The first time I visited Lebanon was in 1995. I crossed through the Arida border, a quiet checkpoint by the Mediterranean Sea. Standing on the Lebanese side, just yards away from Syria, which I’d come from, I waited for a car to take me to Beirut. The cold October breeze swept through the early morning air, and the border was still comfortably empty. There were no fences marking the divide between the two countries, and even now, shepherds casually cross the Kabir River separating them, oblivious to the absurdities called borders. The old bridge at the crossing had been built by the French in the mid-1920s, but centuries earlier the Romans had constructed a similar one. Rivers, after all, pay no mind to borders, no matter how much we insist on their importance.
A strange lightness settled over me, a sensation both new and inexplicable, as if I’d embodied Milan Kundera’s “unbearable lightness of being.” Only then did it hit me: For the first time, I was standing on the soil of another country — Lebanon. In my line of work, journalism, Lebanon carried a mythic reputation, known as a “land of freedom.”
On the Lebanese side, I flagged down a taxi and rolled the window all the way down, craving fresh air despite the cold. The driver, a Lebanese man in his 50s, warned me about catching a chill but didn’t wait for a response before launching into a tirade against Nabih Berri, the speaker of the Lebanese parliament. His anger was palpable, fueled by the ongoing fuel crisis that had sent gasoline prices soaring to unreasonable levels. He explained that he couldn’t afford to keep the air conditioner running and blamed Berri, one of Lebanon’s largest fuel traders. His words poured out in a torrent, and I listened intently, though something else weighed heavily on my mind.
I found myself thinking of Syria. Could I ever speak so freely there, openly criticizing the prime minister or another powerful figure without fear of repercussions? Here, in this battered old car, I felt part of a free-flowing dialogue. Back home, behind the imposing ranges of the Anti-Lebanon Mountains, such dialogues demanded caution. There was always the chance that the driver might be a security informant, laying the groundwork for a trap. This moment, however ordinary, captured for me the fundamental difference between life in the two countries.
I chuckled to myself and thought, “Here, too, I can insult any of the Lebanese leaders.” Why did my mind immediately go to insults? Perhaps because they are deeply rooted expressions stemming from the repression and oppression in our societies — where trading insults is our daily bread. Such words become an honest manifestation of living freely, especially when contrasted with the political jibes whispered in Syria, shared only among the most trusted friends. The Syrian city of Homs is famous as a factory churning out jokes, including political ones; there, we have a vast dictionary of insults. Who should I curse out loud first?
“Stop this nonsense,” I thought. “It’s no use — you’re still in the Middle East.” I took a deep breath, realizing that here, anyway, I could think freely, be myself, and wear no masks.
The driver dropped me at the edge of Beirut, charging me double the usual fare, blaming the steep cost of gasoline. As I stepped out, I found myself instinctively scanning my surroundings, looking left and right — a habit I’d picked up elsewhere. At the same time, I felt as though I were standing in the heart of a city that reflected my fragmented, torn identity. Years later, I would write an article titled “If Beirut Didn’t Exist, We Would Have Invented It.” By that, I meant that we Syrians had already conjured Beirut in our collective imagination, crafting it to fit our dreams of what it should be.
But as I stood there, an internal debate about freedom tugged at me, even as another voice whispered reminders of the reality I had left behind. Syria’s shadow loomed large. The misery I thought I had escaped resurfaced whenever I spotted a Syrian soldier or military vehicle in Beirut’s streets. At once, the words in my head slipped back into their masks. The reach of Syrian authority was unmistakable, even here. The Syrian army had entered Lebanon in 1975 at the start of the civil war and stayed for 30 years, leaving only in 2005. It wasn’t hard to understand why so many Lebanese celebrated the withdrawal of Syrian forces after decades of control over even the smallest details of their lives.
Amid these reflections, a question pushed its way to the surface: How could I ever return to a life where even my thoughts were censored — where the simplest expressions had to be weighed so carefully?
Moments from that trip to Beirut, and others that followed, were filled with illustrative contradictions. The lightness and freedom I felt in Lebanon stood in stark contrast to the heaviness, rigidity and narrowness of life in Syria. But things were never so simple. The freedom one encounters in Lebanon exists within a complex and layered context. Established by the French under their colonial mandate, Lebanon became a state of sects par excellence. This system allowed for a remarkable degree of freedom of expression, yet it didn’t necessarily equate to true freedom.
