December 2024 witnessed a historical moment with the Syrian regime’s sudden collapse, 13 years after I left home. To return before that, even for a visit, was impossible without risking prosecution and interrogation for anything I dared to say about the regime, whether on social media, at Unicef HQ where I worked, at the European Commission where I delivered a speech, or between the lines of my memoir.
As a result, I watched my country from afar with a heartache. Homesickness is what you feel when it’s Christmas and you’re not with family, or when you can’t find the ingredients of your childhood meal where you currently live. Syrian homesickness is closer to grief, which only grows with time instead of healing. I missed Syria with every fibre in my body. And as Syria went through all layers of hell, I carried that grief within me until the miracle happened: the dictator is gone. The revolution took over. It’s time to go home.
It took long months for reasons beyond my control to finally book the tickets for me, my husband and my kid, who was curious to see “Mum’s home” as he calls it. Those months felt longer, with questions like “When are you going home? Are you going for good? Better wait until things settle, maybe? Do you have to cover up now?”
Daily conversations, even for brief moments, turned into political debates and analysis about the new president and the current situation on the ground.
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Dublin, Doha, Damascus. The three d’s in my flight booking seemed too surreal. I couldn’t allow myself to believe this trip was happening until the moment gravity pulled the wheels of the aeroplane on to Syrian soil and the captain announced our landing, the weather conditions and the long-awaited sentence: “Welcome to Damascus.”
[ At 5am, my husband shakes me awake. The Syrian regime has fallenOpens in new window ]
At the door of the plane, I placed the palm of my hand on my chest, closed my eyes for a moment, before I took a deep breath of the familiar air. Be still, my beating heart. I walked with the river of passengers towards the passport control, staring at all the familiar faces of the strangers around me. I couldn’t help but feel that something was different, but I also couldn’t remember how this place was before. We took our place in the queue, my senses on alert, unsure what to expect. My phone detected a wireless network. I clicked on it, wondering if it was a scam or overpriced, but I got a new Syrian flag with a welcome page on my phone screen, offering a free 5G network. This is a good start.
“At least no more fear here. This alone is enough.”
I picked a conversation from a couple standing behind me.
“No more: Why hasn’t your grandfather come to the country in 20 years? Tell him to visit us; we are waiting for him.”
“No more: What gift did you bring us from abroad?”
I relaxed my tense body. No more fear. I realised then what was different at the airport. No more oversized photos of the Assad family hanging on the walls and watching every move and every word. Big Brother is gone.
Our collective memories unlocked as soon as we passed the familiar roads. I leant from the taxi window to admire the scene of home. This is where I used to work. This is where a suicidal attack killed the top security leaders. This is where Israel bombed. This is where we got married. This is Al-Assad’s bridge, only now it’s called the Freedom Bridge. I noticed the taxi driver and, before, the airport staff didn’t mention Al-Assad’s name, the way you avoid a cursed word; they referred to him as “that guy”, the previous regime, or my favourite: the donkey.
Everything related to Al-Assad had been removed, as if he’d never existed. His face was only left on the currency notes that were planned to be reprinted by the end of the year.
Watching Damascus from inside Damascus left me breathless. I was no longer watching my city on TV or through the lens of a YouTuber who couldn’t believe how much you could buy for a dollar in Syria.
Since my husband’s family house was destroyed in the war and mine was in desperate need of maintenance, we decided to stay in a hotel in the old Damascus area, the closest to my heart. Hotels were a better option for visitors since they offered 24/7 electricity, heating and water – three basic but disrupted needs for locals. Electricity cuts were very severe and common during the war, but they followed an unequal schedule between posh neighbourhoods where regime representatives and the high-profile people lived, and the rest of Syria. This has now changed. Electricity is being distributed equally among all areas while repairs are ongoing to the damaged infrastructure.
Despite the gorgeous architecture of the hotel, which resembled a classic old Syrian house with a fountain in the middle of the courtyard, along with majestic trees in the corners, I was eager to leave and walk the familiar streets, taking it all in.
Although many had told us how things had changed, at first everything looked the same to me – time had frozen in Damascus. We merged into the daily Syrian life with all five senses. The hectic road traffic, the buzzing motorcycles, the policeman’s whistle at intersections, the kids’ laughter, the smell of fresh bakery and roasted nuts mixed with the timeless jasmine scent, the merchants calling out for their products, generously serving free samples on their doors – a habit I didn’t know how much I missed until someone put a cup of coffee in my hand. How did all those resilient, hardworking, optimistic, generous people become a burden on the whole world?
The best part of this scene was the Arabic language, a heartwarming symphony. It was on the signs, on the radio, in people’s greetings and chatters, in my tongue. Oh, how much I missed my name, that Arabic letter between the “u” and “a”. There was a time back in Ireland when I started using earplugs to avoid overstimulation. I grin as I spot them in my handbag. I didn’t want to cancel any of these sounds. I wasn’t overstimulated. I was overjoyed. As Mahmoud Darwish phrased it, “I don’t want this poem to end.”
