Syria, one year later: streets that breathe, wounds that do not heal

DamascusDawn slowly breaks over Damascus, filtering through old buildings and balconies adorned with garlands of blackened wires. The city awakens to the whine of generators and the aroma of freshly baked bread from ovens that have been running at half capacity for some time. One year after the fall of Bashar al-AssadThe country lives trapped in a kind of limbo. There is neither war nor peace. Neither total ruin nor recovery. There is only a suspended territory where certainties dissolve as soon as they are uttered.

In the aisles of the Al-Hamidiyah market, activity is once again resembling that of bygone days: tightly packed stalls, bags changing hands, Gulf tourists photographing the market's dark turns. But beneath this movement lies an exhausted economy. El Hamid, a craftsman of mójo (red Arab hats), patiently arranges his red felt pieces. "Our work is manual; we survive even without electricity," he says without pausing his hands. Then he lowers his voice. "The country functions like an old lamp: sometimes it illuminates, sometimes it flickers."

A few meters away, Rami, who has a clothing stall, summarize the feeling of uncertainty: "People are buying again, yes. But electricity is unreliable and prices change every week. Today we're better off than a year ago, but nobody knows if it will last." For him, the fall of the regime brought a breath of fresh air; for others, only a brief respite.

Behind these voices lies a reality that asphalt cannot conceal. According to recent data, more than 80% of the population lives below the poverty line; the basic food basket is unattainable for most, and the Syrian pound, despite a timid stabilization, has not yet reached equilibrium. The new authorities speak of "gradual reconstruction" and "international confidence," but the foreign financial community observes with detachment: it sees no guarantees, no infrastructure, and no sufficient security to warrant serious investment. The UN estimates that, at the current rate, it will take decades for Syria to recover basic living standards.

However, Life in Damascus clings to nuance.Bab Tuma, the historic Christian quarter, has a unique vibrancy: workshops open two hours early to avoid power outages, cafes switch generators as easily as changing an awkward conversationalist, and merchants adjust prices daily. Abu Youssef, owner of a lumberyard, doesn't hide his relief at the end of the regime: "Before, we lived in fear of patrols, fabricated fines, and checkpoints. Now we import without worry. And even renovating a house is cheaper." His statement contrasts with the skeptical expression of Hadi, a tool seller. "Yes, there are improvements. But the country is like an old car that starts, but you don't know if it will reach the end of the road."

Outside the heart of the capital, the situation is different. In the southern suburbs—Hajar el Aswad, Yarmouk, Qadam—time seems to have stopped at the exact moment of the explosion. Houses without roofs, staircases leading nowhere, pipes exposed like skeletons. Many of these neighborhoods were home to diverse communities: Palestinian, Kurdish, Christian families, and people displaced from other provinces. The promise that the new government would facilitate their return has dissolved amid impossible procedures, a lack of services, and administrative hurdles that disproportionately affect minorities, single women, and undocumented immigrants.

A slow and unsupported reconstruction

In Hajar el Aswad, Umm Salim sweeps in front of the doorless door of her former home. Her husband is rebuilding a kitchen without running water, using bricks salvaged from a collapsed building. "We came back because we had nowhere else to go. But here we survive on our own, not thanks to anyone." He says it without bitterness, as if stating something else about life.

Meanwhile, inside the neighborhood, makeshift workers are multiplying. Young people without steady jobs build walls for a few pounds; neighbors share tools; and women carry buckets of cement through rubble that smells of damp and burnt metal. State reconstruction is progressing so slowly that people have decided not to wait any longer. "If we wait for the authorities to come back, we'll grow old," a man whispers as he lays planks to secure the roof of what remains of his dining room.

The political transition has also reached the media. At the renovated headquarters of the state news agency, SANA, editor Inas Safwan champions a change that is still difficult to see from the outside. "Now we can truly talk about openness," she asserts. "We want to be an active fourth estate; we want Syrian journalists to go out, cover stories, and investigate." But her discourse coexists with the persistence of old structures: bosses who have occupied the same offices for years, internet restrictions, and fear of the never-defined red line. Independent journalists, like those at the Simah agency, maintain a monitored freedom. "There's more room to maneuver," says photographer Haitham, "but we're still walking a tightrope."

In the city center, across from the National Theater, university students fill the cafes at dusk. They talk about scholarships, postponed dreams, and the—remote—possibility of traveling. The conversation always ends up the same: inflation, unpaid wages, the feeling of living in a country that changes while remaining essentially the same. "At least we no longer feel like everything is blocked," says Samer, a student. "Now the blockade is slower and more confusing, but not total."

When night envelops Damascus and the lights flicker between the power outages, the city takes on an intimate fragility. From Mount Qasioun, the avenues resemble threads of light stitching together a torn fabric. The inhabitants continue moving with a mixture of fatigue and determination, as if maintaining normalcy were an act of resistance more powerful than any political slogan.

One year after the change of power, Syria is navigating a landscape of contrasts, with a society trying to recover without the necessary tools, an economy struggling to rebuild without foundations, and a state that promises more than it can deliver. But it is also a country where life stubbornly persists. Amidst rubble, markets, workshops, and reclaimed streets, hope is expressed in small gestures like repairing a window, reopening a shop, or returning to a house that no longer exists. The transition, like the city itself, is slow. But it is moving forward.