Damascus, Syria
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“Raise your head up high, you’re a free Syrian” goes the chorus of the Arabic song that has become the unofficial anthem of the new Syria. It’s everywhere in the capital Damascus – blasted out from loudspeakers in the markets, chanted at celebrations in the main square and even sung by the man handing traditional coffee to passengers landing at the airport.
Many Syrians kept their heads down under the tyrannical reign of the Al-Assad dynasty for more than half a century. The ruling family enforced a sprawling surveillance state where the notorious mukhabarat, the intelligence apparatus, struck fear into people’s hearts. Silence was the surest survival strategy – until Syrians rose up during the Arab Spring and Assad’s brutal crackdown on protesters led the country into a decade-long civil war.
Now, Syrians are loudly and proudly celebrating the first anniversary of their liberation from Assad’s regime following a lightening rebel offensive on December 8 last year led by former jihadist turned President Ahmed Al-Sharaa.
For the first time in 16 years, I took the opportunity to go to Damascus, where I was born but have never lived. I was expecting an emotional reckoning of the weight of reconnecting with a heritage I’ve been severed from for so long. Almost everyone here has been struggling – before and after Assad – to pay for electricity, food, water and the basic costs of living in a country trying to get back on its feet. It was bittersweet to reunite with my extended family at my grandmother’s house for the first time since she died just three months before she could have seen the unthinkable: her country without Assad.
Once I was there, the challenges of daily life were abundantly clear, but as I roamed the city with my father, I was surprised to find a largely triumphant and joyful atmosphere.
At least this week, Damascenes are pausing to appreciate the fact that they no longer live with the Assad regime’s boot on their necks. As school and work grinded to a halt for a public holiday to mark the anniversary, people flocked to the main gathering place, Umayyad Square, to cheer and wave the new Syrian flag. Others drove through the city’s main arteries dangling out the window waving their flags while drivers honked their horns with joy. A caravan of at least 30 ice cream trucks each affixed with the Syrian flag shot firework flashes into the sky. Fireworks roared through the city until 2 in the morning.
For those in the Syrian diaspora who are returning to Damascus to join the celebrations, the airport arrivals hall has turned into a greeting party with flags and streamers dangling from the ceiling, balloon arches and a facepainting station for kids.
There was a prevailing feeling of patriotism on the streets and a polite and calm presence from the general security forces. I felt safe walking in central Damascus at all hours of the night.
That feeling was shared by a group of tourists from Norway, Denmark and Spain who have been staying at a hostel in the heart of the city for weeks. They raved about the Syrians they met and reveled in the infectious energy around them.
Still, there was a sense that the celebrations were a fleeting respite from everyday life, that the country has far to go. Al Sharaa faces broad skepticism over whether he can maintain the seemingly impossible task of keeping a broken country together, while building an inclusive, democratic government. After waves of deadly sectarian violence, members of Syria’s Alawite, Druze and Christian communities harbor deep distrust of his government.
Al-Sharaa has shored up significant international support in the past year, culminating in a historic visit to the White House in November to meet President Donald Trump, who has eased US sanctions on Syria. But until those sanctions are fully lifted by Congress, allowing in promised investment primarily from the Arab Gulf states, economic progress is effectively in limbo.
Nabigha Atassi, a young professional who came to Damascus from the city of Homs to join the celebrations, said she was struck by the sight of destroyed buildings “and right beside them, people dancing and raising the new Syrian flag.” She says she is willing to be patient for the situation to improve.
“I can’t put into words the feeling of happiness, victory, pride and love for our homeland,” she said. “At least I have hope that one day I’ll have an income that matches the academic and professional level I’ve worked so hard to achieve. Unlike the days of Assad, when there was no hope.”
A family friend I met in the passport control line who lived her entire life in Damascus and fled in 2012 at the onset of the civil war remarked to me that she could immediately feel a difference in the atmosphere, that there were no pictures of Assad staring her down. She couldn’t believe that she could curse the ousted leader right there in front of me.
At the city’s central market, the historic Souk Al-Hamidiyeh, I passed through a juice stand making fun of Assad by calling him “Abu Raqbeh” (father of the neck), mocking his long neck. A few stands were selling socks bearing the same insulting phrase, for about a dollar a pair. It’s a casual reminder of how much has changed in a year, when any negative comment about Assad, let alone a mockery of his appearance, could lead to a torturous punishment.
Also at the souk, signs hang between the stalls marking “one year without torture,” “one year without Saydnaya,” the infamous military prison, and “one year without chemical weapons” – all symbols of Assad’s brutal rule. It captures the duality of the moment, enduring pain and suffering co-existing with the relief of a new beginning.
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