For the last seven years, I have had a refugee travel document that states “Valid for travel to all countries except Syria.” But three months ago, I received citizenship status in Britain, allowing me to apply for a passport with no such restrictions. A friend asked me at the time whether I would ever go back to Syria, and my answer was an instant and clear “No.” After all, I would be in danger. Yet just days after receiving my new British passport, just weeks after Bashar al-Assad fled the country, I found myself on my way there.
My feelings were mixed as I planned for my return after almost a decade in exile. I was scared of having to deal with feelings of alienation, which I had experienced before I left because of Islamist rule in what used to be rebel-held areas, including my own city of Idlib. I knew that most of the people I lived with there had left, too, and I knew that many foreign jihadists had moved into the town instead. Still, something in me was hopeful about my return, and I had heard that the strict interpretation of Sharia that had been implemented had been relaxed. But I was mistaken in my hope.
Damascus is dusty and dirty. The smell of the thick smoke of unrefined oil suffocates. It feels like a yellowish tint has been applied to your eyes in the morning, and at night, darkness takes over, as there is only electricity for two to three hours a day, leaving the streetlights dark. Even in Shaalan Souk, the central market that is considered higher class than other areas, people must use their phones’ flashlights to walk at night. Piles of rubbish occupy all the streets, even the highways. There are no road rules: It sometimes feels as if all pedestrians, drivers and cyclists are suicidal.
But one thing on the streets has changed dramatically: the absence of sexual harassment. This change felt alien to me. Throughout my life in Syria, sexual harassment, both verbal and physical, had been ever-present: Whenever and wherever women and girls were in public, harassment was there alongside them. Women shared plenty of darkly hilarious stories during their gatherings, while drinking tea and eating sunflower seeds. In fact, it was a brilliant, if unintended, feminist activity, building solidarity among us.
Now it is markedly different. I asked all the women I met, and they confirmed that street harassment has been dramatically reduced since the fall of the regime. They attributed this to videos of Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) fighters pulling the mustache of a sexual harasser publicly and forcing another to walk around humiliated, chanting “I have sexually harassed a girl” — videos which were shared widely back in December. “I am against the violations committed against the men, but frankly, it worked!” Nada, a recently graduated journalist, told me.
Since my second year at university in 2004, I thought Damascus would be where I would end up making my life, but Idlib was still my hometown, the place I went for holidays and festivals, the Eids and the breaks from work or study, spending all my student grants on the frequent bus rides.
In 2011, I returned masked, so the security forces wouldn’t recognize me, to join a demonstration. This was the high point of my relationship with my city: I felt safe, loved and empowered.
But the regime quickly suppressed the protests and enforced its military rule, and I couldn’t return until Jaish al-Fatah (a coalition of Islamist fighters led by HTS) took control in 2015. By then, I was living in eastern Aleppo. When a friend called to tell me the news, I was instantly on my way back. Mine was the only civilian car entering Idlib while many others were fleeing in the opposite direction.
This was the first time I felt like a stranger in my own home. When the religious police, who had the backing of the fighters, started enforcing their version of strict Sharia law, this feeling only worsened, with executions of women filmed and dress codes brutally enforced. This changed slightly in 2022: “As HTS started to work as a government,” my friend there told me, “they got busy, and their crackdown on personal freedom was lighter.” I didn’t see this for myself, as I had fled to Turkey for my personal safety in 2016 and moved to Britain two years later.
I have been avoiding expressing any emotions since the fall of the regime, partly because they are in such a chaotic state that I can’t untangle them. Like many exiles, I also have trained myself to suppress them. My feelings are not just a wild storm, but a contradictory mix — peaks of joy clashing with depths of despair, the height of relief intertwined with the sinking sands of loss.
Many Syrians are now returning to Syria, and we all share the alienation of having been away — some for 14 years. But I feel another layer of estrangement, between my region in the northwest, which includes Aleppo and Idlib, and the rest of the country. It is not too far a stretch to say that there are two Syrias which used to have a strict border separating them. Even now, when the border has been dissolved, the division is still there.
Each Syria has its own currency. In what used to be opposition-held areas, the Turkish lira is still the primary currency, although some shops have started to accept Syrian pounds. Conversely, in former regime areas, most shops are hesitant to accept foreign currencies, insisting on the Syrian pound.
In the northern region, electricity is prepaid and never cuts out, and Turkish internet networks operate at high speeds, with restrictions imposed solely by the Turkish government. Meanwhile, in the rest of the country, Microsoft emails are blocked, as are Zoom and most other work-related applications, and the electricity comes on for four hours a day on the best days.
In the former opposition areas, the gas stations are working again while most stations in the former regime areas are out of service. In the capital, cars are refueled from plastic gallon containers lined up along the streets, marked in black with “Premium Diesel” or “Lebanese Gasoline.”
