Nick Redmayne returns to Syria to find a country crushed by war but unwilling, or unable to talk openly about it
Words and photographs by Nick Redmayne
Years ago, while blood soaked the soil of newly liberated Iraq, I spoke with an erudite shopkeeper in the calm of downtown Damascus. ‘We prefer to live with our sorrows rather than accepting the West’s promises of happiness,’ concluded Hassahn, ‘because we never know whether your promise will give us more sorrow.’ He gave a questioning glance to the east and said no more.
Ten years later, Syria’s ground, too, has been bloodied. Promises have been broken and red lines crossed. Cities across the nation have been devastated and archaeological heritage destroyed. Almost 6.5 million Syrians have fled the country since the civil war broke out in March 2011, following a peaceful uprising against the president. More than 350,000 people have lost their lives.
Aleppo
In March 2022, I drove from Beirut, through the melting snows of the Anti-Lebanon Mountains, to see how Syria has borne its sorrows. On the outskirts of Aleppo, a soldier pointed the antenna of an explosives detector at the car. It gave a positive reading. Instead of cocking his rifle, an officer discretely pushed the device away. Perhaps he knew that the detectors couldn’t find anything, not even the lost golf balls promised in their original marketing. We were waved on, past gun positions, to join the surging traffic.
Aleppo, Syria’s second city, lives on. In Saadallah al-Jabri Square, above an incongruous ‘I (heart) Aleppo’ installation, an immense Syrian flag languidly caught the breeze. Across the square, Bashar al-Assad, president since 2000, looked on with paternal concern from a large portrait. In Syria, counting Bashars is a competitive sport.
When I last visited, in November 2011, having driven from the Turkish border, my mobile phone pinged with welcome messages from the Syrian Tourist Board. The greatest challenge then was Aleppo’s sclerotic traffic and its cleverly designed defensive one-way system. But within three months, demonstrations against the regime had turned violent, as security forces used deadly force to crush dissent. The Battle of Aleppo ensued, costing 31,000 lives. Myriad rebel groups then became involved in the conflict, including the Free Syrian Army – a loose faction founded by officers of the Syrian Armed Forces, whose goal is to bring down the government. Amid the chaos, militant Islamic groups, including Islamic State (IS), claimed parts of the country and foreign governments intervened, sending money, weapons and fighters.
Across Syria, destruction appeared to follow sectarian and socioeconomic lines. Sunni working-class districts suffered more than wealthier, loyalist Alawite areas. East Aleppo, a short distance from the central square, in part manifested this. Here, deserted streets of crumbling, bombed-out shells silently recalled intense bombardment. Upper floors, ripped open, revealed dusty tables, broken chairs, light fittings and wallpaper. Elsewhere, all that remained was rubble.
Aleppo’s historic al-Madina souk was keenly contested during the fighting. Fires burned out of control, roofs collapsed, market stalls passed through generations for more than 800 years were turned to ash. Beyond blackened walls, some reconstruction has been effected but the task is enormous. Among otherwise empty or shuttered stalls, a vendor selling fabric remained open. ‘If I stay at home, my wife constantly finds jobs. I’ve worked in the souk for 43 years,’ said Jabal, aged 56, the same age as me. He looked older. ‘Some have left to work outside the souk; others have left the country.’
Walking back towards Saadallah al-Jibri Square, I paused at a drinks shop. None of the beer was below eight per cent and most was nearer 14 per cent, the ‘by volume’ measure of despair. I asked why it was all so strong. ‘It’s not,’ the shopkeeper replied, ‘it’s normal.’ I inquired about business. ‘In ten years, I see no tourists. You are the first. For here, I don’t think things will improve, not at all.’ He refused to be drawn further. Always in Syria there were those who watched, those who listened, and those who reported. I bought the beer.
Farther down the street, a young man sold Aleppo’s famous laurel soap. He waxed lyrical about the soap’s long history. Then we talked. ‘I used to work in software design,’ he said. ‘It’s not hard to find work, but it’s hard to find work that pays. The average wage is now US$50 a month.’ I asked how people managed. ‘In Syria we say, “We cover our wounds with our hands.” I would leave if I could. Each month we spend everything.’ I asked if things would improve. ‘From what I can see, no. I don’t think they will.’ I noticed a man a little too close and a little too attentive. I said I wished we could talk more. He handed me the soap. ‘So do I my friend. So do I.’