We quickly got used to the new workarounds. The sudden darkness when the electricity cuts take place, and the roaring of power generators. The weight of the banknotes in our bags. There were no e-payments, no e-anything. Cash is the only way to pay, and due to the currency collapse, we had to carry millions of Syrian pounds to get through the day.
The words “dollar” and “euro” were forbidden words in the Assad era, removed from the Syrian language, like Orwell’s Newspeak. The mention of those words, even in texting, was enough to get you arrested. Syrians referred to dollars as “green” or “mint” and other ridiculous nicknames. They traded money with the same secrecy and suspicion of drug dealers. Currency-exchange shops were also not allowed. The central bank was the only place to exchange money, with many exceptions, restrictions and at an unfair exchange rate. That’s why it was a shock to see those shops thriving and accepting foreign currencies, allowing the Syrian currency to breathe and steadily improve.
My sense of time and place became distorted when I met the remaining family and friends who had stayed behind. I stared at their grey hair strands, their partners, and their kids. When did all of that happen? How come my youngest little cousin, who held the tail of my wedding dress, is now a fifth-year medicine student?
The lively nights in Damascus with our tribe filled our drained hearts. As I watched our kids play together and connect instantly, I wondered what our lives would’ve been like if we could’ve shared those years. We chatted about the two bitter options for Syrians: the brutality of staying and the misery of displacement. They filled us in on what life was like, how unbothered they had become by explosions, how dead inside they were, and how optimistic they had become now. The unusual aspect of all that was being able to discuss politics openly – a luxury never known for our generation.
My kid wants both worlds, just like me. He wears his newly acquired Syrian football jersey and says, ‘I think I’m now 80 per cent Syrian, 20 per cent Irish’
“If you’ve visited last year, you’d never want to return.” A friend said, “It was so miserable here you could see it on every face, like a dark cloud hanging over the country. It’s much better now. People are daring to hope for the future, feeling human again. Look around you. People are laughing!”
The situation on the ground was better than I had expected. Police officers were stationed at almost every major intersection, ensuring that traffic flowed smoothly in the overcrowded city of Damascus. Tourism police were visible at popular tourist destinations, such as the Umayyad Mosque. Armed men in clearly labelled black uniforms, identified as General Security, were randomly spotted.
The odd thing about all of these men was how unthreatening they seemed towards us, normal civilians. They were there to protect us. There was a new sense of “no one above the law,” which had previously been easily manipulated if you knew the right person or paid enough money. You can easily break any law, including getting away with murder.
There was, however, still a shortage of those who could enforce the law. Given that old-regime officers had fled, their replacements were still in training or new to the job. Many government circles suspended or placed on hold the employees of various departments while the government reassessed each individual. This was causing frustration and delays while the country took baby steps towards building a new Syria. People used social media to report incidents of violations by the new government representatives. Viral posts got immediate reactions to enforce the law.
My top worry was the extremists. I haven’t seen any so far, except for a couple of fully covered women around the market streets.
A friend explained how these groups initially tried to impose their ideology and lifestyle, but they realised they were unwelcome. They got quieter. “Sometimes they were kicked out of certain places by the residents. No more people going around in cars with the Koran on loudspeakers roaming in Christian-majority neighbourhoods.”
I feel relieved to know this wasn’t the map drawn for the country.
“Syria has been here for thousands of years. It’s always been diverse. No one is going to change that now.”
The situation outside Damascus was not as optimistic, though. After decades of sectarianism played by the Assad family to divide Syrians, many Sunnis were fuelled by revenge, leaving other sects fearing for their safety, especially after massacres against Alawites and Druzes had taken place since last December, giving birth to new reasons for revenge. Despite government promises and multiple attempts to enforce the law, preventing Syria from going down a darker route will take time, effort and collective wisdom.
My kid thrived in Damascus; he squeezed every Arabic word he knew into conversations. “I love Syria, I just don’t want to leave my friends in Ireland.” He wants both worlds, just like me. He wears his newly acquired Syrian football jersey and says: “I think I’m now 80 per cent Syrian, 20 per cent Irish.”
I didn’t realise until I visited home how much I longed to meet myself. And that the haunting loneliness was a result of a crucial part of my past being missing, buried under the weight of war and loss. When I finally took steps down memory lane and unpacked trapped objects of my childhood and teenage years, I started feeling whole again, less fragmented. This is my family photo album, school records, graduation gown, the first gift I received in the name of love, university books, the mp3 player with songs still trapped in it, novels in Arabic, a pile of Cecelia Ahern’s books, concert tickets for days I couldn’t stop smiling, best friends’ cards filled with unrealistic promises to always be there for each other.
In Dublin, I’m still going through the piles and boxes of things I was once told are taking up unnecessary space and collecting dust. Did I know that these objects would be the only way to revive my memory?
With each object I touch, pieces of a jigsaw connect in my heart, and the complete picture of me becomes clearer. I’m home now, regardless of where I am, and no one can take that away from me again.
Suad Aldarra’s memoir I Don’t Want to Talk About Home, about her experience of fleeing war-torn Syria in 2012, was awarded the 2024 Rooney Prize for Irish Literature.