The fear of emotional turmoil loomed over me as I set a time for my trip to Idlib. In an unusual move, I asked for help. My uncle came all the way from Idlib to Damascus — around 225 miles — to accompany me back. I needed to hold on to my trust in him to keep myself together. What am I afraid of? Why am I so troubled to go back? I decided to spare myself the torment of unanswered questions, as I had only felt this fragile a few times in my life.
On the way, my uncle and I laughed, debated intensely, gossiped about acquaintances and drank terrible coffee from the cafes on the highway. Our car passed through the destroyed town of Houla, the Sunni town that witnessed a horrific massacre by regime forces and their paid gangs, the notorious shabiha, in 2012. Some of the shabiha were from Maryamin, a nearby, well-maintained Alawite town, which we drove through next, quickly feeling tensions rise among passersby.
That’s because our car had an “Idlib” license plate. People are saying that Idlib is the new Qardaha, referring to the hometown of Assad’s family; although the interim president, Ahmad al-Sharaa, is not from Idlib himself, most of those assigned responsibilities in the new government are either from the province or had lived in it during the war. So now the stereotype of anyone from Idlib is that they are either members or supporters of HTS — or foreign jihadists. Our license plate made us a source of fear for the inhabitants of Maryamin, who were walking around in their pajamas to have their morning coffees with neighbors.
I rolled down the window and smiled, as seeing a woman in the car made it look “safer,” especially if she was not wearing a headscarf. “We have lived their fear, we understand it,” my uncle explained to me. For the first time in a long time, I felt a painful poke in my heart, at the thought that anyone could have taken pleasure in instilling such fear, whether here in an Alawite town or at home in Sunni Idlib.
The soldiers at the checkpoints between these towns were friendly to us, asking only for my uncle’s ID, as women don’t have to show theirs. Some guards congratulated us for our “liberation” upon seeing our car’s license plate. That made me think about all the Assad loyalists from my hometown — those who would be celebrated now as rebels despite everything they had done to us — and our staunch stance against Assad throughout the revolution.
In the countryside around Homs, I finally took a deep breath of fresh air, away from the fumes of the generators and filthy smoke of Damascus. But as soon as we crossed the Hama region, and Khan Shaykhun appeared on the horizon, my breathing began to quicken, and the knots in my stomach returned. For me, fear and stomach aches are connected with the scenery of this part of the country, which we called “liberated Syria,” meaning it was controlled by the rebels and bombed by the regime.
Here were familiar scenes of destroyed homes, abandoned streets, armed men and grim faces. But so much had changed. Today there are no fighter jets in our sky, there is no Assad and the jihadists have been either retired or assigned to other tasks, out of sight.
Back in 2015, I didn’t only have to wear a hijab but also a long, dark coat. Without them, I wouldn’t have been able to return to my city. This time, I decided to stay as I am and not to wear the hijab. A friend assured me that “things have changed a lot since.” Now, unveiled women come on “tourist trips” from all over Syria to roam the city freely, and no one interferes. This was all happening only a couple of years after armed men were measuring the length of the women’s coats to ensure they followed a strict interpretation of Sharia dress code standards.
At the entrance of Idlib city, the al-Mehrab roundabout features a high flagpole with a white flag and the words “Allahu Akbar” written on it. Below it is a mural reading “Syria for All Syrians.” Everything here expresses the schizophrenic new Syria, metaphorically and literally: If the new Syria is Islamic in character, then how is it for all Syrians?
So much has changed in Idlib since I saw it nine years ago. My first observation was that the ground floors of nearly every building had been converted into shops — one store next to another. Malls and new restaurants have reshaped the city, a reflection of the huge influx of people into the area as a result of the conflict. In 2015, the city’s population was around 165,000. Recent estimates have reached 1 million.
Another striking change was the number of women wearing niqab, or full-face coverings. It reminded me of an old story my aunts shared about the daughter of a well-known sheikh. A curious woman asked her, “Why don’t you cover your face, since you are the daughter of this well-respected sheikh?” She responded sharply, “The sheikh’s daughter doesn’t cover her face, so that all the people of Idlib know where I go and who I meet. I have nothing to hide.” No one remembers this story now, it would seem, with the customs instilled by the jihadists having taken root across society.
Our first stop was my grandfather’s house on Al-Khammara (Bar) Street, which had been bombed during the last Russian airstrikes before the regime’s fall. Two young men were fixing a water meter. One of them, upon seeing me, shouted in shock, “Cover your head!” It wasn’t a completely new experience to hear this. Growing up as one of the few girls who didn’t wear a headscarf in Idlib, I have been stopped in the street to be advised about wearing it, but the tone and self-confidence of this guy was new. It was more of an order, which, especially as I had a man by my side, was troubling.
I was so stunned that I didn’t react, prompting the pious worker to repeat his order several times. My uncle asked for his family’s name. “None of your business,” he replied. My uncle shot back, “And it’s none of your business what my niece wears!”