I was keen to visit Hotel Baron, a faded grande dame of Aleppo hospitality that has frequently cameoed in Syria’s history. The guest list has ranged from TE Lawrence and Agatha Christie to King Faisal and Gamal Abdel Nasser. I wanted to speak to Armen Mazloumian, the dignified, dry-humoured manager, who had helped me park in the hotel’s courtyard in 2011.
The door of the Baron was open. Inside, an older woman shepherded a besuited man. ‘I’ll speak with you soon. I’m just now with the ambassador.’ I asked quickly about Armen. ‘Armen? He died,’ she replied, walking away distractedly. In the hotel’s bar, fallen plaster revealed stonework. Some customers were already ensconced in familiar worn-leather armchairs, clutching Afamia beers – a more civilised strength, 4.5 per cent.
Rubina, Armen’s wife, returned. I hadn’t recognised her. ‘Armen, yes, he died. A heart attack in 2016, poor man. He spent all night and all day on the terrace. It
didn’t matter the weather. He wouldn’t come inside.’ She led me to a room that had become a repository of relics where a framed photograph of the Armenian Catholicus hung on the wall. ‘We were looted. These things we managed to retrieve from the basement.’ Feverishly, she leafed through photographs cataloguing the hotel’s past.
I asked what had happened since my last visit. ‘I don’t want to go into politics. There was a lot of instigation. Something starts, then it grows so big that they cannot extinguish the fire. We had the freedom, we had the democracy, we had everything. There was no need,’ Rubina declared. ‘We were hit by seven mortar bombs, we were targeted. Seven! One came here.’ She pointed at a scar on the stone floor. ‘But it didn’t explode. The army, they came and took it away. The older parts of the city were targeted. They wanted to obliterate the history of Syria. They wanted to make a new Syria.’ I asked who ‘they’ were? ‘Who do you think? If I quote the Americans, I’d say the “moderate” rebels. If I’m gonna be honest, the terrorists.’ I tried to glean more. ‘Come on. Do some research. Ask some questions,’ she countered. I said I had, but no-one was giving any answers.
Earlier, I’d asked my guide, Tayseer, about media freedoms, describing the UK, where we have newspapers that support our prime minister and those that don’t. Did similar perspectives exist in Syria? ‘No. Most people don’t have money to buy newspapers, they use their phones. And anyway, we know by the reality,’ was his response. However, Syrian state control over all media, print or electronic, is all pervasive, and where local content itself isn’t restricted, self-censorship is the norm. The end result of this strategy isn’t that everyone believes the government, it’s that no-one believes anything.
Later, I walked to what had been Aleppo’s Armenian Quarter, where I’d stayed during my first visit to Syria. I followed Tayseer, who enthusiastically reeled off Syria’s ancient history, but seldom veered into contemporary events. We emerged from a narrow alleyway into the brilliant light of an open wasteland. ‘Bait Wakil, it was over there,’ said Tayseer, pointing to one of several unrecognisable piles of rubble. ‘There were many small hotels, Beit Sissi, Beit Martini… all gone.’ Uncharacteristically, Tayseer seemed like he wanted to talk. He sat down on some broken concrete foundations. ‘In ten years, I had no work, until six months ago. I’ve spent my savings. Lost money in a couple of business ventures.’ He held his head in his hands. ‘The sanctions have been worse than the war. I saw people eat from the rubbish, families that didn’t have to worry about money, who drove a nice car, become beggars. It has been terrible.’ This wasn’t government messaging, simply raw experience.
Aleppo’s citadel remains the city’s most identifiable landmark. Dating from the 12th century, the citadel hill has been fortified since the third millennium BCE. Syrian Army troops most recently occupied the site, their positions bearing down on the opposing Free Syrian Army. A sunny morning saw crocodiles of schoolchildren escorted along the moat bridge into the fortifications. A giant Syrian flag and a huge image of Bashar were draped over the entrance. The children were 12 years old. Their lives had been defined by war.
The citadel itself had weathered the storm, although windows remained stacked with stone to provide cover. The view from the ramparts told two stories. Beyond the moat, cafés overflowed with customers. It seemed busier than ever. Then, within earshot of the convivial chatter, lay a perimeter of devastation, the result of artillery duels and aerial bombardment. The historic Carlton Citadel Hotel was a memory, blown up by Islamic Front fighters while it served as a Syrian Army barracks. Other buildings stood unsteadily, scorched by fire, incongruous against the blue sky.
