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FT editor Roula Khalaf selects her favorite stories in this weekly newsletter.
The writer is a researcher at the School of Geography and Environment at the University of Oxford. He studied architecture in Homs, Syria, where he was born and raised.
It’s Sunday morning. I could only sleep for an hour and a half. I assume that many Syrians, both those inside the country and those in exile, have not slept at all tonight. With the fall of Bashar al-Assad, a new dawn is approaching for Syria. This is the point of no return.
I listen to the songs of the revolution and dream of my country, Syria. A popular song says: “Heaven, heaven, heaven.” Our homeland is heaven.” People chanted these words when the revolution began in March 2011.
The first video I saw about the liberation of Homs, my hometown, was filmed from a balcony. It showed people in cars celebrating their arrival in the city, with sounds of women zaghroutasor ululations, superimposed with the lyrics of that song; ”Heaven, heaven, heaven. Our homeland is heaven.”
I cried and my crying merged with the sound of those women. Homs’ voice had been silenced for a long time, but not today.
I think of the tears of the Syrian people, their suffering, their pain and their sadness. I cry and think of my city, ruined and destroyed, besieged and starving, bombed and bombed. I think of the people who stayed in Homs, while we lived in exile. I’m thinking about our history: a history of blood. Hundreds of thousands of people have been killed in Syria over the past 13 years. How can we make sense of our pain?
“Heaven, heaven, heaven. Our homeland is heaven.” It is a paradise from which we were forced to leave. The past should not be overly romanticized, but every person longs for the place that is familiar to them. Our homeland, Syria, is beautiful. It is rich in art and culture, with a diverse people coming from many different religions and sects.
But we were forced to abandon it. More than 6.5 million people have been displaced outside Syria since the civil war began in 2011, mainly to neighboring countries such as Türkiye, Lebanon and Jordan. But they have also gone further: to Germany, Egypt and Saudi Arabia. Nearly as many are displaced within the country, some of them multiple times as the conflict’s front lines continued to shift.
From afar I mourned my city and the beloved family I left behind. Exile felt like a dagger in the heart. It is the pain of thinking about one’s own home, without being able to return. It is a pain that sometimes sleeps and freezes; but at other times it hits with a wave of grief and sadness. The separation from my birthplace and the city I grew up in has been damaging and traumatizing.
But what a memorable night this has been. What a time to be alive. When an empire of horrors collapsed, memories passed through my mind and filled my heart.
Videos have emerged of internally displaced people returning to reunite with their families. A man hugs his mother. He kneels to kiss her feet but she stops him. It is a gesture of respect and love. The scene melts the heart.
Now I think of those who died without seeing this. I think of the beautiful Fadwa Souleimane and May Skaf, two Syrian actresses and activists who died in exile in France, in 2017 and 2018, respectively. And I’m thinking about my friend Taher Al-Seba’e, who was murdered by the Syrian government in 2011. He was an architecture student marching in a peaceful protest on my street.
In a video, Skaf cries and curses Assad: “You have humiliated the people. Wherever we go, we are humiliated.” She wipes her tears with her hands. I wish I could see what is happening today.
I dream of a just and democratic future. A future where we all live with dignity and have the right to be who we are. The walls of fear have been destroyed and suddenly a new landscape of hope appears before us, one that has been so difficult to dare to imagine in recent years.
I dream that our cities and towns can be rebuilt. I dream of returning to Homs, touching the walls of my building, being at home with my family. I dream of a future without ruins and without war.
I travel to London with Syrian friends to celebrate in Trafalgar Square as history is being written in front of us. These friends are from Homs, the occupied Golan Heights, Damascus, Aleppo, As-Suwayda and Deraa. We hugged, laughed and congratulated each other. We dream of our return and think about our trips to Syria.
Last week the exile seemed endless. But now there is no more forever.