This is Part 1 of a four-part series by Shahira Salloum, managing editor of Al-Araby Al-Jadeed, reflecting on her January trip to Syria following the Assad regime’s collapse, where she spoke with locals about the dramatic changes underway in the country. Stay tuned for Part 2 which will come out next week.
On the morning of 10 June 2000, a flurry of activity unfolded along the Beirut-Damascus highway in Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley, as locals hurried to shutter their shops and take refuge in their homes. The atmosphere was hushed, broken only by the loudspeakers scattered across the rooftops, intoning Qur’anic verses.
It was at this moment that the death of Hafez al-Assad (also known as Assad Sr) was announced from the People’s Palace in Damascus, bringing an end to 28 bloody years of one-man rule.
As many know, this was a man from Syria’s Alawite minority, born into a poor family in Qardaha, who ruthlessly rose to power by using the Baath party, with its rousing Arab nationalist and socialist slogans, as a vehicle, and by exploiting the party’s ‘war’ — the struggle between Syria’s poor rural masses and its commercial and landed elite — to become Syria’s absolute ruler.
Despite the public-spirited slogans, Assad Sr was single-minded and pitiless as he rose to power, establishing a brutal military dictatorship by quickly eliminating all his opponents — including ‘comrades’ within his own party — and surrounding himself with loyal individuals he had known since his schooldays in Latakia.
With the death of Assad Sr, a new era began under his son, Bashar al-Assad, who inherited a system that, beneath its secular facade, was deeply classist, kinship-based, and sectarian, with a minority within a minority monopolising power and perpetuating pervasive tyranny.
During this time, on the day of Hafez’s death, Lebanon was also in its 24th year of Syrian occupation, with Syria’s 1st Armoured Division stationed along the Beirut-Damascus highway in the Bekaa, manning checkpoints at the entrances of villages and towns near their military facilities.
These facilities had once been civilian homes but were commandeered and occupied in 1976, the year the Syrian military entered Lebanon, an act that was later legitimised as an ‘Arab Deterrent Force’ at the Riyadh Summit a few months later.
The tyrant has fallen
Two and a half decades later, in December 2024, the same route saw hundreds of thousands of Syrian refugees, who had fled the Syrian uprising against the Assad regime in 2011, returning to their homeland in cars piled high with luggage. They crossed back into Syria via the Masnaa Border, after the country’s long war for liberation had finally triumphed.
In times like these, we mustn’t ask them about tomorrow, how the country will be rebuilt, their fears for the future, religion, or the world envisioned by the new leadership; none of this is important right now.
What matters now is that the tyrant has fallen, a mountain of oppression and injustice has crumbled, and a new chapter in Syria’s history has begun.
That said, many Syrians do not fear a sectarian war, contrary to rumours. Almost everyone agrees that Assad is to blame for the sectarian rifts that plagued their communities, a view that reflects Syrians’ rejection of further division: “We’re tired, we don’t want war again,” they say.
Traces of the past between Chtaura and Aanjar
Not far from the Masnaa crossing is the Bekaa Valley town of Aanjar, once home to the Syrian intelligence apparatus headquarters, which became the locus of decision-making in Lebanon and a symbol of Syrian control during the occupation from 1976 to 2005. Chtaura lies around 14 km to the northwest.
Between Chtaura and Aanjar, during these years, Lebanon was run by Syrian agents authorised by the Damascus government, suffering the same tyranny Syria endured during the 29-year era of repression, corruption, clientelism, and assassinations.
The Syrian regime had long viewed Lebanon as closer to a Syrian province than a sovereign country, a result of Syria’s dismemberment by the French Mandate, during which land was taken from its northern, western, and eastern borders, reducing its surface area from 300,000 sq km to 185,000 sq km.
And while Syria regarded Lebanon as an extension of its national security, relations were characterised by Lebanese subservience and Syrian superiority, with Syria’s rule largely entrusted to military-security officials.