Palmyra
Heading south from Aleppo through Idlib Governorate, miles of buildings lined the road, some scarred by bullets or fractured by shelling. All were resolutely empty. To the west, Idlib city remains a redoubt for an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of anti-government Islamists. In late 2016, the Astana Process, involving Russia and Turkey, created a buffer zone around the city. Since then, an incomplete truce has prevailed.
Eastwards, the desert road leads to Palmyra, Syria’s preeminent ancient site, a journey fraught with fuel-supply anxieties. ‘It’s like this,’ said my driver. ‘Fuel is rationed. So many litres at this price, more at a higher price and more it’s even higher. But even then, they don’t have. At double the high price, they have…’
Few landmarks marked the route. At al-Furqlus, a gas flare marked Syria’s small but nationally significant petrochemical business. I was told the country’s most important reserves of oil lay outside government control and were ‘being stolen by the Americans’.
Stopping at a flyblown roadside café, a group of soldiers filled their car from plastic bottles. My driver asked about the fuel. ‘Tadmur, but expensive,’ they replied. Two pale foreigners emerged from another vehicle. Natalie and Yuri were also heading to Palmyra.
Natalie talked a lot about nothing; Yuri said nothing about a lot. Elsewhere, I’d seen Cyrillic labels in shops. Russian ‘tourists’ were evidently unexceptional.
Some miles later, Soviet-era radar trucks populated a rare high point. Tiyas airbase came quickly into view, blue camouflage of twin-tailed Sukhoi fighter bombers visible near the runway. Russian airforce and army, and Wagner Group mercenaries, together with US aircraft, were all involved in the Syrian army’s struggles to control Palmyra, the modern town of Tadmur and, nearby, the Sha’ir natural gas fields.
Palmyra is no stranger to warfare. Its history is a litany of destruction and rebuilding. However, during its occupation, in 2015 and 2017, the dead-eyed vandalism committed by IS carried a different sadness. The site’s 83-year-old retired head of antiquities, Khaled al-Asaad, who had devoted more than 40 years of his life to Palmyra’s archaeology, was tortured and publicly beheaded. Reports say al-Asaad refused to reveal the location of Palmyra’s ‘treasure’. It’s doubtful his murderers would have recognised it anyway.
Among the ruins, IS’s demolition of the Temple of Bel, Temple of Baalshamin and the best-preserved tower tombs appeared irreparable. Already, conspiracies abound: ‘But who gave IS the 10,000 tonnes of explosives to destroy the temple? Who do you think? The USA of course. Who else has the money?’ From Palmyra’s Great Colonnade I looked towards the Arab castle that oversaw the site, now occupied, I was told, by Russian soldiers. Something caught in my sandal – a spent cartridge case. Raking fingers through the sand, I collected a dozen more, artefacts to form another layer of archaeological record. Palmyra remained magnificent and, given time and money, much damage could be repaired.
Homs and Damascus
On the way to Damascus, we stopped in Homs. Amid an apocalyptic cityscape, I remembered that journalists Marie Colvin and Remi Ochlick were killed by shelling here in February 2012. US courts later ruled that their deaths were the result of targeting by the Syrian government. Tayseer, my guide, focused on the one building under reconstruction – the Khalid Ibn al-Walid Mosque – tripping off a long spiel about the mosque’s earliest history and religious significance. I asked why the mosque was being restored and not the homes. ‘The money came from the Chechens,’ he said. ‘Maybe there was Chechen community here.’ Indeed, Moscow’s man in Grozny (Chechnya’s capital), the despotic Ramzan Kadyrov, is footing the bill through his opaque Kadyrov Foundation, said to be funded by compulsory donations from ordinary Chechens. US and EU sanctions pre-date the civil war but have been intensified by it. The restrictions prevent investment in reconstruction until a suitable political settlement to Syria’s conflict is reached. This seems unlikely. Across an invisible line, another part of Homs thronged with people and traffic. Politically and literally, those who chose to look only one way could ignore, if not forget, the war had happened.
