WHAT'S LEFT OF SYRIA?

Sombrero
Mar 31
8 min read

Updated: Apr 4

December 8, 2024 marked a turning point in Syria’s history. The regime of Bashar al-Assad was finally overthrown when rebel forces seized control of Damascus, forcing Assad to flee to Russia, where he was granted political asylum. This moment ended over fifty years of Assad family rule, leaving the country facing an uncertain but hopeful future for many of its communities.

The fall of the regime came after a swift offensive launched on November 27 by a coalition of opposition groups led by Hay'at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS). The rebels quickly captured key cities such as Aleppo and Hama, advancing toward the capital with calculated precision and a determination forged by years of conflict. On December 7, Homs was taken, cutting off supply lines to Damascus, which fell the following day.

Following months of uncertainty, the new Syrian transitional government was officially sworn in on March 29 in Damascus. Composed of 23 members from various ethnic and religious backgrounds, the cabinet is the first to be formed in this new political phase. It replaces the provisional executive that had managed the immediate aftermath of Assad’s fall and represents the concrete beginning of the transition promised by interim president Ahmad al-Sharʿe.

In what many see as a symbolic and diplomatic gesture, al-Sharʿe included a Christian woman and a representative of the Alawite community in his cabinet — a move interpreted as an attempt to signal openness to the international community and push for the easing of Western sanctions.

Unlike the past, the new executive will not be led by a prime minister. Under the new temporary constitution, government coordination will be handled by a secretary general — a structural shift meant to break with decades of centralized authoritarianism and open the door, at least in theory, to institutional reform and political pluralism.

In this uncertain period of transition, personal stories have emerged that shed light on the devastating impact of war and the resilience of the Syrian people. Two accounts in particular, inspired by real testimonies, offer a unique perspective on the complexity of this war and the courage of those who lived it on the front lines.

Through the scars and silences of these stories, you can feel the real Syria of the past thirteen years.

The first is Hassan’s story — a former prisoner of the infamous Saydnaya prison. His account details the torture and inhumane conditions suffered by thousands under the Assad regime. It reveals the horror of a repressive system and the strength required to survive it — and tell the world.

The second is the story of Nesrin, a Kurdish fighter with the Women’s Protection Units (YPJ), who joined the counteroffensive against Turkish-backed rebels in northern Syria. Her story captures the sacrifices and struggles of her people, still threatened by the same power structures that promise reform, as they fight to protect their land and aspirations.

Saydnaya Prison

Hassan woke up in darkness, his body stiff, the taste of blood in his mouth. There was no way to know if it was day or night. Time was marked only by the guards’ voices and the muffled cries of prisoners. Saydnaya was a place where humanity was stripped away piece by piece.

That day, a hoarse voice shouted Hassan’s name. He stood up with difficulty — the shackles on his wrists and ankles made every step a punishment. His footsteps echoed down the damp, narrow corridor leading to a room dimly lit by a single flickering bulb. Inside, a doctor and a soldier were waiting.

“How are you?” the doctor sneered. They didn’t expect an answer. After a quick glance, the doctor nodded to the soldier, who struck Hassan in the side with a baton. He doubled over in pain, silent. Then they dragged him back to his cell.

His cell was a suffocating concrete box he shared with three others. Sami had lost two fingers under torture. Khaled, the oldest, struggled to breathe. Yusuf, the youngest, fought back tears. No one spoke. Every word could be used against them.

Each day, guards entered the cells to collect “offerings.” The cell leader was forced to name two or three prisoners to be punished.

Rumors spread among the inmates that in another wing, guards were forcing prisoners to kill their dying cellmates in exchange for food or their own survival. In that sense, Hassan considered himself lucky.

He would never forget the sound of screams echoing through the corridor — men being dragged out, beaten with silicone-reinforced batons designed to break ribs and crush bones. Sometimes they came back with shattered fingers, having been forced to push their hands through the bars to be crushed from the other side.

Mondays and Thursdays were called “chain days.” Hassan knew what that meant: guards came down with a list of names. Those taken never returned. Sami was one of them. When they took him, his eyes said only one thing: Don’t forget.

Food was a daily humiliation — a hard piece of bread, seven counted olives, a bowl of filthy water. Hassan’s hunger was so intense he often dreamed he was back home, eating dinner with his wife and daughter. But those dreams only deepened his despair.

Once, they were taken outside for a shower. Guards beat them with sticks as they entered and exited the freezing water. A baton snapped against Hassan’s bones. Still, he didn’t scream. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

Disease was slow death. Tuberculosis, scabies, lice — everyone was infected. Yusuf’s body was covered in sores. When the prison doctor finally came, he struck Yusuf instead of treating him. Yusuf died days later. His body was left in the cell for hours — a warning to the rest.

Executions were a routine ritual. Hassan remembered the muffled cries of those taken to the “black room.” When someone died from torture, the inmates had to wrap the body in a blanket and drag it to the door, where guards took it away — likely to mass graves in Najha.

