After getting my passport stamped on the Jordanian side, I boarded the bus that would take me across the border into Syria. The bus waited until it was full before crossing the no-man’s-land between the borders. I was the first one on board. Impatient, I asked the driver how long it would take. He replied that it would now fill in under 15 minutes; it had been crowded here lately. Soon, around 15 people filled the bus, mostly adults, a few couples and a family of four. One family’s luggage occupied a third of the bus, including suitcases, large bags and loose kitchen items. They had most likely been refugees in Jordan.
The atmosphere inside the bus was a mix of nervousness about stepping into a country still not fully under state control and growing excitement about returning after the dictatorship of Bashar al-Assad collapsed on Dec. 8. As we approached the Syrian side, a large blue sign came into view. It read, in both Arabic and English: “The Syrian Arab Republic welcomes you.” Above it flew the three-star flag of the Syrian revolution. This sight alone sent a surge of emotions through me, of relief and disbelief. Around me, others reacted the same way. Faces lit up, phones lifted to capture the moment and murmurs of excitement rippled through the bus. This was no ordinary return home. We were reentering into a new country.
An older man sitting near me turned to his wife as he stared at the sign. His voice cracked as he urged me, “Take pictures, son, take pictures!” He began to sob. His wife was capturing photo after photo with shaking hands. A release of emotions built up over years of separation and longing. Unable to hold myself back, I reached out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. This small gesture only deepened his sobs. It was a moment that encapsulated so much: the collective grief of what had been lost, but also the hope of what could now be gained.
As the bus neared the customs building, a man dressed in civilian clothes but clearly representing the new government stepped onboard. His voice was warm, his tone measured. After greeting us, he said, “I welcome you all back to your homeland! I want to let you know that we are happy to have you back!” Remembering those words still brings tears to my eyes. He then added, “You should know that this bus is free of charge. Also, I wanted to let you know, as you enter the customs building, please inform us if there is anything we can improve in how we handle things.”
At the entrance to the customs building, uniformed soldiers greeted us with smiles. One of them said, “Welcome back,” his tone sincere and almost familial. The process that followed was smooth and efficient, taking no more than five minutes. For anyone else returning home, such an experience might seem ordinary. For us Syrians, it was extraordinary. It was entirely different from the oppressive, dehumanizing treatment we had endured for decades, including in our country’s embassies abroad. Officials from the old regime yelled at us, used derogatory language and treatment and invented all sorts of obstacles and excuses to generate bribes before they would facilitate matters for citizens.
I had booked my ticket as soon as news broke on Dec. 8 that Assad had fled the country. A mere 20 days later, I stood at the border, finally setting foot on Syrian soil again — 15 long years after I left for the United States on a Fulbright scholarship in 2009. Waiting for me on the other side was Abu Jawad, a driver I had arranged to meet in advance, because public transportation between Amman and Damascus stopped in 2011. Though we had never met, his greeting felt like that of an old friend. His face radiated warmth and happiness as he said, “Welcome home, brother.” The two-hour journey from the border to Damascus was filled with conversation. “It’s a miracle, a real miracle,” Abu Jawad repeated, his voice overflowing with gratitude.
Returning symbolized a personal victory over Assad’s regime. As a political asylee living abroad, coming back while Assad was in power meant facing consequences that could range from life imprisonment to death. I knew there was a directive to detain me upon arrival, given my opposition to Assad since 2011, my public criticism of his regime, my refusal to report for military service since 2012 and my having brothers who opposed the regime (one joined the Free Syrian Army while another defected from Assad’s military in 2013 to avoid killing civilians). I wanted to return to witness the country’s transformation in person instead of observing it through screens.
As we drove, remnants of the old regime were starkly visible. Abandoned tanks, scorched military vehicles and deserted cars littered the highway. Some vehicles were intact, others reduced to rusty skeletons. “These are what they left behind when they fled,” Abu Jawad explained. “Some were caught, others weren’t, but they all ran like rats.” His words conveyed a vindication shared by Syrians who had suffered under the regime for over five decades.
As we approached the outskirts of Damascus, familiar sights began to emerge. The crowded streets, aging buildings and chaotic intersections looked just as I remembered them. The city seemed frozen in time. The same rusty cars sputtered in the same thick haze of exhaust and dust. But the Assad regime’s portraits, statues and slogans, which had once dominated public spaces, had been removed or defaced. In their place, the three-star flag of the revolution flew, a visible marker of the city’s transformation.