Encapsulating this relationship, Assad Sr’s sole visit to Lebanon took place prior to the Syrian occupation. Even then, he didn’t bother travelling to the capital, Beirut, but met then-Lebanese President Suleiman Frangieh in January 1975 in Chtaura, near the border.
In Aanjar, there sits an old, derelict, one-story building, encircled by a cement wall and a steel gate reminiscent of those in Syrian security facilities. In front of it is a mound of dirt, with a few weeds poking out, adding to the air of abandonment.
The structure, owned by an Armenian-Lebanese family, was formerly the residence of Lebanon’s Syrian governor – the Qardaha-born Ghazi Kanaan. From this now-deserted edifice, he ruled the country for twenty years before being summoned back to Damascus after Bashar took power, when he was succeeded by Rustum Ghazaleh.
Ghazi, one of Syria’s most feared men and the eliminator of scores of Hafez’s opponents, became Lebanon’s de facto ruler and the link between Hafez and three successive Lebanese presidencies. During this period, anyone seeking power in Lebanon – from a village mayor to the president – needed his blessing.
Besides this now-abandoned structure, Ghazi, who allegedly committed suicide after testifying in the investigation into Rafic Hariri‘s assassination, also spent time in several palaces in the Aanjar municipality, ‘bestowed’ by locals to make life easier, as the locals tell us, adding that he did protect the Armenian-majority town: “We never saw evil from him, unlike others in neighbouring villages and towns.”
Locals speak freely about him and the homes he occupied — he can’t scare them from the grave, says one. However, when it comes to the former regime, it’s a different story. The Syrian army may be gone, the regime may have collapsed, and Bashar may have fled, yet fear still lingers in their eyes, and their words falter when they speak of him.
Abandoned checkpoints and memories of extortion
Today, those entering Syria from Lebanon via the Masnaa crossing – one of the routes Bashar’s henchmen fled by as the regime collapsed – pass by abandoned military checkpoints where pictures of Hafez and his sons Bassel and Bashar have been torn and disfigured. This military route, once used by Syrian officers and other regime cronies, is now the path by which cars speed past, carrying Syrians returning to a liberated land.
Here is the ‘Checkpoint of Millions’, where soldiers demanded cash or cigarettes – the most common bribes – from those passing. A Lebanese driver tells us that, one time, he had to give some food he was taking home to his family as a ‘tribute’ (Syrian markets were cheaper than Lebanese).
Another time, it was new Eid dresses he had bought for his daughter. During the Syrian revolution, the fee at the checkpoint depended on how long someone had been absent from the country: one year would cost 5,000 Syrian lira, two years would cost 10,000 lira, and so on.
The next ex-checkpoint is ‘Checkpoint 4’, which belonged to Maher al-Assad‘s (Syrian former military officer) notorious Fourth Division. Not far along is the State Security Checkpoint, which belonged to the army – a trap where the unlucky might be arrested for the slightest reason.
A few kilometres away is Syrian businessman Rami Makhlouf‘s free-trade zone, which has been looted in the aftermath of the regime’s collapse, similar to other facilities associated with the former regime.
At present, people are calling those who fought in the Deterrence of Aggression operation that toppled Bashar the ‘Hayat Boys’ (a reference to the Islamist group Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), which led the rebel force), despite the involvement of other factions. Small groups of them now stand at intervals between two checkpoints, greeting passersby warmly — an immediate sign of the seismic shift that has taken place.
As we drive towards Damascus, makeshift fuel stations line the roads, with gallons of Lebanese fuel sitting in large plastic containers. Vendors wave at the passing cars with one hand, the other grasping a plastic bottle with the top removed, which they use to fill petrol tanks – a necessity in light of the scarcity and poor quality of fuel currently in Syria, and its skyrocketing price.
We also see army jeeps abandoned by the ex-regime’s soldiers, who fled when it fell, including a burned-out shell – a target of Israeli bombing. Deserted vehicles are a common sight on most of the main highways connecting the Syrian governorates. However, when we return a week later, many of these vehicles have vanished, reclaimed by the new authorities.