The devout worker couldn’t stand the sight of an unveiled woman, so he left the water running and walked away. I trembled. Armed misogyny is an unhealed trauma from the long conflict, and as the Iraqi proverb goes, “The one bitten by a snake fears a rope.”
As we descended the stairs toward my grandfather’s house, a man with a long beard and a shaven mustache in Afghan-style clothing — a long loose top with short pants, a popular dress code among fighters in the north — passed us with his fully covered wife. He asked what we were looking for.
When we explained, he invited us into what is now his home, offering us tea. He turned out to be displaced from Hama, and had recently been assigned a leading role in Hama’s police. He had moved into the house when his home in a Hama suburb was destroyed by bombs.
I walked in the garden of my childhood. The Kabbad citrus tree wasn’t there. Neither was the lemon tree that my grandmother picked flowers from every morning, spreading them around the house to perfume it. The jasmine had also gone, along with the grape arbor. “Thank God your family wasn’t hurt in that strike, may you be enjoying this home,” my uncle said to the man before leaving.
That evening, I went with relatives to buy sunflower seeds. Their taste would be my last chance to feel home, I told myself. An Uzbek jihadist followed us to the nut shop, shouting, “Where is your Sharia dress code? Cover up woman! This is Idlib, oh God!”
I told him that I was born two streets away and knew Idlib better. His eyes widened further, and he ordered the shopkeeper to tell me to dress properly or leave.
“This is my city,” I replied. “You leave, your leader is meeting women not wearing headscarves, go to the presidential palace and lecture them there.” He stormed off. The young shopkeeper, originally from Homs, asked me — with sympathy — to let it go.
The next day, my uncle joked, “Either you wear a hijab, or I’ll wear a niqab face mask! I have no problem with that.” So, I pulled up my keffiyeh scarf to cover my hair — to spare my loved ones the consequences of my personal choices. I felt paralyzed. My agency was fading away. I didn’t go out alone, not even once.
For 20 years, I have been writing to and about Idlib — from before the 2011 uprising, when it was a small, sidelined town in the provinces, to its rebellion against the regime, with its martyrs and revolutionaries. I even wrote a letter to it complaining about its sexist rebels. And in 2018, I wrote what I thought would be the final letter.
But two years later, I wrote about it again, describing to New Lines readers the sons and daughters of Idlib’s “wlad al-balad” (the community of one’s hometown) who turned every exile into a homeland.
Now, here I was, standing again in front of my old home. I knocked on the door to greet a displaced woman living there with her family. Our home looked like an empty shell with many small holes in its peeling walls and nothing in it except cheap rugs and laundry hanging out on the balcony. “Here I lost three kilograms while walking back and forth memorizing by heart my baccalaureate books,” I said to a little girl who looked in surprise at the strange, agitated woman — me — in her house. I was here; I am from here. She did not believe me, just like the Uzbek jihadist.
People give different estimates for the number of foreign jihadists who have settled in the city, but they can be seen everywhere. They own shops and work in various professions. They have even integrated their cultures, so the Uzbek bread, obi non, has become a common product in stores. Children of Uzbeks, Turkmen, Kazakhs, Saudis and others are now in high schools. Many have Syrian mothers. Some of these women still do not know the full names of their husbands. Like the aunt of my friend, who has only seen the pseudonym “Abu Muhammad al-Saudi” on her marriage certificate. All the kids are undocumented.
I remembered my relative who loved a young man from Aleppo and drove the whole family crazy. “How will she marry a stranger!” was the question endlessly raised. Idlib customs dictate that the groom be from the same city; they might just accept someone outside the city but only from the same province and only after his family roots are rigorously checked. Of course, it is easier for local men than women, as their descendants are “guaranteed,” with children’s identities inherited only from the father.
In the women’s gym, Moroccans, Saudis and various mixed nationalities all mingled, some speaking classical Arabic. I thought about how, for the first time I could remember, a cause I had been fighting for my entire life — “diversity and inclusion” — was now scaring me. I started to wonder how foreign cultures like these could have been integrated in my small city under bombing and harsh social and economic conditions without any governmental efforts or laws.
Seeing my worried face, my friend said that her teenage nephews had never seen an unveiled woman in the street in their lives. “They need time to realize that there are unveiled girls in the world!” she told me, and asked: “When will we return?”
I will not return, I said.
I gave the same answer to another friend whom I worked with during the war. But he teased me, asking: “You’ll miss the green hummus season?” It’s a fun tradition to eat the chickpeas, hummus in Arabic, while they are still green on the plants. We go in groups of friends to our farms and get invited back to theirs. “Green hummus turns us into locusts,” my uncle used to mock us while we harvested the land of these treats.
“You’ll miss the green hummus season,” he said again. I paused.
Maybe I will come, only in the season of the green hummus, to share it with friends and family away from the foreigners who give themselves the right to tell me what to do. Perhaps, then, I might feel that the city of my youth has not entirely disappeared.
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