In Damascus, Souk al-Hamidiyah was crammed. In 2011, it had been deserted. As their economy performed a hyper-inflationary tailspin, making ends meet has become a struggle for ordinary Syrians. The World Bank estimates a 50 per cent reduction in GDP between 2010 and 2019. Extreme poverty, once almost unknown, now describes half the population. Not everything is directly attributable to the war. The crisis in Lebanon, frequent bankers to Syrian enterprise, had a profound effect, along with the Syrian pound’s freefall from an official SYP46 to the US dollar in 2011 to SYP2,500 in 2022, and nearer SYP3,900 on the black market.
However, that evening, along Bab Sharqi, one end of the Biblical ‘street called Straight’, some Damascenes had money to spend. Naranj is the best restaurant in town. Bashar himself is said to be a regular. Being dollar-rich foreigners, our team booked a table in the busy dining room. Soon an array of dishes arrived, from kebab with cherry sauce, to bulgur wheat with lamb, kofte in yoghurt, kibbeh and several variations on fetteh. Two bottles of good Lebanese wine later, the bill appeared. SYP374,000, split five ways, was less than US$20 each, but almost half a month’s salary for many Syrians.
Walking back along Bab Sharqi, a dozen small bars and cafés had sprung into life. After spending time in Beirut, I hadn’t expected Damascus to offer a more ebullient nightlife, but it did. Ordering a drink, one of our number asked for the bar’s most popular cocktail. The waiter hurried back, proudly bearing a Moscow Mule. I stuck to beer.
Next day, employing some subterfuge, I had lunch at the home of a Syrian family from Homs, now displaced and living in Damascus. ‘We left with nothing but the clothes we were wearing. Here, we start again. Homs will always be my home, but it is destroyed. There’s no money to rebuild,’ said Faahima.
Refreshingly, there was a range of political affiliations across the family. ‘Assad, he sold the country to the Russians,’ said Maajid. Hameed countered: ‘95 per cent of Syrians are with Bashar. It’s money from Qatar, Saudi, the Americans and perhaps the British, too. They want to change the regime.’
However, actions speak loudest. The family’s only son is now in Germany. ‘He left when he was 16. It cost US$3,000. First, he flew to Turkey, took a boat to Greece, then he walked into Serbia,’ said Faahima. ‘I don’t think he will return. He’s a refugee. He cannot come back. It’s safer for him there.’
As we talked, it became apparent that for many who escaped Syria’s war there’s little incentive to return. Even the slightest taint of anti-government affiliation could result in imprisonment. And for young men of military age, an immediate and undefined period of conscription into the army is a distinct possibility. One of the family’s daughters was already learning German. ‘It’s a brain drain,’ said Hameed. ‘Anyway, we all love our president, Bashar al-Assad, and everything he does is 100 per cent correct.’ He winked.
Later, I walked through courtyards of cherry trees, their blossom recalling another Damascus Spring of short-lived liberalisation at the outset of Bashar al-Assad’s presidency. I emerged at the Umayyad Mosque, fourth-holiest site in Islam and resting place for one of John the Baptist’s four heads. Despite questionable 20th-century restoration, the mosque remains among the most beautiful in the Middle East. Although worshippers filed in and out in large numbers, the mosque’s vastness enabled an atmosphere of calm contemplation. I retrieved my shoes after a brief visit and left for another nearby landmark. Whether al-Nawfara is the city’s oldest café or not, it served reliably good coffee.
While the al-Assad government has reasserted control over much of Syria’s west, aided by Russia and Hezbollah fighters from Lebanon, the root causes of the conflict remain. Elsewhere in the country, a patchwork of military control and unlikely alliances holds sway, including elements from Turkey, Kurdish militias of the Syrian Democratic Forces, Islamist rebels, the USA and others. The situation remains dynamic, the consequences of further Turkish incursions unpredictable.
In the shadow of the Umayyad Mosque, I had one final pilgrimage to make. At Hassahn’s shop, the windows were dark and the door locked. Perhaps he’d taken a holiday. I remembered that Hassahn had sold me a glazed ceramic sign announcing Al waqt howa’l hayat – ‘Time is life.’ ‘People say time is money, I don’t agree,’ he’d said. I’d liked the sentiment. Hassahn’s predictions had shown grim foresight. I wanted to know how he’d fared, but that day there were no signs of life, for sale or otherwise.
Untamed Borders (+44 (0) 1304 262 002; untamedborders.com) offers seven-day Syrian tours. Tours cost from US$2,225.
Read: Syria (bradtguides.com)