First moments of freedom in Damascus
There is no security in Syria yet, despite this beautiful, free-flowing movement – free in mind and body – which no one will truly understand except those who have experienced life in a securitised country where fear and surveillance dominate every aspect of life (in Syria, the ratio of security informants to citizens was 1:240).
Gunfire is heard intermittently, day and night, and weapons are everywhere – in residential neighbourhoods, on the streets, and even in crowded marketplaces.
In Umayyad Square in Damascus, thousands gather to celebrate the country’s liberation. The air is electric, with people expressing themselves without fear and sharing what they endured at the hands of the former regime. Yet, the palpable joy rests atop an ocean of suffering, the result of 50 years of subjugation. Damascus is free today, but it is exhausted, and the poverty and injustice run deep.
The scarred countryside around Damascus is filled with ruins. Some Damascenes are happy about the liberation but remain apprehensive about the future. Others have switched sides overnight, grumbling, “We were misled,” while praising the liberators from Idlib who entered the city as conquerors.
The vocabulary of transition is a mishmash as the country leaves one historical era behind while the next remains unformed; terms like ‘revolutionaries’, ‘armed fighters’, and ‘ISIS’ are all used to describe the new administration.
Despite the collapse and flight of Bashar’s regime, a lingering fear persists in certain quarters. One person believes what has happened is merely a ruse: “Assad hasn’t fallen; they’re testing our loyalty.”
Their view reflects the pervasive terror that once dominated: “We were afraid to speak about him — even in private,” one person comments.
People’s Palace
On Mount Qasioun, overlooking Damascus, stands the People’s Palace, also known as the presidential palace, built in the early 1980s. Today, it is difficult to visit, except as part of international delegations, which continue to arrive to meet the new leadership.
The situation contrasts with the early days after the regime’s collapse, when the southern factions stormed it. During the chaos, people looted everything they could carry, as always happens the moment a despot falls and a revolution triumphs – a spontaneous act of righteous retrieval.
Opposition members at the palace claim they reorganised and refurbished it for visitors within 48 hours, with some individuals even voluntarily returning what they had looted.
The palace is said to have been commissioned by Hafez in 1979, with its construction funded by the Saudis and overseen by Rafic.
It is in the corridors of this very building, the story goes, that the ‘Butcher of Deraa’, Maher, met his brother-in-law Assef Shawkat to finalise the plan for Rafic’s assassination in 2005.
The decision was made by Syrian officials immediately after UN Resolution 1559 (2004) was issued, according to British journalist Con Coughlin in his book on Assad, quoting the report by UN investigator Detlev Mehlis. After the assassination, Maher reportedly called Bashar to inform him that “the task is done.”
Today, the People’s Palace is bustling with international visitors, all there to meet Ahmed al-Sharaa – “the man of the moment” (at least, for now).
When we visited the palace, Walid Jumblatt, the son of former Lebanese leader Kamal Jumblatt — who led the National Movement and was assassinated by Hafez’s regime in 1977 — was visiting Sharaa at the head of a Druze delegation.
Since the earthshattering fall of the Assad regime, not a day passes without the palace receiving international delegations. The paradox so far is that, in contrast to the message of openness projected toward the international community by the palace’s new incumbents, we have yet to witness a parallel attitude directed internally – as it needs to happen. This observation is being made by Damascenes both in public and private.
Reconciliation centres and the disarmament dilemma
One pressing issue, which has led to violent clashes and even fatalities in recent weeks — particularly in the so-called ‘friction areas’ — is disarming soldiers of the former regime and settling the status of those “without blood on their hands.”
At the same time, tens of thousands face arrest for their complicity in crimes committed by the ex-regime against the Syrian people. According to an interim government spokesperson, they have a list of 62,000 former regime soldiers, all of whom are implicated in such crimes.
In former strongholds of Assad supporters, such security procedures have led to sectarian skirmishes and human rights violations, which bear a marked similarity to some of the former regime’s methods.
Regarding status settlement, dozens of reconciliation centres have opened (estimated at over 52) across various provinces. The processes are similar to those established by the former regime years ago when it opened reconciliation centres in regions it had regained control of, demanding that fighters from rebel factions hand in their weapons.