What does true freedom even mean? I’m not sure, having never experienced it in its purest form — where thought is unrestricted and uninhibited. The most straightforward opposite of freedom, of course, is imprisonment. Still, the dose of freedom I tasted in sectarian Lebanon far exceeded what I had known in “secular” Syria, where schoolchildren are made to chant the Baath Party slogan every morning: “Unity, Freedom, Socialism.”
Until the early 1960s, my hometown of Latakia boasted more than 20 newspapers and magazines, some even published in French. But with the Baath Party’s rise to power through a military coup in 1963, Syria began its shift toward totalitarian rule. The Baathist leadership set out to systematically control all forms of expression, gradually dismantling parties, unions and private institutions. That same year, a decision by the party leadership banned all politically independent newspapers from publication. Only two dailies remained: Al-Baath, the party’s mouthpiece, and Al-Thawra, its counterpart. Even other party-affiliated newspapers, some with histories spanning half a century, were shut down.
By the late 1970s, the Syrian government had entered existential battles against the last remnants of civil and military opposition. It crushed them all: the unarmed, leftist Communist Action League and the armed Muslim Brotherhood, as well as the independent unions, like those of the engineers and lawyers. These years marked the government’s final consolidation of power, obliterating any semblance of dissent.
Some of my uncles were part of the leftist movement during that period, and less than a decade later, I found myself following in their footsteps. In an increasingly stifling environment, I was seeking political awareness and the certainty of something to believe in.
At the age of 12, I sent a piece to the prestigious Kuwaiti magazine Al-Arabi, a publication modeled after the famous international magazine Al-Mukhtar. First published in 1958, Al-Arabi was a cornerstone of intellectual and cultural journalism in the Arab world. Unsurprisingly, they declined to publish my submission. It was expected — after all, I was just a child imitating what I’d read, lacking the knowledge and tools required to write at the level of a magazine that featured the titans of Arab journalism and thought. Still, their rejection sparked something in me. I began reading voraciously and experimenting with writing until, three years later, my first article was published in the Palestinian magazine Al-Hurriyah, based in Beirut. That moment confirmed what I had begun to suspect: I was destined to pursue journalism.
By the mid-1970s, Syria’s government newspapers had grown to three, though they were largely indistinguishable from one another. People derisively referred to them as the “3-in-1” newspapers, offering no real incentive to read them. Syrians, however, are avid readers, ranking second in the Arab world in hours spent reading. Unable to rely on local outlets, many turned to Arab and Lebanese newspapers, which were more professionally produced, even if questions lingered about their funding sources and political interests.
When foreign newspapers arrived in Syria they were subject to stringent security and media censorship, and later, with the rise of online journalism, the authorities resorted to blocking websites altogether. What struck me as odd at the time was that many of the journalists writing for these respected Arab and Lebanese newspapers were, in fact, Syrian. Over time, this became less of a secret and more an openly acknowledged truth.
Distinctive Arab newspapers that broke away from the standard mold of government-controlled press were rare. One exception was the Lebanese newspaper Al-Safir, which would appear in Syria sporadically — permitted for a time, then banned for days. The prestigious Al-Nahar, however, had been barred from entering Syria for decades due to its consistently critical stance toward the Syrian government. Years later, Al-Nahar’s Editor-in-Chief Gebran Tueni and its journalist Samir Kassir were assassinated, with Syria widely accused of orchestrating their killings.
Growing up, I had never seen a foreign newspaper until I visited Beirut. Writing for Al-Safir years later, before its closure in 2016 due to financial difficulties, became a milestone in my career — a rare and treasured moment of fulfillment.
Despite brief moments of “freedom” after President Bashar al-Assad came to power in 2000 — such as the Damascus Spring movement of 2005, led by Syrian intellectuals advocating for democratic reform — the government quickly reverted to its traditional methods of repression and arrest. A decade into his rule, Syria remained little more than a sprawling political prison. Absolute power and unbridled freedom of action were reserved for the government and its agencies, while restricted movement and constant surveillance were the reality for journalists like me. Political detainees might have disappeared from public view, but the political climate had not improved. The government chose economic liberalization over political reform — a pattern that showed how every Syrian “spring” was destined to be short-lived.
