Impressions from Syria at the beginning of the reconstruction process

I wanted to be among the passengers of the inaugural AJET flight from Ankara, as I also had a prior invitation to attend to. The flight, initially scheduled for last Tuesday, was unfortunately postponed to a later date due to incomplete technical procedures. But having already resolved to make the journey, and with the hosts insisting, we decided to set out again the same day—not by air, but by road, saying bismillah as we took to the familiar highways.

We reached the Kilis-Öncüpınar border crossing toward evening. The first sight that greeted us was a queue formed by people crossing back into Syria for good, their belongings loaded onto pickup trucks. There may not have been a mass return, but it was clear this was a steady, daily flow. Those leaving were likely the ones who had already secured the most basic shelter and livelihood wherever they were headed. Not everyone is so fortunate, of course. Just beyond Kilis, from Azaz all the way to Aleppo, Hama, Homs, and even Damascus, the roads pass through cities reduced to ruins by tank fire, airstrikes, and rockets.

These cities, stripped of any trace of life, are the real reason behind the presence of the people we have hosted in our country for years. What was done to these cities gives a glimpse of what was done—and what could still be done—to the people within them. After all, wasn’t the destruction precisely aimed at them? These ghostly streets once held lives, events, friendships, joys, weddings—what have they witnessed? What human stories unfolded here, what greatness did they once embody? Each person cast into these mass graves of death was a world unto themselves, a unique humanity. By what conscience, by what level of savagery, was this carried out?

Meanwhile, back in Türkiye, we busy ourselves debating whether Bashar's name is really "Esad" or "Esat." My companion on this journey, a Jordanian friend with an incredible memory and depth of knowledge, shared a striking piece of information. He told me that Hafez al-Assad, as we know him, was actually named Hafez Suleiman al-Wahsh ("the Beast"). During the brief period of unity between Egypt and Syria, Hafez, then a pilot in the Syrian army, somehow met Gamal Abdel Nasser. When he introduced himself, Nasser, as a gesture of flattery, told him his name should not be al-Wahsh but al-Assad ("the Lion"). From that day on, the Wahsh family entered history as the Assads, having received their name from another Arab dictator. Call him "Esat" ("the Happiest") or "the Lion" all you want—the brutality the family inflicted on Syria over 54 years is a perfect match for the name they tried to hide.

Will humanity ever see cities like these rise again? If they do, will they regain their former vitality? Will the rubble be cleared and new cities built in their place, or will they be left as urban graveyards while life springs up elsewhere? Clearing the wreckage alone is a monumental expense, a burden. For a moment, a practical idea crossed my mind: perhaps the work could be contracted out to demolition experts in exchange for the salvageable iron, wood, aluminum, and other recyclable scrap within the ruins. But a Syrian tribal elder traveling with us reacted sharply: "Do you really think they’d leave even that much? The regime’s thugs have already sold off the rubble of the cities they bombed and burned to subcontractors. Anything of value was looted long ago—like grave robbers picking through tombs."

After the revolution, there was an immediate and palpable sense of relief among the people in Syria. Even after four and a half months, many still can’t believe what’s happened. Some see it as a miracle from God, a blessing so immense they could never give enough thanks. At the same time, this population, unaccustomed to such freedom, is now striving to adapt to the emerging new order, to become part of it.

The Syrian people are, by nature, hardworking, intelligent, and civilized. For centuries, Damascus was the heart of Islamic civilization, and its legacy of knowledge, culture, art, and literature still seems to pulse with an eagerness to reclaim that role. But after a century of occupation and oppression, there is still a long road ahead before it can fully do so. Above all, the most basic reconstruction must take place. A shattered, suppressed country must be rebuilt; a displaced people must find their way home.

The leaders of the revolution, Ahmad al-Shara and his team, are managing this transitional period with remarkable maturity and wisdom. But not everyone under their leadership shares the same understanding. After 54 years of genocide waged by the Assad regime against its own people, there are demands for vengeance—or at least for justice.

On the other hand, there is the Prophetic method of building a new and strong society with wisdom, and al-Shara adheres strictly to this approach. This is how he seeks to ensure the transition takes place without vengeful reprisals. It’s impossible for anyone who remembers what Assad and his thugs did not to seethe with anger toward them, but al-Shara and his team know full well that the future cannot be built without tempering these emotions. Yet control cannot be fully maintained without at least a minimal measure of justice.

Then there are those from the old regime who now flock to the new order as if nothing happened, as if to say, "The king is dead, long live the new king." There is frequent outcry that, in the name of inclusivity, such people must not be rewarded with positions they don’t deserve. Balancing these expectations is one of the greatest challenges for al-Shara’s government and its political leadership. On one side, there are the accumulated grievances from years of oppression, torture, and genocide that are impossible to forget; on the other, an entire population that, to varying degrees, collaborated with or turned a blind eye to the regime’s crimes. In the end, these two populations must live together and jointly rebuild Syria’s unity. No one denies how difficult this will be.

Truth be told, were it not for the strength of the convictions and the philosophy guiding al-Shara and his team, the country would have already descended into a bloodbath of vengeance. But from the very beginning, the revolutionaries set their moral compass to the Prophet’s example of conquest. Revolutionary Islamic ethics are not vengeful—they are just and forgiving. But of course, this forgiveness does not extend to everyone.

We will continue to write of our observations in Syria, inshallah.