Emerging from a devastating conflict, Syria seeks to rebuild after the fall of dictator Bashar al-Assad.
With the removal of his images from public spaces, citizens are exploring freedoms that were long suppressed. Now, a new banner—a symbol of the rebels—waves proudly across the nation.
For many Syrians, the future is a complex mix of joy and sorrow, filled with both promise and fear.
The collapse of Bashar al-Assad’s regime has marked the end of a 13-year civil war, but it has also led Syria into a fragile new chapter burdened by a heavy historical legacy.
Despite newfound freedoms, the consequences of war remain staggering: over half a million deaths, countless missing individuals, millions displaced, and communities in ruins.
While fighting has ceased, instances of violence continue, hindering the country’s journey towards recovery.
My journey as a journalist covering Syria began when I crossed the border in 2012, meeting early rebel fighters amid the escalating civil war. Over the years, I witnessed the devastation it brought to cities and the immense suffering endured by the population.
Following the regime’s downfall in December, I arrived in Damascus to witness a blend of excitement and apprehension about the country’s direction. Two months later, I returned with photographer David Guttenfelder and others to explore daily life during this transformative period.
In just a few weeks and covering hundreds of miles, we traveled along damaged roads, encountered armed men and joyful children, and connected with countless Syrians working tirelessly to rebuild their lives.
Daraa
The Child Martyr
Our journey began near Syria’s southern border at al-Baneen Secondary School, a simple structure in a neighborhood largely abandoned due to conflict. The school bears the scars of war—bullet holes and remnants of its furniture, with many walls missing.
This location played a pivotal role in shaping modern Middle Eastern history.
In 2011, messages appeared on its walls calling out Assad, a former eye doctor. One stated, “Your turn has come, doctor.”
At that time, uprisings known as the Arab Spring were toppling dictators throughout the region. Syrian authorities detained students, which led to protests demanding their release. When the police responded violently, more protests broke out, culminating in the tragic death of a 13-year-old boy named Hamza al-Khateeb.
These incidents ignited the civil war.
During our visit, we connected with Hamza’s mother, Samira al-Khateeb, in al-Jeezeh, thanks to information from locals who guided us.
us to her home.
Reflecting on her son’s life in his bedroom, she remembered him as a reserved seventh-grader fond of cookies and tenderly kissing her before heading off to school.
“I still keep his clothes and belongings,” she shared. “I long for the sight of him sleeping here.”
When protests erupted, Hamza joined in. The security forces intervened violently, resulting in his disappearance, likely at the hands of the police.
A month later, his family discovered his lifeless body in a morgue, showing marks of torture while in custody. His body was swollen, bruised, and had numerous cuts and burns. He bore gunshot wounds in his chest and shoulder, and he was missing his genitals.
The images of “the child martyr” circulated widely, making Hamza a powerful emblem of the regime’s brutality. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton expressed her sorrow, hoping his death could usher in a transition to genuine democracy in Syria.
Unfortunately, conditions worsened.
The conflict intensified, involving various parties including the Syrian military, rebel groups, jihadists, and foreign nations like Russia, Turkey, Iran, and the U.S. By the end, over half of Syria’s prewar population of 22 million had been displaced, with around six million fleeing abroad.
During our visit to Daraa, the locals were beginning to cope with the repercussions of war. Near a damaged school, groups of boys played soccer. A large portrait of Hamza adorned his family’s living room, where his cousin Khalid al-Khateeb, 51, expressed that the years of conflict were painful yet necessary to dismantle the regime.
“Now we can breathe,” he remarked. “There was a time when we felt suffocated by the air.”
As we traveled north towards Damascus, we encountered signs of revitalization, a city filled with vigor and new opportunities.
Given its status as Mr. al-Assad’s stronghold, the city center showed fewer signs of damage compared to other regions.
Damascus
The Divided Capital
Damascus welcomed us with a surge of traffic and pollution. Vehicles crowded the roundabouts, while exhaust fumes and generator smoke filled the atmosphere.
Yet, the streets thrummed with revolutionary spirit. Each night, crowds gathered to celebrate, and citizens coordinated events—concerts, debates, and gatherings—that would have been suppressed under Mr. al-Assad’s regime.
“Such a thing could never have happened before,” remarked Hoda Abu Nabout, who helped organize a book event highlighting women’s war experiences.
Novelist Leila Hashemi likened engaging with Syria’s new freedoms to exercising after being inactive for too long.
“Your muscles are still stiff from disuse,” she noted, mimicking flapping wings with her elbows.
Throughout Damascus, we witnessed two opposing forces taking shape: a populace embracing freedoms that had been suppressed for years and a government attempting to establish a new order. It remains uncertain if these forces can coexist or will inevitably clash, particularly in a fractured society laden with deep sectarian divides and needing new regulations.