When the Syrian uprising began in the spring of 2011, early signs hinted at an impending descent into violence. Within three months of peaceful demonstrations, weapons began to appear openly, and by 2013, the country had devolved into a battlefield. The “Syrian Arab Army” — the official name of the state’s military — faced off against armed opposition groups, many of which were bolstered by foreign support and had taken on an increasingly extremist Islamic character.
The battles raged for years, but the most sensitive and perilous were those fought in the Damascus countryside in 2018. These clashes unfolded just miles from the capital’s most critical security and military centers, including the presidential palace. The media warfare between the warring factions was unsurprising; neither side could afford to remain neutral in their narratives.
That year, I was reporting on military developments on the Ghouta front near Damascus for Al-Ayyam newspaper, using my connections with both the opposition and the army. It was a delicate, precarious balance — one that defined much of my work during those turbulent years.
As for Al-Ayyam, the story of this short-lived newspaper is worth telling. The weekly began publication in early 2016, reviving the name of a Syrian paper that had been shut down in the 1960s. With this new venture, we naively believed that years of war had shifted the government’s approach to the Fourth Estate. We assumed we had gained new spaces for freedom of opinion, allowing us to practice genuine journalism.
The government appeared to grant (the operative word here) significant leeway to criticize government policies, militias and economic issues, so long as we didn’t cross its red lines. We were delusional — but content in our illusion. Reality hit hard when the newspaper reported on a nationwide fuel crisis in 2017. The report led to the arrest of the paper’s owner on charges of “broadcasting false news related to the government’s intention to lift gasoline subsidies.” The irony, of course, was that the news turned out to be true.
This wasn’t an isolated incident. Similar events with other articles revealed the government’s limits on tolerated dissent. The newspaper’s reporting, along with that of others, prompted the government to introduce stringent cybercrime laws, tightening its grip on social media after its rapid proliferation exposed numerous corruption cases. Even loyalist activists weren’t spared: Some were arrested, others silenced through threats. The government went so far as to abolish the role of war and military correspondents.
Prominent figures weren’t exempt from repression. Shadi Helweh, a Syrian TV correspondent in Aleppo, was pulled from his program “Here is Aleppo” and banned from appearing on Syrian Satellite TV. By the time Al-Ayyam was the only independent publication still in print, its editor-in-chief, Ali Hassoun, made the decision to close the paper. After nearly three years and 115 issues, he abandoned journalism altogether.
As I’ve said before, spring in Syria is always short-lived.
When I worked for Al-Ayyam, a map of Damascus sat on my desk, marked with three overlapping red circles arranged in a pyramid. A former colleague had drawn it, carefully encircling three words: “president,” “security,” “army.” The precision of the arrangement spoke volumes. It was impossible not to see its significance. At its apex stood the president’s person, below that security and finally the army. In Syria, “security” refers broadly to the sprawling and omnipotent network of security agencies, while the “army” denotes the state’s most powerful military force.
Even today, the interwoven power dynamics of this trinity form one of the most intricate systems of surveillance and punishment in the world. Everyone watches everyone, and everyone is beholden to everyone else. Beneath this trinity lies a subtler but equally dangerous form of control: the surveillance and punishment of those lower in the Syrian hierarchy — institutions and individuals alike. Here, every action is scrutinized under a microscope with countless dimensions, creating an invisible system where no step goes unnoticed.
The Syrian model of surveillance and punishment closely mirrors the panopticon — the theoretical prison imagined by Jeremy Bentham in the 18th century and made famous by French philosopher Michel Foucault — where authority monitors everyone while remaining unobserved. In this system, guards move freely, unseen by the prisoners, who are acutely aware of being watched. But unlike that ideal, in Syria, the guards weren’t hidden. We saw them, touched them, even shared meals with them. They weren’t faceless; they were our brothers, neighbors and companions in life.
In journalism, this omnipresent surveillance translated into an unspoken but absolute prohibition: Criticism of the “trilogy” — the president, security, and the army — was forbidden. Praise, of course, was always welcome. My own self-censorship often compelled me to sidestep direct references to security agencies, replacing their names with euphemisms like “the relevant agency.” Writing about military operations demanded similar caution. It would have been unthinkable to report, for instance, “The army moved from the left flank instead of the right,” as such wording could imply a critique of the army’s strategy or leadership. This constant circumvention and obfuscation wasn’t just a compromise; it was a deliberate distortion of the truth.
