The Syria That I Knew No longer Exists
By Nawal Ali
July/Aug 2024
One night in the depth of slumber, I found myself ensnared in a vivid nightmare, submerged in a watery abyss, my lungs burning for air as I fought against an unseen force holding me down. I clawed at the darkness frantically, desperate to break free; however, the suffocating weight of the water refused to relinquish its hold. With each passing moment, panic gripped me tighter until, mercifully, a violent shaking tore me from the depths of my subconscious, gasping for air, heart racing.
As I emerged from the grip of sleep, disoriented and trembling, the concerned faces of my roommates surrounded me, their voices a stark contrast to the chaos that lingered in my mind. “You’re okay, you’re okay. It was just a nightmare.” They spoke of my face turning blue, of my desperate gasps for air, a silent testament to the turmoil that raged beyond the threshold of our sanctuary.
Blinking away the remnants of sleep, I struggled to reconcile the tranquility of our dimly lit room with the chaos that had engulfed Syria during the Arab Spring. Outside, the cries of women mingled with the shouts of soldiers, a grim reminder of the unrest that had descended upon our once peaceful streets in 2011. The revolution had transformed our community into a battleground, tearing apart the fabric of our lives with each passing day.
As an American student at Abu Nour University, Damascus, I had been drawn to the warmth of Rukn Eddine, the area where locals and foreigners coexisted in harmony. But it was more than just the sense of community that captivated me. Syria was unlike any other country I’d ever experienced.
Despite being ruled by a dictatorship, the Arab Ba’ath Socialist Party, Syria seemed to embody values that even Western states struggled to uphold. It provided a multitude of social services, including free health care, subsidized housing and utilities, food assistance, employment services, free education and subsidized goods, thereby ensuring a level of social welfare that surpassed that of many Western nations. Crime was scarce, prices were affordable and, in addition, everything was locally produced. Homelessness was virtually nonexistent, and the population was composed largely of highly educated individuals.
Contrary to the portrayals on television, society appeared remarkably open, challenging stereotypes of the Middle East as uncivilized and conservative.
But while the veneer of stability remained unbroken, beneath the surface discontent simmered, waiting to boil over into revolution. And when it finally did, I found myself torn between the idyllic image of the Syria I had come to know and the harsh reality of its authoritarian regime.
Protests became more frequent, only to be met with violence and repression at every turn. The national anthem, once uplifting melodies echoing through the airwaves, had now been transformed into haunting reminders of the regime’s unyielding grip, its power seemingly unassailable in the face of its merciless methods. By summer, several students had vanished without a trace, as if they had never been there to begin with. The local internet café faced strict surveillance and was compelled to surrender databases containing personal searches and emails, adding to the atmosphere of fear and uncertainty.
And then there were the institutions themselves. Stories emerged of students being surveilled via audio recording devices installed in the dormitories and teachers reporting comments made in class to the authorities. On one notable occasion, upon my return home, my roommate revealed that all my belongings, including my laptop, had been subjected to a thorough search, fueled by fears that I might be sharing information with the U.S. government.
Of course, the paranoia gripping the Syrian government, particularly within the Ba’ath Party and the Alawite community, was on some level understandable, given the region’s instability. The Alawites, also known as Nusayria, are an Arab ethno religious group that lives primarily in the Levant and follow Alawism, a religious sect that split off from early Shi’ism as a ghulat (exaggerators) branch during the ninth century.
Amid Israel’s assaults, Lebanon’s internal struggles and mounting tensions over Kurdish independence in the north, Syria teetered on the brink of profound instability. The intervention of a lone Western power held the potential to thrust Syria into a whirlwind of upheaval, mirroring the enduring turmoil that defines the wider region. Under Hafez al-Assad’s leadership, the regime brutally crushed any perceived threats to its power. The notorious events in Hama, where the Muslim Brotherhood uprising occurred in 1982, was violently suppressed to serve as a stark reminder of the regime’s willingness to use extreme measures to maintain control.
This ruthless display of power effectively quashed dissent and solidified the Alawite dominance. However, by the time I arrived in Syria, Assad’s son Bashar — an ophthalmologist turned into the heir apparent and groomed for 6.5 years to succeed his father — had assumed the presidency, ushering in a period of gradual change. Unlike his father’s era of ironfisted rule, Bashar’s leadership brought some reforms and openness to Syrian society.
For instance, restrictions on women wearing the hijab in universities were lifted, reflecting a more tolerant approach to social and religious practices. Additionally, there was a newfound openness to the outside world, with increased access to the internet and foreign television programs. These changes hinted at a desire for modernization and engagement with the global community, signaling a departure from the repressive tactics of the past. Yet, despite these reforms, the underlying sense of paranoia and the regime’s determination to maintain its grip on power remained palpable.
I left Damascus on May 29, 2011, with a heavy heart. The dormitory’s headmistress presented me with a stark choice: Either I stayed and risked my roommates being arrested, or I left the country to spare everyone involved. The decision weighed heavily on me, knowing I had three more years of studies ahead. As I packed my belongings, I clung to the false hope that I would return by the summer’s end.
Boarding the plane, tears welled in my eyes and a lump formed in my throat. The memories I left behind felt like fragments of a past never to be revisited. The serene mornings before fajr with the ethereal sound of the morning wird (litany) resonating through the mosque loudspeaker, the laughter-filled nights in the courtyard with my roommates, not to mention the clandestine lessons at my teacher’s house — all held a precious significance.
With all its flaws, Syria was a humble setting inhabited by wonderful individuals, and its essence filled every emptiness that no level of Western liberties could ever complete within me.
Even as time passes, my mind frequently drifts back to those days. Every now and then, I catch glimpses of familiar faces on the news: some enduring political imprisonment in Israel, others leading mosques in Tokyo, or aiding humanitarian efforts on the Turkish border. Occasionally, I receive a call from one of the girls I shared those moments with, now dispersed across the globe, each pursuing her own unique path. With each conversation, we revisit our shared memories. “Do you remember Syria?” we ask, our voices tinged with longing. “Do you think we’ll ever return?”
As life moves forward, I find myself grappling with the echoes of those conversations long after the calls end. The yearning to revisit Damascus, to reclaim the sense of belonging and purpose I felt there, remains a persistent ache in my heart. Despite the passage of time and the distance that separates us, the bonds forged in that ancient city endure, tethering me to a past that feels more vivid than the present. And so I continue to carry Syria with me, its spirit woven into the fabric of my being, a beacon of hope amidst the uncertainties of the world.
Nawal Ali is head of ISNA Fund Development
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