The future challenges are evident
In the neighborhoods outside the city center, what remains is a wasteland of broken concrete. Once bustling with life, these now eerily silent regions were home to countless shopkeepers, teachers, mechanics, students, civil servants, and many more. Today, those who used to live here are scattered throughout Syria and beyond, unable to come back because their homes have been destroyed.
Some families continue to persist among the wreckage.
“We live like cave people,” shared Fidaa al-Eissa, a mother of four residing in Qaboun.
Their damaged apartment complex stands alongside others that have been completely demolished. With just two hours of electricity a day, Ms. al-Eissa uses it to charge her computer and phone, operate the washing machine, prepare tea, and warm bath water.
She maintains contact with former neighbors who are now refugees in Jordan, Turkey, and Germany, attempting to persuade them to return.
“I want life to be vibrant here again,” she expressed.
The government has too largely disintegrated during the war, its capability to deliver services severely diminished by violence, corruption, and poverty. Damascus is the focal point for Syria’s president, Ahmed al-Shara, who is striving to create a functioning administration to restore the country and provide essential services like water, electricity, and security.
One morning, hundreds of recently graduated officers in sharp blue uniforms stood in formation outside the Damascus Police College. They had completed a 10-day program intended to strengthen the force, receiving basic training in firearms and criminal apprehension, alongside religious instruction, reflecting the Islamic slant of Mr. al-Shara’s administration.
The graduation ceremony prominently featured Islamic terminology, with large banners at the college displaying a verse from the Quran and the declaration of faith: “There is no God but God and Muhammad is his prophet.”
When asked if members from other religious communities would join a force featuring such Islamic symbols, a lead instructor, Maawiya al-Khatib, was puzzled by the question.
“These are just simple slogans,” he remarked. “It’s perfectly normal.”
The Islamic background of Mr. al-Shara has caused many Syrians to feel anxious about potential changes he might implement in the nation and their role within it.
A glimpse of these worries emerged during a new play in Damascus that a friend recommended. At a local theater, with buckets set out to catch leaking water, we viewed “The Life of Basel Anis,” a dark comedy about a shipwreck survivor who loses a leg to a shark, only to find himself preyed upon by those meant to assist him.
The audience entertained themselves with laughter, empathizing with the beleaguered protagonist and his lack of control over his circumstances. Backstage, the performers noted their effort to keep the arts alive; however, some expressed concern that the new administration might impose restrictions.
One of the actors, Sedra Jabakhanji, voiced her anxiety about the authorities potentially segregating unmarried individuals or enforcing women to cover their hair.
The cast revealed that the original script had included a satirical line quoting Mr. al-Shara, but they decided to remove it to avoid repercussions.
“Many still doubt that the regime has collapsed,” remarked Anwar al-Qassar, the assistant director. “It will take time to overcome that fear.”
The war dismantled Syria’s social structure, turning neighbor against neighbor.
The regime provided extensive benefits to its supporters from Mr. al-Assad’s sect, while oppressing other communities.
On the eighth day of our journey from Damascus to Homs, we encountered former adversaries attempting to coexist.
Homs
The Vanquished
Along a street in Homs, numerous anxious men stood in lengthy queues outside a police station, seeking a place in the new Syrian landscape.
These individuals had all served in President al-Assad’s military or security forces. With his defeat in the conflict, they too faced a loss of status, dismissed from their roles and forced to lay down their arms. They now waited for hours to obtain civilian ID cards.
Stripped of their past privileges, they silently shuffled forward, their heads down, as masked former rebels, now serving as police, supervised them, weapons visible.
This scenario illustrates one of Syria’s most complex dilemmas, as the government considers how to address those who fought for al-Assad, many belonging to the Alawite minority, the same sect as the deposed leader.
Our visit to Homs aimed to observe how the populace was adjusting, as sectarian divisions had made the conflicts there deeply personal. Loyal Alawite neighborhoods clashed with Sunni Muslim areas that backed the rebels.
We encountered an unexpected partnership: a robust ex-rebel dressed in camouflage and wearing a face mask, alongside an Alawite community leader sporting a scarf to protect against the chill.
These two men had once been enemies, displaying no fondness for one another, yet they shared a common hope for the city’s recovery.
The ex-rebel introduced himself as Abu Hajar, explaining that during the war he and his fellows had been forced to flee Homs. Now, aged 32, he returned home assuming a leadership role.
He stated that while those responsible for the killings of innocent civilians should face consequences, not all Alawites should be held accountable for the regime’s brutal actions. “We opposed Bashar the dictator, not his sect,” he declared.
His partner, Mustafa Aboud, a neighborhood chief and barber, was seen as a key figure for Alawites in navigating the new authority.
