I chose to return to Aleppo from Beirut for the things that couldn’t fit into a suitcase: my mother’s smiling face in the morning and her warm embrace at all times. I chose to leave my exile in Lebanon after eight years, to reclaim the life I had let slip through my fingers, searching for safety where it had long vanished.
Israel’s recent aggression against Lebanon only strengthened my resolve to return to Aleppo, as life grew unbearable amid constant air raids. So I packed my bags, tidied my house, said my farewells and left on Sunday, Nov. 24.
When I woke up three days later, on Wednesday, I could hardly believe my ears. I thought I was dreaming. Aleppo, after all, was a “safe” city; surely the sounds of bombs in the distance couldn’t be real. But as the hours passed, and I saw the unease in people’s faces, I realized it wasn’t a dream. There were clashes between opposition factions and the joint Russian-Syrian forces in the countryside west of Aleppo, triggered by a large-scale attack by the opposition, which was pushing toward the city.
The state media, of course, insisted it was all under control, that it would all be over in a few hours, and that Aleppo was “bkhair” (fine and unharmed).
But Aleppo was not “bkhair.” Two days later, the opposition factions entered the city with hardly any resistance, while reports confirmed a clear retreat by the government’s army in the face of their advance.
Panic and confusion gripped the people. Phones rang nonstop, voices trembling with fear and uncertainty. No official body offered a clear statement on what was happening or what might come next. We were left to face our sorry fates. I will never forget, as long as I live, the image of my mother’s smiling face when I returned slowly turning into one filled with concern, tears and quiet desperation.
We did our best to absorb the shock and decided to stay in Aleppo, clinging to our long-held belief that nothing lasts forever.
Since that day, our minds have struggled to make sense of how our daily lives have been turned upside down overnight. The city, once full of life, has become a state-free zone. There is no army, no police, no political figures. The city’s institutions and departments have ceased functioning, taken over by the opposition. They set up military checkpoints in the city’s main squares, like Saadallah al-Jabri Square, and faction members began driving around in their private cars, buying goods with Turkish lira or U.S. dollars — currencies we weren’t allowed to use.
The hours during which we had electricity increased slightly, rising from just four hours a day. The factions began distributing free bread, a scarce commodity previously offered to those with a smart card. The bakeries resumed work.
Amid these changes, I found myself questioning everything. I listened to neighbors and friends, both near and far, on social media. My anxiety grew, especially as a young Christian woman in the prime of her life, unsure of what would become of me and other Christians from different denominations.
What surprised me, though, was that most of those around me didn’t share my worries. They were concerned with whether they would be able to celebrate Christmas, whether they could cook salika (traditional wheat pudding) on St. Barbara’s Day, whether they could wear whatever clothes they wanted or drink alcohol in public. They were terrified of the thought of wearing the hijab or niqab, even though no one had yet forced them to change their habits. I clashed with them when I raised my voice, trying to shift their focus to matters of real importance.
Can’t we, for once, stop being cowards? Why do we flee our land at the first sign of trouble? Shouldn’t we prove our existence as Christians in our country when it’s struggling, not just when everything is fine? We left when the Syrian conflict began, and soon we were complaining about the Muslim majority in our areas. Aren’t we the ones who abandoned our land, our honor? Today, we repeat the same pattern, worrying about potential hijab laws, makeup bans and Christmas trees. Is this really what Christianity means to us? Is this the mystery of the cross on which our faith is built? Is this the image we want to show the world? Are we so fragile that we must play the victim every time?
Have we still not understood that our displacement isn’t the heart of everything that’s happening? Aren’t we tired of the betrayal and injustice that the whole world has heaped upon us in this weary land? Did we not feel sorrow when we took to the streets in search of a loaf of bread, because we barely had enough in our homes?
I’m not sure if it’s our current situation that wears me down, or the ignorance that blinds our hearts and makes me lose hope. I don’t know on what foundation I will build my life after today, but I’m certain that I cannot accept this as the limit of our ambitions as a society. The questions we need to ask today must reach beyond concerns about holidays, decorations and lipstick. We need to demand answers about our future, about what will happen to our civil and military administration.
We want to know our rights and duties. What will happen to state employees, and who will be responsible for them? What will become of our banking sector and the central bank? What currency will we use?
We want to feel secure after years of instability in a country that the whole world has fought over. Who will be our authority? Who will protect us? Who will we turn to in the event of theft or any other crime?
Where will we send our students to school or university? What curriculum will shape their characters? What education will occupy their thoughts?
We want to build, prosper and move forward, as all nations do. What will our investments be? What will our exports or imports be based on? Will we ever be free from sanctions?
If these aren’t the things we’re thinking about, and if our future isn’t what’s on our minds, then I don’t believe we will ever be at peace. If we don’t unite and demand a clear explanation and an ultimate, sustainable solution — one that doesn’t rely on violence, bombing and destruction — I see no bright future for us or for this overburdened country.
Sign up to our mailing list to receive our stories in your inbox.