"They tore everything away": the Damascus neighborhood that Assad wanted to wipe off the map

DamascusLike ancient sentinels, the hills rise in western Damascus, guarding the Syrian capital with the same solemnity with which, in the east, the mountains of rubble rise in its suburbs, silent witnesses to the devastation. For fourteen years, the city has resisted the ravages of war, but beyond its borders, the destruction is absolute. The Jobar neighborhood, once home to 300,000 people, crumbles on the other side of its borders. This suburb is The grim legacy that the regime's brutality has left behind for the future of Syria.

The echoes of lost prayers still resonate through the ruined alleys of Jobar. Amid the remains of stone and dust, a millennia-old history struggles to avoid being completely buried. Ayman Abdullah Hawas, head of the local council, remembers 2018 as the year it all ended. "We were forced to leave. Then the regime came in. They looted the iron bars from the buildings, the very thing that gave them strength. They tore everything out. And they made it illegal to return. The neighborhood became a military outpost." His voice breaks as he points to what was once his neighborhood. Jobar, like a broken jewel, lies today in eastern Damascus, transformed into an open wound.

"They don't even let you pick up your phone to record, walk slowly, or stop. It's as if they want to erase any trace that there was ever life here," Ayman says. He's referring to a deeper plan: demographic and cultural cleansing. Jobar was a predominantly Sunni neighborhood, with a historic Jewish community. It was also the only area of Damascus that kept its demographic composition intact. This made it a symbolic threat.

A former Jewish enclave with a predominantly Sunni population

This suburb, just two kilometers from the Ciutat Vella, was for centuries a significant Jewish enclave. The Talmud already mentioned it as one of the ten villages where Jews lived near the capital. With the arrival of Sephardic families after the expulsion from Spain in the 16th century, Jobar became a center of religious and cultural life. At its heart beat the Eliyahu Hanavi Synagogue, one of the oldest in the world, built over the cave where, according to tradition, the prophet Elijah lived. This temple, a symbol of centuries of coexistence and faith, did not survive the regime's attempt to remake the city to its liking.

The Jewish community, which had once flourished in Jobar, has dwindled to just nine elderly people. Some managed to return recently for the first time in fifteen years. They found a desolate landscape, but also the will to preserve the memory. "Until not so long ago," Ayman says, "Muslim neighbors helped Jews light the Sabbath candles. There was a real, sincere coexistence."

But all this turned to rubble when the war broke out. Between 2012 and 2018, Jobar was one of the opposition's strongholds. The neighborhood endured years of siege, bombing, and fierce fighting. The result: 93% of its buildings were reduced to the ground. The synagogue was also destroyed by bombing. "It was a work of cultural art, and now there are only rocket-ravaged ruins," he laments.

Clandestine Education

Ayman recounts how, amid the devastation, an unexpected form of resistance was born: education. "We started with 150 volunteers: teachers, principals. We wanted education to continue," he says. Basements were converted into schools. Without electricity, with dim lighting, many children developed vision problems. Still, they continued learning. With books brought from abroad, they even founded a university in Douma. "The regime bombed the schools when they saw we were educating. So we went underground," he says.

But what he found was a community that, even displaced to the north, continued to train engineers, doctors, and teachers. "Our students graduated. And they couldn't destroy that," he continues before adding: "It was another form of war: preventing a generation without a future from growing up."

Hamuda Abbasy, another member of the local council, recalls with a broken voice the day the air turned poison. "More than 250 people died from the chemical attacks of August 2013", he says. "Many were children, and they didn't even have time to run." The streets were silenced by the gas, and silence became part of the landscape. In response to the siege, residents dug a network of tunnels with their own hands that wound beneath the city. "It was the only way to bring medicine, bread, books... While missiles fell above, in the basements we continued living." This underground city was an act of daily resistance. "It wasn't just hiding, it was surviving with dignity," Hamuda summarizes.

Today, Jobar is a ghost town. The only place with a bit of life left. 250,000 residents remain displaced. There are no clear plans for reconstruction, and international aid is almost nonexistent. But Jobar has not disappeared. It is the greatest victory of its people: "They didn't stop our education. They couldn't stop this. Not with bombs, not with power cuts, not with fear."