Mr. Aboud pointed out that Alawites also endured great suffering—belonging to communities that were under siege, enduring shellings, and experiencing the loss of loved ones. His neighborhood alone had suffered approximately 2,000 deaths during the conflict, including civilians, soldiers, and his mother, who fell victim to a rebel car bomb.
The dismissal of the previous regime’s military forces had led to dire circumstances in Al-Zahra, Mr. Aboud’s Alawite neighborhood. Families were left without means, and there was a pervasive fear of kidnapping or violence if they ventured out in search of employment.
“If they take me away, I have no one who can help me or pay for my release,” lamented a former soldier who wished to remain unnamed due to safety concerns. “I have nothing.”
Mr. al-Shara has advocated for unity among Syria’s diverse communities, yet human rights organizations report ongoing attacks against Alawites. In March, following lethal assaults on the new government’s security forces, armed men rampaged through Alawite regions, resulting in the deaths of around 1,600 individuals.
That morning, hundreds from Mr. Aboud’s neighborhood had assembled to obtain their new identification cards. Fearing to leave their area, he organized transportation and security with Abu Hajar’s assistance.
In interviews, the men indicated they had served in al-Assad’s army, primarily in support roles such as guards or cooks. None claimed to have engaged directly in combat.
“I handled logistics for vegetables,” one shared, noting that most soldiers were not given a choice in their roles.
“Even if I had fired shells, it wasn’t my decision,” he explained.
Mr. Aboud recognized the fears of his fellow Alawites regarding their future, yet he emphasized the necessity to accept Syria’s new reality.
“This was thrust upon us, and I advise them to adapt instead of harboring illusions,” he stated. “It’s not about revenge; it’s about what lies ahead and how we sustain our families.”
Telmanes
The Village With No Roofs
Twelve days into our journey, we took a detour from the main road to explore rural life. I assumed that villages had been less affected by the war, as they had less to loot compared to larger cities. I was mistaken.
Our path led us through a series of towns and small communities ravaged by shelling, airstrikes, and looters — often all three.
Some locals were making do with what was left. Men tended to their sheep close to shops reduced to rubble, while women hung laundry near walls riddled with large holes. As night fell, entire neighborhoods were plunged into darkness.
One of our drivers referred to a nearby village where “they took all the roofs.” So the following morning, we traveled to Telmanes, where we met Abdel-Rahman Hamadi, a 38-year-old resident. He had returned home post-war to find that scavengers had removed his reinforced concrete roof and sold the rebar for scrap.
“The dogs climbed up on the roof to take the metal!” he exclaimed.
With no funds for repairs, he managed to cover one room with plastic for his family to sleep in. “There are around 20 villages nearby that are destroyed like this,” he stated.
This figure might actually be low. Throughout Syria, devastating battles resulted in extensive looting of homes, businesses, power stations, and other facilities.
The country requires substantial reconstruction efforts to recover, but it remains uncertain who will fund them. The United Nations reports that half of Syria’s infrastructure is inoperable, and rebuilding is expected to cost hundreds of billions of dollars—far more than the nation’s yearly economic output of $29 billion.
The scope of the looting in Telmanes, a cluster of cinderblock houses amidst farmland and orchards, was astonishing.
Residents have recounted that the army forced them out and took control of the village in 2019. Under military oversight, crews moved in like locusts, stripping the area bare with hammers, saws, and bolt cutters.
They removed furniture and appliances, pried tiles off bathroom walls, and tore out electrical wiring, sinks, faucets, and pipes.
They pulled down power lines and snatched internet cables from the ground, even taking manhole covers and the ladders that were inside. Once the obvious valuables were gone, they smashed the roofs to steal the rebar.
Osama Ismael, the head of the local council, mentioned that only a few hundred of the 5,100 homes and six out of 13 mosques in the village still had roofs.
Less than one-tenth of the population that once reached 28,000 had returned after the war ended, and he was uncertain when the rest might come back. “We want people to return, but there is no water,” he expressed.
There were no pharmacies, clinics, bakeries, or reliable internet and phone services, either.
Only one of the village’s 14 schools had reopened, which encouraged the extended Aboud family to return.
They all lived together in a house consisting of three rooms, a veranda, a kitchen, and a bathroom. With all roofs missing, they covered two rooms with plastic and set up a tent in the yard, where Khadija al-Omar, 30, slept with her husband and three children.
“We have no choice but to live here,” she said.
Life is tough, shared Aboud al-Aboud, a teacher at the school.
The family transported water to fill a metal tank, salvaged wood for fires, and cooked on an electric stove powered by 12 solar panels lined up in the yard.
“Usually we would place them on the roof,” Mr. al-Aboud commented with a sigh. “But since there is no roof…”
The conflict has severely impacted the businesses in Aleppo, Syria’s largest city and formerly its economic powerhouse.
