It was a fantasy that gradually began to materialize. With the liberation of Aleppo and Hama and the onset of battles in Homs, I thought Damascus would not fall easily. I believed international powers would intervene to impose a political transition, aiming to prevent chaos from spilling beyond Syria's borders. It never occurred to me that the battles and territorial gains would accelerate at a rocket-like pace, reaching Daraa, Quneitra, and Sweida. On the evening of Saturday 7 December, just three days after the entry into Aleppo, breaking news began flooding in: towns adjacent to Damascus were starting to be liberated. I found myself glued to my mobile phone, forgetting to eat and staying up late—me, someone who is so disciplined about waking, sleeping, and eating at set times. As the hours passed, they advanced into Daraya, adjacent to the Mezzeh airport and military units that had bombarded and sniped at Daraya for years. Then, they entered Moadamiyeh, and demonstrations erupted in Eastern Ghouta.
On Saturday evening, agitated youths tore down the statue of Hafez al-Assad in President’s Square in Jaramana, the town where I live. Around 4:30 p.m., as soon as I heard the news, I quickly got dressed and asked my neighbor if I could leave my little puppy, Mishmish, with him. He said he would come with me too. I dashed down the stairs at full speed and waited at the corner of the street for over five minutes, feeling time slip away. Impatient, I called him urgently, and he finally came down. My strides were long, and he had to run to keep up with me. When we reached the square, a large crowd of youths had gathered. Hafez al-Assad’s head lay toppled, thrown to the right side of the square. The youths had climbed onto several pictures of Bashar al-Assad, ripping them apart with their hands and feet. Their chants echoed in the air: “Syria belongs to us, not to the Assad family!”
I felt a mixture of overwhelming happiness, tinged with fear and tension. Jaramana is not my hometown, and I didn’t see any friends or acquaintances, so I chose not to join the movement, instead observing the unfolding events with caution. Hundreds of people stood along the sidewalks, their faces reflecting a blend of joy, fear, and anticipation as they witnessed an unprecedented moment in the town.
As time went on, it became clear that the fear of the regime and its oppressive machinery was beginning to dissipate among the people. Information spread, confirming the withdrawal of security detachments and police forces. This fueled a sense of liberation, as people celebrated their freedom from captivity.
The entry of troops into the vicinity of Damascus signaled that the regime’s collapse was inevitable. Yet, the delay in its fall since 2013 had left me hesitant to fully embrace this belief.
The rapid flow of news about the withdrawal from the southern cities and Quneitra was enough to confirm that I was witnessing a scenario beyond imagination, surpassing even my wildest expectations: Assad was on his way to leave Syria for the last time, perhaps heading to another country.
Since 2011, I have been living in a constant state of fear. I hadn’t left the country, and I was deeply worried about the possibility of foreign intervention, the defeat of the factions before reaching Hama, and losing the opportunity for change in Syria. Without change, I feared the multiplication of crises: division, sectarian conflict, poverty, and more.
What I feared most began to materialize in 2013, with the widespread militarization, followed by America and its international coalition’s intervention to fight terrorism in 2014. Then, in 2015, Russia entered the war to help the regime reclaim towns, working in coordination with Turkey and Iran. The entry of troops into the vicinity of Damascus signaled that the regime’s collapse was inevitable. Yet, the delay in its fall since 2013 had left me hesitant to fully embrace this belief. I feared the regime might once again find a way to survive, with regional or international backing. Perhaps it could secure new alliances, trade critical intelligence about jihadist organizations, or benefit from some unexpected event that would delay its collapse once more.
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Despite my intense fear, I wrote articles for newspapers without making any concessions to the regime. I believed that its departure was the key to opening the door for profound change in Syria. However, I carefully crafted my texts with phrases that would avoid provoking the security services, hoping to minimize the risk of being arrested and dying for nothing. I would routinely delete messages exchanged with friends on social media or WhatsApp, and I urged others to do the same, fearing that my mobile phone might fall into the hands of the security apparatus.