Stepping into the heart of Damascus, I was struck by this paradox of sameness and change. The streets, the buildings, even the smells were as I had left them. But the people — they were entirely different. In markets, on public transportation and in the souks, the change was palpable. Smiles adorned people’s faces. There was a lightness in their movements and a joy in their interactions.
The city is filled with energy, from both locals and foreigners, yet the power shortage is undeniable, especially at night. The streets bustle with people dining, hanging out at coffee shops or simply gathering on the sidewalks to chat. Many of them are Syrians like me, returning from various places around the world. The dominant topic of discussion is the country and where it should go from here.
When you talk to them, residents share positive reactions to the new authorities. They observe clear recovery in the availability of food and fuel, with prices gradually improving, even with daily fluctuations. They remark that the new authorities show respect for citizens, smiling at them and not humiliating them.
Almost everywhere you go in Damascus, hotels are fully booked with Syrians and foreign delegations. Restaurants are thriving, and people are exchanging foreign currency for Syrian pounds at the pop-up exchange stands on every corner — where people used to buy used books and pirated music or videos.
At the same time, the Syrian capital is still showing signs of hardship in so many ways, even though it was spared the destruction the rest of Syria has been through. There is a significant power shortage. The city relies on only a few hours of electricity per day from the public grid while the remaining supply comes from personal generators that run on diesel for those who can afford it, though most cannot. Outside the upscale commercial neighborhoods and elegant residential buildings, the city is quite dark at night. Yet the cheerful energy and smiles of the people persist, even after a month since the regime’s collapse. Every interaction with cab drivers, shopkeepers and street vendors reveals a common sentiment: “raha nafsiyya,” inner peace or relief. It feels like breathing after suffocating for years.
As I wandered through the city, memories of the old Damascus came flooding back. The people of the past were often gruff and impatient, their tempers quick to flare over minor inconveniences. Public life was marked by a kind of collective grumpiness. Syrians even had a saying to describe a perpetually unsmiling person: “He wouldn’t even smile at the sight of a freshly baked loaf of bread.” That bitterness seemed to have suddenly vanished. Now, there was laughter where there had once been shouting, camaraderie where there had once been animosity.
Damascus has remained unchanged in some respects over the last 15 years, yet it also feels like encountering an old friend or a relative after a long absence and realizing they appear considerably older. Even for Syria, after this long conflict, Damascus is in bad shape, despite the fact that it’s suffered comparatively little from direct violence. I encountered people coming from Idlib who expressed shock at the capital city’s infrastructure compared to theirs, which, despite the northwestern city being overpopulated, is superior. (Assad forces lost control of Idlib province in 2015, and since then, it has been ruled by different groups, mainly Hayat Tahrir al-Sham.)
For instance, the taxi cabs in Damascus are old, rusty and unreliable. Some are cheaply made Iranian cars that seem beyond repair. The same goes for private vehicles. The cellphone service and internet connection are both unreliable and poor. One place I longed to visit, filled with memories from my college days, was the Damascus University student dorms in Mazzeh. Aside from the demolished statue of Hafez al-Assad, nothing has changed. They remain old and decaying, with paint peeling off the walls.
Though Damascus remains physically unchanged in many ways, the spirit of its people has undergone a profound renewal. The streets are still neglected, the air is still heavy with pollution and the buildings still bear the marks of war and decay. But none of this seems to matter. What defines Damascus now is the energy of its people and their pride.
It is this subtle transformation that cannot be measured or quantified — the collective shift in the people’s demeanor, their newfound sense of liberation. The contrast between the unchanged streets and the joyous faces is striking, a testament to the enduring spirit of the Syrian people.
My return to Damascus has been an experience shared by many I have spoken to. The streets, buildings and polluted air continue unchanged. But the people are entirely new. It’s a Damascus I could never have imagined, a Damascus alive with possibility.
The journey home has reminded me of the resilience of my fellow Syrians, their ability to endure and, ultimately, to triumph. The joy I see on their faces is not just a reflection of the present. For the first time in decades, there is reason to believe that Syria’s best days lie ahead. In the heart of Damascus, surrounded by smiling faces and waving flags, I too feel this cautious but undeniable hope.
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