Family visits were another form of punishment. Guards forced prisoners to shave and wear filthy rags. Hassan remembered the pain in his wife’s eyes when she saw him. He couldn’t tell her about the hunger, the beatings, or the cold nights. He couldn’t tell her the clothes she had brought were stolen by the guards.

One night, Khaled finally spoke after weeks of silence: “We must remember,” he said. “We’re not numbers. One day, someone must know what happened here.” That sentence never left Hassan’s mind.

When the regime collapsed and Saydnaya’s gates opened, Hassan stepped into the sunlight for the first time in years. He could barely walk, chains still around his wrists. He looked at the sky, but felt no joy. He was free — but everything he loved was gone.

Today, Hassan lives in a small apartment in Damascus. He spends his days writing — about the “chain days,” the hunger, the torture. He writes for Sami, for Khaled, for Yusuf, and for those who never made it out. Every time he puts his pen down, he closes his eyes and sees Sami’s stare — a silent gaze that still echoes inside him.

Manbij

Nesrin always knew her life would be tied to the land around her. What she didn’t know was that it would also be tied to a war for her people’s future. Born and raised in a Kurdish village near Kobani, Nesrin grew up with the sound of wind sweeping the plains — not the roar of Turkish warplanes above her home.

Everything had changed too fast. After Assad’s fall, Syria plunged into chaos, with foreign powers and armed groups fighting for control. A member of the Women’s Protection Units (YPJ), Nesrin watched as her village became a battlefield. When Turkish-backed rebels took Manbij, she knew there would be no peace until those lands were back under Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF) control.

“Nesrin, we’ve received word from the Tishrin Dam,” said Ruken, one of her comrades. “We’ve pushed back the rebels, but what happens in Manbij depends on us.”

Nesrin nodded, gripping the rifle she’d carried since her first day in the YPJ. She was exhausted — her body worn from battle, her nights broken by the sound of shelling — but the idea of giving up had never crossed her mind.

Reports from the front were scattered, chaotic. But one thing was certain: Turkey, through its proxy group, the Syrian National Army (SNA), would not abandon its ambition to seize these territories.

The villages around Manbij had become brutal war zones. Every house, every field, every road had become a front line. At dawn, Nesrin’s unit moved toward an SDF-controlled outpost. Their mission: retake a village near the dam.

When they arrived, the silence was deafening, broken only by the distant hum of drones. The homes — most of them bombed-out shells — were eerily still. Hard to believe children had played in these streets just weeks ago.

Then came the explosion. An SDF fighter had hit an SNA tank. Nesrin sprinted down a debris-covered road, heart pounding. Every step was a gamble — but stopping wasn’t an option.

In one abandoned house, she found an elderly woman curled up in fear. “Don’t be afraid,” Nesrin whispered in Kurdish, offering her water. The woman stared at her — terrified, but grateful. Nesrin pulled her out and led her to safety. “Stay here!” she shouted, turning back into the chaos of war.

The hours that followed were hell. Turkish airstrikes forced the SDF to seek cover. Despite the losses, Nesrin’s unit reclaimed the village. By nightfall, it was theirs again — but the cost was high. Ruken was wounded. Others hadn’t survived.

That night, by a makeshift fire, Nesrin stared at the stars. Despite everything, she felt alive. Every battle left a scar — but also a record of their resistance. The Kurdish people had always fought for freedom. This would be no different.

“One day,” said Ruken, her wounds wrapped in bandages, “these lands will be ours again. No matter how long it takes. We’ve waited generations.”

Nesrin nodded, clenching a small stone she’d picked up during the battle. It was a symbol — of her land, her people, her struggle. Tomorrow, they’d be back on the front. But tonight, she allowed herself a moment of peace, warmed by the fire and the promise of a better future burning in her chest.

So, what’s Left of Syria?

A new flag. A newly sworn-in government full of promises. But beneath the fresh coat of change, the scars of the Syrian people are still there.

The government led by Ahmad al-Sharaa presents itself as a symbol of a new beginning. But to the Kurds, it looks all too familiar: a president who controls both judges and parliament, and key ministries still held by loyalists.

It’s a stretch to call this a democratic turning point.

And it’s even harder to call it “inclusive” when the country’s second-largest ethnic group is excluded from shaping its own future.

While some international analysts are already discussing the lifting of sanctions and the return of “normalcy,” while headlines speak of stability and reconstruction, the truth on the ground tells another story — one of a transition at risk of becoming a disguised restoration.

So the real question isn’t whether this new government is legitimate in the eyes of Western powers.

The real question is: is it legitimate in the eyes of the Syrian people?

To answer that, we must start with the stories. With the bodies. The faces. The voices — like Hassan’s, a survivor of Saydnaya, who reminds us what it means to live under a regime that kills in silence. Or Nesrin’s, who fights for her land and her people, but is denied a seat at the table where their fate is decided.

It’s stories like theirs — shattered lives — that must be told.

Forgetting them is the first step toward indifference.