In front of a former security HQ — now a reconciliation centre in Quneitra province — ex-regime soldiers of various ranks queue in their dozens. These individuals have come to surrender themselves and their weapons. Among them is a former sergeant who explains to the HTS official at the desk that he served in Raqqa. When questioned about his weapons, the sergeant states that when the regime fell, they were ordered to hand over all their weapons to the SDF forces (the Kurdish-led Syrian Democratic Forces).
The official in charge of the handover process is a man in his thirties from Deraa, who moves between the rooms to supervise the process. He instructs one of the young men to speak to the journalists.
The young man speaks quietly, telling us that many of these soldiers are poor and were used by the regime as cannon fodder in its war against its own people: “I could have been among them; I was lucky to escape conscription. Some were not so lucky.”
While discussing the mechanisms of status settlement, he mentions an incident he witnessed where the man assigned to run one of the former regime’s reconciliation centres in Deraa had undergone the settlement process in front of him and handed over his weapon a few days ago — in the same reconciliation centre he used to manage.
It is explained to us that those applying for settlement receive a card within four days that facilitates their movement, and then an extensive investigation is conducted, which can last up to three months, to ensure that the former soldier or officer didn’t commit crimes against the Syrian people.
Questions of present and future
In a former Baath Party building, Syrians from all walks of life gather for a talk by legal scholars with expertise in constitutional law, including Dr Zaidoun Alzoabi, Ibrahim Daraji, and Faeq Huwaija, who have returned to Syria following the regime’s collapse.
The seminar was hastily prepared in light of the rapid developments engulfing the country, and the size of the audience, along with the buzz of questions — many expressing fear over what could come next — attests to the collective will across Syrian society to save the country, regardless of the varied political movements represented among the attendees.
The discussion outlines major questions to consider in the current stage: a Syrian constitution and system of governance, the upcoming national dialogue, and the mechanisms that need to be established.
Criticisms are raised about some of the decisions taken by the interim administration, which Ibrahim prefers to call “temporary.” Some believe these decisions have been made prematurely, while Syria is in a phase of flux, on the threshold of a national dialogue and the establishment of constituent committees necessary to draft the constitution and related procedures — none of which has occurred yet.
Ibrahim called for patience and warned against haste, emphasising that the process could take years of hard work. Zaidoun cautioned against the dangers of unilateralism and exclusion during this foundational phase, in which a constitution defining Syria’s new system would be drafted.
While some understanding is expressed towards the new administration given the dire conditions in the country — whether in terms of living standards, the economy, society, or security — the initial decisions it has issued have dismayed some and suggest an inclination towards unilateralism.
These questions occupy Syrians across all classes and professions; they are the topic of conversation among taxi drivers, workers, in cultural circles, in schoolyards, and at university campuses.
In one Damascus university, a student jokes to one of the administrative staff, “Next, we’ll topple the [university] president,” as he heads over to his friends on the roof of the faculty. These friends were the first to rush to the university to tear down the pictures of the regime and its symbols and raise the revolution flag on the building.
Their first victory was escaping mandatory conscription in the regime’s army. Some of them were protected from the frontlines by managing to attain educational achievement awards, but those who failed had to spend their time avoiding inspection points. The safest option was to restrict their movement to travelling between the university and home, or to emigrate, according to a university professor.
For reasons like this, to many, the regime’s fall feels like a personal victory first and foremost.
Discussions in Syria are frank and intense right now — over the future of the country, its reconstruction, its ruling system, its constitution, and its political identity.
While some of the topics are subject to deeply polarised views, in particular regarding whether the new system will be secular or Islamic, what is new and gives a sense of hope is that the fear barrier has been smashed in Syria, and from this development, there can be no going back.
This is an edited translation from our Arabic edition.
This article is taken from our Arabic sister publication, Al-Araby Al Jadeed and mirrors the source’s original editorial guidelines and reporting policies. Any requests for correction or comment will be forwarded to the original authors and editors
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