Assad has fallen, but where we do go from here?

This is not how I pictured it.

I was 15 when I watched my people chant freedom down Syria’s streets. We saw the Egyptians joyously unified under the fall of their dictator, and dared to dream: Could this be us, too?

And now here it is. But this is not how I pictured it.

I did dream about his statues shattering. His portraits burnt. In my head, I would rip them apart with the quiet rage of my thoughts and fantasize about raiding his home and snatching everything he took from us. Whenever I visited my parents, he intruded my line of sight at every opportunity: inside our shops, sitting with us at restaurants, hanging above the traffic lights. A silent reminder of his deadly grip. He who shall not be named. He who we whisper about.

He has fallen.

And yet, the ecstasy never arrives.

I am moved to tears by the release of the prisoners. Some of them think it's Hafez who has fallen, not Bashar. That’s how long it has been. I recall the shiver, the shiver that every Syrian is acquainted with, the one that ran down our spine when Sednaya was spoken of in hushed tones. I thought about Sednaya when I reported, and on the Lebanese border before I returned to my land. I thought about it when my mother was interrogated for her writing in fere3 Falastine. I thought about it when I passed every checkpoint sprawled across Damascus, checkpoints that are now dismantled. Now, Sednaya is just a word: a sentiment from the past. I celebrate in hysterics.

I call my mother and ask her whether any of our imprisoned relatives have returned to their homes. We were told they were dead. Not yet, she says. But maybe, maybe. I see articles hailing this victory in the name of a Syrian-led revolution, and it stings. They speak of battles won, of our thawra finally bearing the fruits of our excruciating labor.

Am I the only one that doesn’t see herself represented in this opposition?

I saw no battles. These men waltzed in, city by city to no resistance, a red carpet laid out to greet them. I am again fragmented into millions of pieces as I always have been with my displaced identity. Look at the Syrians, your comrades. They deserve to be happy. They’re in the streets, calling Syria free. Saying we have work to do.

But this isn’t how I pictured it.

The formidable Syrian Army? The colossal Russian fighter jets? Bent down to welcome them, a sinister smile spread across their face. My Instagram messages are flurries of attacks from Syrians telling me that I am insensitive, that my concerns are tainting the dignity of the martyrs we lost in our fight. That I am stealing their joy. Maybe I’m jaded. Perhaps it is not my place to question the liberator who unlocks the chains of oppression. Can’t be worse than the one who fastened them, right? Or at least that’s what they tell me in controversial takes shared hastily in between mabrouks.

Everyday, I wanted to post my opinion about him online. I dreamt of existing in a world where being Syrian didn’t elicit the look of pity. I wished to speak openly to my mother over the phone. I dreamt of choking him whenever the Lebanese made jokes about ‘going back’ to my country. I wanted a world where the men in my family did not escape on boats to avoid their military conscription.
And now I am told I get to have all of that. But this just isn’t how I pictured it.

How does one reconcile the liberation from one abuser, by the hands of another? It’s layered and complex, but online I am met with the nuance of a football match.

And as we suddenly acquaint ourselves with our new flag, I call my mother and no, she hasn’t slept. She points to where Israel is striking us: on the tops of the mountains that we can see from our windows, targeting every last one of the ex-regime’s research and weapons facilities. They also captured Mt. Hermon, with no resistance. Our defenses, gone. The Syrian people’s shields, obliterated.

I lived in Lebanon for 13 years. I’d left just weeks ago, escaping Israeli bombardment. For years, it was Israel that haunted my thoughts and encapsulated my terror. Assad was another monster, one that disturbed my very soul from my first breath, taken in Damascus.

I dreamt of this day for so long. I am bitter that it was handed to me in this way.

Everyday, I wanted to post my opinion about him online. I dreamt of existing in a world where being Syrian didn’t elicit the look of pity. I wished to speak openly to my mother over the phone. I dreamt of choking him whenever the Lebanese made jokes about ‘going back’ to my country. I wanted a world where the men in my family did not escape on boats to avoid their military conscription.

And now I am told I get to have all of that. But this just isn’t how I pictured it.

With over 600,000 killed, and real estimates closer to 1 million, and an unfathomable number of prisoners still detained, I hear them - it can’t possibly get worse. But, as I scroll through the joy of Syrians gathering together at demonstrations, occasionally interrupted by the butchery of Palestinians, I decide that the one thing I do know is there can be no freedom in the shadows of US imperialism and the bloodshed of Zionism. There can be no true Arab sovereignty, as long as they’re here, greedily laying out blueprints. They won’t allow it. They sliced up a new Middle East like their Turkeys on Thanksgiving. It is our flesh, blood, and bones that are being sold at the market.

The plan rolls out and every neighbor to the Zionist entity is given a choice: to comply or be reduced to dust.

Iraq–dismantled.

Libya–destroyed.

Egypt–neutralized.

Iran–sanctioned.

Lebanon–devastated.

Palestine–I don’t have the words.

And Syria? Well.

We’ll see.

But there is a reason to celebrate. There has to be. If only to rejoice over the incarcerated being held by their families once more. To speak our minds, to like, share, and repost our words without the fear of reprisal. To welcome loved ones back to their land, their Syria. To say: down with the murderer, Bashar Al-Assad. And it feels so good to type it out.

This story will go under my real name: Ghalia Alwani. My name, and not a pen name.

Now, isn’t that something?