and feel bewildered. The musical selections enchant us, and we cry collectively for all those lost, the martyrs. It seemed to me that the singing and crying were the closest thing to collective forgiveness and recognition of our universal pain, especially when the choir sang a song by Abd al-basit al-Sarut “Ya yamaa bi-thawb jadid zafiinii jiit shahid” (“O dear mother in a new dress, brought a martyr like a groom, but not really like a groom! ”). The singing transported us to different worlds and contradictory emotions, from joy to anger and yearning, taking us back to the reality of Syria through the song “‘al-Hudalak” (عالهودلاك - “Take It Easy”) and to our beloved Palestine with the song, “Hey you mountain climbers.”
I’m nearing my last day in Damascus. I want to fill myself up with everything – the sky, the smell of the wind redolent with diesel, the fleeting conversations with taxi drivers, the smiling and perplexed glances of passersby I elicit, the delicious food, my physical existence on the streets of Damascus.
On the last day of this visit, a dream that has lingered for 13 years came true; that we women journalists from several parts of Syria sit together and talk about the circumstantial experience of journalistic work from our point of view. The hall of the Women’s Center in Jaramana is filled with guests. I’m very happy and my eyes fill with tears. My heart trembles when I welcome everyone in the name of the Syrian Women Journalist Network. I’m engrossed in a conversation with my female guests, it was one of the most important of what I’d experienced and heard in over a decade.
I return to Amsterdam in a state of bewilderment. I try to absorb the experience, and repeat to myself that returning to Syria is possible, and that today I have a nation, and that I’m not obliged to accept my reality in a state of homesickness and alienation. This state of being has become a choice, even if this feeling is temporary, it’s a reality.
