Syrian Novelist Reflects on Exile, Alienation, and War Devastation:

 

Syrian novelist Samar Yazbek recently returned to Syria and has written and given interviews on exile, displacement, fear, alienation, and the devastation of war. Having lived in displacement for nearly a decade, the thought of returning frequently occupied her mind. Her essay, “In Damascus, a Steep Road Leads to Hell,”* published in the New Arab newspaper, covers her experience as a returnee.

 

Like many returnees after the collapse of the Assad regime, Yazbek questions her decision. Confused and emotionally numb, she admits that she doesn’t know why she returned. “We enter Damascus,” she writes, “I don't know it. I wasn’t gone long enough to forget, yet I don't remember! It doesn't recognize me at all and rejects me.”

 

Given that Syria has been embroiled in war for over a decade, Yazbek’s initial observations are understandable and scratch the surface of the disorientation left in the aftermath of Assad’s downfall.  As a reader, I find it striking that Yazbek struggles to recall the Beirut–Damascus road, a route which, after 38 years, I can still remember vividly. She notes, "There are no police and nothing to suggest that any authorities exist." The city appears shabby, deteriorated, and dusty, indicating abandonment, destruction, and neglect. A seeming lack of control, newfound freedom, or complete lawlessness permeates the air. Stripped of the old regime’s symbols of authority, this new Damascus is devoid of Assad statues and icons of control, oppression, and propaganda.

 

Damascus and other regions of Syria are experiencing urban decay and the repercussions of war. Low-quality imports have supplanted authentic goods due to the economic collapse, and alarming levels of widespread poverty are evident on the streets, with children, men, and women from all backgrounds standing in long lines begging. According to Yazbek, everyone is at risk.

 

Yazbek shares thought-provoking insights about alienation and nostalgia. When Damascus is absent, its significance for displaced people is lost. A sense of alienation arises as one attempts to connect with familiar faces but encounters only strangers. War and displacement have given her an "identity crisis," leading her not to recognize her reflection in the driver's mirror and exclaiming, "That's not me!"

 

The class divide stands out starkly, with much of the city in ruins. Yazbek quickly identifies the wealthy by the luxurious hotels they frequent. After the war, a new elite class profited from post-war reconstruction. She highlights the disconnect between the privileged few and the suffering masses. As in other places, they reside in untouched and hidden areas.

 

Yazbek touches on another division: the tensions between Syrian returnees, who left when the war began in 2011, and those who remained to experience it firsthand, a topic widely discussed on social media. According to Yazbek, there is a clear divide between the two groups, who "view each other with resentment, envy, or even silent accusations." Observing this dynamic, she comments, “I often think about how language can convey meaning in such situations, and I feel ashamed of the looks from those who see us as returnees. If only I could tell them, 'Take from my flesh and eat.’”

 

This sense of shame lingers, hovering over the numerous interactions she has as she makes her way through the city. A pastry seller tells her, "You have illuminated your country." His words blindside her, making her wonder how he could easily recognize her as a returnee. Instead of comfort, his hospitality fills her with shame and guilt. She realizes that those who return to their country perceive it differently than those who remain behind. She is mistaken for a foreigner at one point, underscoring her sense of lost belonging and disorientation.

 

Instead of discussing what a civil society in Syria might resemble after 54 years of dictatorship, Yazbek focuses on the encouraging signs that could foster a genuine civil society during her visit. She finds compelling evidence of Syrians' resolve to rebuild their lives despite the devastation and cultural and economic decline. She feels optimistic as she observes individuals engaging in small, meaningful actions — cleaning streets, painting walls, and offering assistance — as well as the White Helmets, who embody humanitarian courage and highlight that change emerges from the people rather than the authorities.

 

Yazbek also points out the fragmentation of the country. Walking through Syria feels like navigating different Syrias, each with unique yet interconnected layers where the past and present coexist amid memories of dictatorship and newfound freedom. Wealth and poverty converge; luxury hotel towers rise even as people beg on the streets. All of this unfolds within the duality of war and peace, where joyful reunions occur alongside lingering trauma. Society may be characterized as polarized or stratified. Still, if change did not come earlier, apart from the 13 years of war, it was because over 54 years of dictatorship prevented this polarization from exploding. 

 

As she takes the city in, she also collects the stories of its citizens. One young man begs Yazbek for money, and unable to give him any because she did not have any at the time, she responds with what comes close to "sacrificial imagery expressing deep survivor's guilt — an expression of wishing she could offer herself to those who are suffering but realizing it was impossible." In reaction to her comment, some characterized the encounter as an "echo of religious martyrdom, as if her existence felt like an act of betrayal to those who have suffered." Her statement, "It is a shame that I belong to this human race," can be interpreted as "moral despair.' 

 

Eventually, Yazbek's interactions with Syrians in various towns become philosophical as the conflict between "patience vs. justice" unfolds. Community members advocate for patience while the government faces numerous challenges. Yazbek's anger sharply contrasts with the "forgiving attitude" of some community members, who disagree with her belief that patience is a form of complicity in the trauma. Following this reasoning, she rejects neutrality, another philosophical issue Yazbek explores. She raises several questions: Can one remain neutral in the face of destruction? Is patience a virtue or merely an excuse? How can survival and justice be reconciled?

 

The destruction Yazbek witnesses in various towns leaves her with emotional burdens and deep anguish. She feels torn between her duty to observe and the weight of helplessness, surrounded by the devastation. "I don't look into their eyes because they carry more pain than I can bear," she writes. The eyes of the begging children in Damascus force Yazbek to confront a moral reckoning she isn’t ready to face.

 

Yazbek recalls both serene and anguished memories in her reflections on Damascus. The city feels familiar yet foreign, evoking feelings of nostalgia and estrangement. Damascus is more than just a place — it embodies memory, a wound, and an unseen presence. Marjeh Square has changed and is now noticeably free of the Shabiha. In the absence of the old regime's enforcers, she asks, "Who are the new thugs?" With power shifts come new oppressors and new fears. Justice, recognition, and acknowledgment remain elusive for the displaced.

 

She asks, "What is the purpose of writing stories without justice?" She lays her moral dilemma bare with incisive questions: Is documenting suffering meaningful if justice is absent? Is storytelling a means to preserve memory or merely a source of despair? Can words truly replace a life, a home, or a sense of dignity? “This land was like a vast cemetery; the groaning of bones scattered in mass graves pierced my skull, robbing me of the luxury of basking in the victory of rising above wounds and looking forward,” Yazbek writes. "The land itself is a tomb, burdened with the ghosts of lost comrades, and victory feels hollow — the tyrant is gone, but the scars remain."

 

Yazbek concludes by recounting an interaction she had with a boy. “How much is a dollar, Auntie?” he asks. His question leads her to reflect on the war's devastating economic impact: “Young yet shaped by crisis, the child speaks of survival and inflation.” Instead of offering an answer, she provides food and tenderness, as if that is all she can give. However, perhaps the most painful emotion she experienced during her visit can be summed up this way: “The tyrant's final theft is the right to find joy. I apologize to my friends for not being joyful enough after the tyrant left. He even stole my happiness!"