I deliberately avoid mentioning the president here. For those still inside Syria, it’s safer to leave such words locked away in a dark warehouse, far from the guards’ prying eyes. More than once, I found myself embodying Winston Smith, the protagonist of George Orwell’s 1984, as he toiled, terrified, in the Ministry of Truth under the shadow of “Big Brother.” There’s no room for games here — not even in a foreign language. The guards, ever-adapting, have mastered English as part of the evolving mechanisms of surveillance and punishment in their sleek, modern forms.
The issues tied to the Syrian pyramid aren’t the only topics banned from press coverage. Beneath it lies an “endless list” of prohibited subjects, including sects, religion, clans, sex and, of course, politics. These lists serve to categorize taboo topics and streamline the targeting of violators. Their deliberately infinite nature allows the authorities to expand the scope of punishment as they see fit. In 2017, for instance, the government confiscated an issue of Al-Ayyam for allegedly containing a “sectarian article.” The offending piece simply advocated for a culture of citizenship over one of sectarianism.
Amid verbal sparring between regional players, the Syrian media adopted the government’s rhetoric, mirroring the language used against them. In coverage of Turkey, for example, directives required us to use terms like “Turkish regime” and “Qatari regime,” echoing the tone of outlets like Al Jazeera. Yet as Ankara and Damascus began to draw closer about a year ago, the language shifted. “Regime” was replaced by “government,” and “head of the regime” gave way to “head of state.”
The political journalist in Syria must always be prepared for sudden or expected shifts dictated by political transformations — and there are many. A newspaper’s independence offers no immunity from these changes. This is the curse of working in a press institution engaged with politics in its uniquely Syrian guise.
At Tahrir, we often found ourselves in long debates across various platforms about the use of terms like “martyr” and “killed” in the Syrian context. Who counts as a martyr, and who is simply the dead? Each side claimed its own fallen as martyrs, invoking the term’s deep moral and spiritual significance in Islamic and Christian traditions, where it signifies sainthood or a direct path to heaven.
Meanwhile, the language of conflict spawned an uglier vocabulary, particularly on social media, much of which was nearly impossible to translate into English. Arabic, with its rich and nuanced lexicon, has a particularly well-developed dictionary of insults compared to many other languages. Even now, verbal polarization and hate speech among Syrians persist online, despite hundreds of training programs conducted by international organizations and civil society groups aimed at “fostering dialogue.”
While editing many articles, I often tried to substitute a neutral third term — “victim” — instead of using “martyr” or “killed.” It didn’t work. Victimhood, a concept rooted in criminology, lacks any political alignment, and none of the warring factions wanted to be cast as the “criminal.” For this and other reasons, the term failed as an escape from the ideological weight of liberation narratives.
This struggle to navigate politically charged language was one of the reasons my former colleague, the one who drew the red circles, abandoned political journalism altogether. He pivoted to covering artists instead, eventually buying himself a house and a car. Like him, I left the realm of politics, but I chose a more intricate game: investigative reporting.
When I pitched the idea of investigating forest fires on the Syrian coast to the editor-in-chief of a Syrian website focused on investigative reporting, he asked me to find a unique angle that would justify a full investigation. It wasn’t difficult to uncover one. I discovered that local militias were deliberately starting these fires for a range of purposes, including seizing land and harvesting the charcoal left behind. They had turned the recent uptick in spontaneous fires — caused by high temperatures — into a lucrative opportunity.
It took multiple rounds of investigation to uncover the “big shots” orchestrating these fires. With the help of friends, I traced the fates of the scorched trees and found not only devastation but also glimmers of hope for eventual justice. Foreign journalist friends often tell us how envious they are that we always have something to write about in this endlessly tragic country. This investigation offered me a reprieve from the grind of following daily political news, a relentless cycle that demands constant attention. But it came with the ultimate risk.
In 2018, I had only minimal experience in investigative journalism. I trained myself, poring over dozens of examples in Arabic and English, and writing countless drafts. I learned the delicate art of sourcing information without falling into journalistic or security traps. I stumbled often but always got back up. The thrill of “playing with fire,” so to speak, outweighed the comfort of staying safe. This, I told myself with feverish conviction, was real journalism.
The first time a fixer arranged a meeting with one of the arsonists, my heart nearly stopped. Where was I going? I couldn’t tell my family. I couldn’t afford to miss the opportunity. Carrying a tape recorder and as much caution as I could muster, I spent the half-hour drive trying to calm my racing heart. I arrived at the designated spot on a street in Qardaha, the Syrian president’s stronghold. Seconds later, a car pulled up, and a hulking man with a Kalashnikov leaned out, his mountain-accented voice cutting through the night: “Get in.”
