Without water, without electricity and without security: the problems of returning to post-Assad Syria
In the suburbs of Damascus, reconstruction is slow and makes it difficult for refugees who fled the war to return.
DamascusSince the fall of Bashar al-Assad, the southern suburbs of Damascus remain trapped in a suspended time. In neighborhoods like Hajar al-Aswad, Yarmouk, and the Tishreen Street axis, the war no longer dictates daily life, but its mark continues to determine who can return, how, and under what conditions. The violence has stopped, but normality has not.
Hajar al-Aswad was one of the neighborhoods hardest hit during the conflict. Before 2011, more than 100,000 people lived here. Today, according to estimates from United Nations agencies, only a few hundred have returned. On the main street, some shops have reopened, offering a partial image of recovery. But this superficial appearance doesn't withstand closer inspection.
"The situation is difficult, but this is our home area," explains Hatem, who has reopened a small grocery store with the support of a civil association. "We grew up here and we want to contribute to its reconstruction. We're starting from scratch." Their decision stems less from structural optimism than from a lack of alternatives. Returning is, for many, a personal commitment rather than a public one. Omar, owner of a nearby store, shares this logic. "People are returning little by little. I opened this business to rebuild my life here and support the community's return," he says. Both agree that the process isn't being directed from above. The visible reconstruction in Hajar al-Aswad is fragmented, sustained by individual initiatives and occasional support from local associations. In the inner streets of the neighborhood, the scene is much more stark. Partially collapsed houses, uncollected rubble, makeshift electrical wiring, and a barely functioning network of services. "I'm fixing all of this with my own resources," says Abu Ahmad, owner of a house under construction. "I haven't received any help from organizations or external entities. My situation is manageable, but there are people who have lost everything." Reconstruction is progressing, but unevenly, widening the gap between those who can afford the costs and those stuck waiting.
For Samira, a widow, the wait translates into precariousness. "We ask anyone who can help us to do so, so we can live here. There's no electricity or even the minimum conditions for a dignified life," she says. Youssef, an elderly man in the neighborhood, points to the same problem: "If the services were complete, we would see a much larger return." Without a reliable water supply, regular electricity, and basic sanitation, a mass return remains unfeasible.
A few kilometers away, in Yarmouk, the former Palestinian camp now integrated into the urban fabric of Damascus, reconstruction presents an added layer of complexity. The devastation was almost total, and although some streets have been cleared and certain buildings rehabilitated, the return remains limited. In addition to the physical destruction, there are administrative hurdles, lost documents, property disputes, and security procedures that slow down any return process. International organizations have promoted partial rehabilitation projects, but their scope is insufficient given the magnitude of the damage. In Yarmouk, rebuilding is not just about repairing walls; it's also about recovering rights. For many Palestinian families, returning means confronting a legal limbo that predates the war and is now exacerbated by the lack of a clear framework. Daily life attempts to be pieced together amidst ruins, but without lasting guarantees. The Tishreen area and its adjacent streets show another facet of this uneven reconstruction. Less devastated than Hajar al-Aswad or Yarmouk, it has been the subject of more visible interventions: debris removal, reopening of some roads, and selective rehabilitation. However, this recovery is not uniform. The work is concentrated on strategic axes, while secondary residential areas remain deteriorated. For many residents, this disparity fuels the perception of a reconstruction that prioritizes image and traffic flow over the actual return of the population.
The problem, in all these neighborhoods, is not merely technical. It is political. The new authorities promised to facilitate the return of the displaced and activate reconstruction plans. However, in the southern suburbs of Damascus, that promise translates little into a sustained institutional presence or structural public investment. The absence of the state leaves room for individual initiative, but also for resignation.
Khaled, an internally displaced person who has not yet returned permanently, visits his home in Hajar al-Aswad every few weeks. "I want to go back," he says, "but I can't bring my family back without water, without electricity, and without security. Returning like this isn't starting over, it's surviving."
In post-conflict Syria, the southern suburbs of Damascus reveal an uncomfortable reality. Without stable electricity grids, without regular running water, and with neighborhoods still covered in rubble, returning is not a matter of will, but of feasibility. Reconstruction risks consolidating a new social map made of absences.