Its historic area is in shambles, where stray dogs outnumber vendors in ancient stone markets.
Like the rest of Syria, the challenging journey to revitalize the economy is just starting.
Aleppo
The Devastated Economy
“Aleppo is the heart of Syria,” stated Khalid Tahhan, the proprietor of a metal-smelting workshop who struggles to make ends meet. “Aleppo is in ruins.”
Prior to the conflict, Aleppo was home to magnificent mosques, churches, and caravanserais surrounding an impressive citadel that attracted global tourists. It was a bustling hub filled with factories that created jobs and produced textiles, food, and other products.
I never visited Aleppo before the war. My first trip was in 2012 with rebels who had taken over remote neighborhoods. Instead of sights, I saw helicopters carrying soldiers and jets dropping bombs.
The conflict tore through the city over many years, with fierce clashes involving rebels, the Islamic State, government forces, and the Russian military. By the time I returned to Aleppo with my team this year, only echoes of its past remained. Tourists are scarce, and only a small fraction of the industrial area is still operational, remnants of a once-thriving economy.
Syria faces enormous obstacles to rejuvenate its economy. Years of sanctions that are now slowly lifting have left the country cut off from international trade, leading to economic stagnation.
The gross domestic product per person is only a quarter of what it was before the war. According to the United Nations, at Syria’s current growth pace, it won’t recover its losses until 2080.
Some entrepreneurs are striving to rebuild.
Inside the Bahhade Furniture factory in the industrial section, numerous artisans skillfully carve designs into the backs of couches and attach foam pads to seats.
According to co-owner Jack Bahhade, before the war, the family business had 40 employees and exported to markets in the United States, Britain, Russia, and more.
In 2012, the factory was taken over by rebels affiliated with the Nusra Front, a group linked to Al Qaeda established by Syria’s current president. While the family operated from another location, their original factory was looted. They were attempting to restore the business when Mr. al-Assad’s regime fell.
Currently, production is only about 30% of pre-war levels. Demand remains low, and financial transactions are limited because Syrian banks are low on cash.
When Mr. Bahhade was asked about Mr. al-Shara, he chuckled, pointing out that despite the president’s extremist history, he has been accepted by foreign diplomats and leaders.
“If these nations accept him, why shouldn’t we?” he remarked.
If conditions improve, Mr. Bahhade expressed confidence that businessmen in Aleppo would recover.
“If there is security and stability here, everything will return to how it was,” he added.
Atmeh
A Fresh Start
At the end of our journey, we traveled to a refugee camp near the Turkish border in the far north, on the opposite…
We returned to Syria’s side, where our journey began. Over the years, the camp had grown as it welcomed those with nowhere else to turn. Now, unexpectedly, those individuals were free to leave.
In a dusty path outside a plain house, we encountered Khalid al-Hajj, a father of six, loading his minimal belongings into a truck.
After relying on aid and small jobs in the camp for 13 years, he owned very little: thin mattresses, worn blankets, some pots and pans, a rusty dish rack, a gas stove, and a bit of firewood.
Yet, he felt a sense of joy. The conflict was over, and he was returning home.
“I always believed I would come back,” Mr. al-Hajj, 53, shared.
His family had fled their hometown, Kafr Zeita, located 80 miles to the south, in 2012. Like millions of others, they moved to the rebel-controlled northwest of Syria and settled in the camp.
The camp was bustling yet impoverished, featuring a maze of concrete buildings with few trees or paved paths. Initially, the large family of 11 lived in a tent, but they gradually gathered enough funds to construct three small rooms.
Longing for their village life, Mr. al-Hajj planted a rose bush and kept two songbirds in a cage.
A few years back, something unexpected blossomed — a green shoot emerging beside the rose bush. Mr. al-Hajj trimmed a piece, and the scent revealed it to be a peach tree. He nurtured it as the war and his time at the camp continued.
Tragically, his eldest son was lost to a government shell. He later welcomed another son, followed by a daughter, and in time, his adult children gifted him three grandchildren. The peach tree grew taller than he was.
With the regime’s downfall, he decided to return to his village to restore and inhabit his damaged home.
As he sorted through his house in the camp, his truck filled with items: metal window frames, solar panels, and a ceiling fan. He climbed atop the load to secure everything.
When it was time to depart, he showed no fondness for the place he’d called home for so long.
“We will take our things and leave this behind,” he stated.
But first, he paused in front of the peach tree. It stood eight feet tall, with the first pink blossoms of spring budding on its branches. He mused that perhaps this year it would bear fruit, though he wouldn’t be there to taste it.
“We hope it thrives so that anyone who comes here can enjoy its fruit,” he expressed.
Gently stroking a branch, he whispered, “May God protect you.”
Then, he climbed into the truck and set off for home.