When I posted content containing radical criticism or direct language, many friends, both inside and outside the country, would urge me to delete it. They believed it was better to wait rather than risk being arrested. These warnings would terrify me temporarily, but I always returned to writing. This was the life I led from 2011 until the moment the regime finally fell, at dawn on Saturday 8 December 2024.
An hour after the fall, I received a phone call from my friend, telling me I had only a few minutes to come down so we could go together to Umayyad Square. Half asleep, I don’t even remember how I got dressed. I tried to call my neighbor to leave Mishmish with him, but he was already awake—no one in Syria was asleep.
I had gone to bed around three, only to wake up around six. The darkness of the night still lingered. I left Mishmish and rushed down the stairs, practically leaping. In front of my house, I met my friend, and we ran toward the cars. I shouted, “We are done, guys, freedom for Syria!”
While we were at the peak of joy, one of the young men told us that Israel had advanced in Quneitra and occupied Mount Hermon. It was a sad blow, almost killing the joy inside me. But I thought that the fall of the tyrant would help reclaim the land, and the most important thing now was to end this nightmare.
We piled into the cars, which were packed so tightly that we could barely find a spot for ourselves. As we drove, we listened to Sarout's songs and other revolutionary anthems from 2011 and 2012, while discussing the long-awaited fall of the regime, cursing the president and his father for what they had done to the country—handing it over to foreign powers, bringing occupations, all to hold onto power forever.
There were three cars in total: two from Sweida and one from Damascus. Among us were young men wanted by the regime since 2011, who hadn’t set foot in Damascus since, despite living no more than 100 kilometers away. I, too, had not visited my city, Homs, since 2012, and had not seen my nephews, now aged eleven, nine, and four.
The cars kept pouring in, one after the other, from Jaramana, then Bab Touma, then Baghdad Street, and other areas, until we finally reached Umayyad Square. We were among the first to arrive. The sun was just beginning to rise. The joy, laughter, photos, and celebratory gunfire grew louder. Groups of people were steadily increasing, but not in large numbers. The square wasn’t full, and there was no public speech. As more cars carrying fighters from Sweida, Daraa, and Western Ghouta arrived, they fired even more bullets into the air, celebrating the fall of the tyrant and his family’s rule.
We circled the square, taking photos, broadcasting live, sending victory signs, and singing, “Syria is ours, not for the Assad family,” “Long live Syria, down with Assad.” I corrected someone, saying, “Long live Syria, Assad is down.”
While we were at the peak of joy, one of the young men told us that Israel had advanced in Quneitra and occupied Mount Hermon. It was a sad blow, almost killing the joy inside me. But I thought that the fall of the tyrant would help reclaim the land, and the most important thing now was to end this nightmare.
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It soon became clear that we were facing significant problems. The signs appeared immediately, as we began to notice thefts from the military buildings surrounding the square, from the Opera House, and reports of Israel occupying new areas. When we decided to leave around ten in the morning, we discovered that someone had stolen many items and around two million Syrian pounds from a friend’s car. It was deeply disturbing.
We were then told that the detainees would be released at Abbasid Square, so we went there immediately, hoping to witness this historic moment. After waiting for about half an hour, we received the news that the detainees had been released randomly from the security branches and Sednaya prison, but we didn’t see any of them. We then got into the cars and headed back to Jaramana, on a day filled with pure happiness.
My friend, Rania Mustafa, the leftist political writer, who had been in Damascus since 2012, would have made it a million times harder for me to stay if she hadn’t been there. Even though several days had passed, she still looked at me with anger. How could I not have told her to go with me to Umayyad Square, a place Syrians had longed to reach since 2011, where hundreds of martyrs had fallen trying to make it possible? I feel like I "betrayed" her, even though it was merely a coincidence and a result of my haste, as these were my last moments under the family’s rule.
