What It Means to Be Syrian Right Now

The Versions of a Country

“Mama, it feels like an empty space inside me I never knew I had has finally been filled.”

In a flash, we witnessed the unthinkable unfold: a free Syria. My fourteen-year-old shared her sentiments about the news with me.

It’s barely a week, and we are still processing what this means. She is 3rd-generation Syrian-American who only knows Syria through the stories told by the generations before her—the same stories that kept Syria alive for my generation. These weren’t fairytales. Blending both magic and horror, it was easy to think Syria was a place of fictitious making, where the sweet scent of jasmine mixed with the sordid stench of secrecy and bloodshed.

Syria was a land where litanies of praise echoed alongside hushed cries of terror—a land of treasured scholars shadowed by secret police. A place where the people provided immense safety, but absolutely no one was safe. A place where you were instantly known by your name, but could just as instantly vanish because of your name. Syria was both home and prison.

All of us grew up with both versions of Syria. And now, one of them is gone. We are still processing. But for once—for once—it is not a loss we are grieving, it is a win we are rejoicing.

The empty space my daughter only just recognized was, for many, a palpable chasm felt in every facet of their daily lives. They witnessed death, loss, hunger, fear, poverty, anguish, pain, and so much more. While we witnessed them. We watched. We cried. We protested. Ultimately, we became numb. But the prayers never stopped—and for a few, neither did the work.

Today we witness, not our victory, but Allah’s victory ﷻ.

Many will say it’s too soon to celebrate. Look at Libya. Look at Egypt. Look everywhere! This was too easy. To them I say, there is The Mastermind behind the masterminds—they plan and Allah plans ﷻ. Today we rejoice for what no longer is: the human slaughterhouse.

As for the future, it holds hope. And that is everything.

For the battle-worn, afraid to hope, we are all battle worn with you. Our Ummah has taken blow after blow. Gaza continues to burn, and as I write this, Israel is bombing Syria, securing itself a piece of the pie. Lebanon is collapsing. Sudan is suffering. Yemen is starving. Libya is fractured. Egypt is corroding. India is on a witch hunt. The Uyghurs are shackled. Decade after decade, we find ourselves sinking deeper into an abyss of either exploitation or extermination.

But stop looking around, and start looking closely. Pay attention not to the promises, but to the people. Pay attention to the prayers. Our broken hearts beat to the same cry, because that’s what pain does: it unifies. It makes us one.

The hour of the clock must fall before it rises again. As our hearts bleed for Gaza, we are given Syria. So let’s roll up our sleeves. Let’s rebuild.

The work is ours. As for the outcomes, they belong to Allah ﷻ.