It was just the driver, the armed man, and me. They didn’t need to threaten me — their control over the area was enough to ensure I wouldn’t try anything foolish. We drove to a dimly lit warehouse, where piles of coal loomed like shadows. As I stepped out of the car under their mocking gazes, I couldn’t hide my trembling. Inside, a group of men waited. I didn’t know who the “boss” was until a young man, barely in his mid-20s, arrived with two cardboard coffee cups. He dismissed the others with a laugh: “Can’t you see he’s terrified?” He wasn’t wrong.
“Turn off your cellphone,” he ordered. I complied. “I’ll speak off the record.” Fine. “How do you take your coffee? Black, yes?” Yes. In that one hour, I must have said “yes” a thousand times. There was no room for “no” in my vocabulary.
He answered my questions calmly, confidently, revealing that they set fires in specific areas of the forest at the “big boss’s” orders. Then, mid-conversation, he let slip the boss’s name. It was a golden thread, a breakthrough in my investigation. I couldn’t believe my luck. Heaven, it seemed, was watching over me.
His words stirred a potent mix of terror and curiosity within me. “But aren’t you afraid of the consequences?” I asked, probing for his motives.
“Consequences?” he replied with a sly smile. “There’s nothing without risks. But we know how to protect ourselves. We have a wide network of relationships and money — enough to solve the biggest problems in this country. We can manipulate things however we want. As for the authorities, they’re busy with bigger matters than chasing us. Besides, some of them have stakes in what we sell.” He paused, grinning. “Not that we’d tell you their names.”
Our conversation continued, though it felt less like an interview and more like a dangerous dance. I had plunged into the shadows, where every word could have consequences. But as the conversation progressed, my fear began to waver. When it finally ended, I was driven back to the same meeting point. I left without a single photo, but I did manage to capture the audio — recorded on a device I had carefully concealed between my clothes.
The information I gained was invaluable, but the experience left me with a heavy question: Should I publish the investigation under a pseudonym? I refused. I published it under my real name. To this day, that decision haunts me. The investigation remains one of the most prominent reports on forest fires in Syria, and with it, a persistent sense of fear lingers.
There were many investigations I conducted afterward that I was too afraid to attach my name to. Some of them are still available online, and I read them now with a pang of regret. The nature of the topics I covered — uncovering secrets and exposing transgressions committed by nearly everyone with power — made me take a step back. As the situation in the country deteriorated, with security collapsing and armies and militias vying for control, courage lost its value. Writing my name under such pieces became a luxury I could no longer afford. Still, one day I’ll claim them as mine.
Writing under a pseudonym has always been a risky game, but it’s often necessary to move beyond the surface of news and analysis. Yet pseudonyms come with their own losses. They strip a journalist of recognition, reducing their name’s value, reach and presence on front pages or main website banners. There’s also a more immediate danger: What if the pseudonym’s owner is uncovered? This isn’t far-fetched in a country where the government once banned Facebook but then reopened it, using the platform to monitor activists and dissenters. With the use of advanced surveillance and intelligence techniques, authorities have arrested dozens of online activists — some of whom were already living outside Syria.
Next, I experimented with writing for a platform where only pseudonyms were allowed, arguably the most significant site of its kind in Arabic, bringing together writers from across different areas of Syria and giving them freedom through anonymity. I set aside my name and reputation in favor of substance. The experiment was a success, removing the weight of personal identity and allowing a focus solely on the work itself. Some obstacles, it turned out, could be transformed into opportunities.
On that site, I adhered to strict editorial guidelines, which required the use of specific language and prohibited insults. It was a far cry from the freedom I had imagined in Beirut during my first visit, but it was still a form of freedom nonetheless.
Today, I’ve spent nearly a quarter of a century in journalism, with plenty of stories left to tell. Retirement is not yet on the horizon. For me, journalism has always been a profession of passion, not one of trouble, despite its comparatively modest financial returns given the degree I hold in design and production engineering. The rewards, I’ve realized, aren’t always about money. Perhaps they lie in the pursuit of human meaning in a world racing forward. Or maybe it’s the curse of passion — a drive so strong that I left everything behind, sailing into the world of words, their fantasies and their frustrations, while my family disapproved.
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