"Our oil lasts longer than petroleum and is more expensive than gold."

Al-Marah (Syria)A flower like pink lipstick on a bare face. That's how the color of the Damask rose stands out when it blooms in the middle of the desert. In Qaldoun al-Marah—or simply Al-Marah—a town of five thousand inhabitants fifty kilometers north of Damascus, one of the oldest varieties in the world is cultivated between mid-May and early June: the "queen of roses," as the Bitar family calls it. This family is one of the main growers of the Damask rose in Syria. Its intense, almost intoxicating perfume seems to stop time. Here, where the earth is hard and the sky is almost never cloudy, is where it "grows best," they say.

Amin Bitar, ninety years old, has the same clarity in his eyes as in his voice. His presence is imposing, but his smile softens any distance. In his house, which seems more like an oasis than a home—full of plants, with high ceilings, open windows, a cool living room with sofas that have seen generations come and go—everything is served in pink: the water, the tea… Even the juice, a thick red, seems to condense the entire flower.

“Like apples, roses need an open sky,” says Amin from the sofa, beneath a painting of an elegantly embroidered rose. Twenty-five years ago, you could count the roses cultivated in this village on your fingers. In the 1970s, many inhabitants left for Damascus or the Golf Club in search of work. More money, less effort. “The land was worthless,” says Amin. But in the 1980s, his father began to believe in the flower. He took a chance.

They started planting and planting. Today, Amin says there's a love story between him and that flower. "Everything you give her, she gives back. She doesn't lie. She's genuine."

He speaks Turkmen with pride, like most of the village, remembering his grandparents and the village's past, which many here simply call Qaldoun, after a mountain in Turkmenistan. He speaks of Genghis Khan with reverence: his empire—though he never saw it in his lifetime—stretched to the very edge of the Arab world, which would explain the settlement of this Turkmen community in Syria.

Intangible cultural heritage

Soad, his wife, seventy-four years old, accompanies him with the conviction of someone who has lived her entire life alongside the flower: "It's a sin that this country has a single kilometer where roses aren't planted. The rose is our symbol. It's in everyone's heart." She married in 1964, when she was just fourteen. At that time, the village had neither electricity nor running water. Only gasoline lamps. "My uncle was an army officer, and he taught me that patience is a virtue. The rose taught me that too. It survives winter. It's resilient," she says. When she touches the petals of the flowers, it's as if she's feeling them for the first time: the passage of time hasn't diminished that emotion. In 2019, UNESCO recognized the artisanal practices and knowledge associated with the Damask rose in the village of Al-Marah as an intangible cultural heritage of humanity. It took them five years to achieve this.

Behind the house, the family has its own distillery. They produce rose water and oil, infusions, juices, and dried petals for export. A knowledge passed down from generation to generation, in secret and with trust.

Farez Bassam Bitar, one of the young men in the family, eighteen years old, dropped out of school last year. "My future is in that flower," he says, as he delicately harvests the roses. He got up before dawn. "You have to pick the flower when it's still damp and holds the morning dew; that way it keeps its scent," he explains. He goes from rosebush to rosebush, taking only the flower bud so as not to damage the plant, and places them in a black basket which he empties into a bag at the foot of his motorbike. In the distance, other workers gather the flowers in the silence of the desert.

The rose, like all of Syria, has suffered through fourteen years of war. Madian Bitar, a fifty-three-year-old farmer and son of Amin, estimates that at least one hundred tons of roses were lost each year. This was due to the lack of income, the drop in demand—in 2023, there was a surplus: forty million roses that the Bitar family couldn't sell—the destruction of rural areas, and the displacement of the population. It is estimated that 50% of the arable and irrigable land was devastated. This is the case of the green heart of Damascus, Ghouta, besieged for four years and destroyed by the forces of the Al-Assad regime, where roses were also cultivated.

Rebel Roses

The people of Al-Marah did not participate in the uprising against Bashar al-Assad, which explains why they emerged unscathed from the war. However, there were "rebellious roses." During the peaceful demonstrations of 2011, some protesters threw roses and rosewater at regime forces as a symbol of nonviolence. In contrast, the roses of Al-Marah had already entered the corridors of power even before the war broke out. "If you have connections, you use them," says one of the Bitar brothers. In Al-Marah, the rose culture is also marked by pragmatism.

In a small house in the desert, Amin's three sons —Madian, the farmer; Samer, the lawyer in a suit and tie; and Hamza, who runs the distillery— remember the story that made their people and their flower famous.

From 2002 onwards, with the support of the Chamber of Agriculture, the rose began to gain visibility. In 2003, Yolanda Samara, a French-Syrian woman with ties to Dior, took an interest. In 2005, the Minister of Agriculture attended a conference at the prestigious Sheraton Hotel. In 2007, Asma al-Assad, the dictator's wife, visited Al-Marah. It was a pivotal moment.

Madian, Amin's son, explains: "The truth must be told. Mrs. Asma helped a village that didn't even exist on the map. She did so through the Amana organization, which channeled international humanitarian aid and development toward projects aligned with the government's interests. Two wells were built, essential for the very demanding cultivation of roses. Yabrud is seventy kilometers away," Madian recalls.

Since that visit, the village emerged from obscurity and rose production grew exponentially. "People started arriving from all over the world," says Madian, the farmer. The first time they welcomed Asma al-Assad, they offered her rosewater. There was no protocol. Although she was told she couldn't drink anything, she did. "We didn't touch a penny," they say. Shortly afterward, they acknowledge, they had 24-hour internet access, a rare privilege in Syria.

At that time, Asma al Asad was seen as a modern woman. Vogue He dedicated an article to it in 2011, titled "A rose in the desert", alluding to the flower, which was later deleted.

The government supported the annual organization of a rose festival. The regime used the festival, broadcast on television, to reinforce its image: close to the people, beloved, accessible. "Up to three thousand people would arrive in a single day. But, rather than celebrate, they ended up ruining the fields. The plants, so fragile, couldn't withstand the passage of so many visitors," says Madian bitterly.

This year, after the fall of the regime, the festival was not held. However, on May 20, two people from the new Ministry of Culture arrived in the village of Al Marah. One asked for roses for his villa. The other, for scissors to cut them, even though they are actually harvested by hand. They spent five minutes in the rose field. selfiesWhen Asma al-Asad visited the village, they would let a rosebush bloom for three days so that she could cut it at its peak.

After this scene, Madian laughs and says, "The rose will survive. Every political group will have an interest in it. Because it is strategic."

The family's most valuable product is rose essential oil, "longer lasting than petroleum and more expensive than gold," says Madian, who coined the phrase. Each gram costs one hundred dollars. The Ba'ath Party, of the Assad clan, even used this expression as its party slogan, Madian explains.

From France to Beirut, and from Japan to the United States, traders from all over the world are interested in the Damask rose. In Europe, it is valued for its regenerative and antioxidant properties; it is used in perfumery, cosmetics, and traditional medicine. Besides Syria, it is cultivated in Bulgaria, Iran, Turkey, and Morocco. "The original is from here," says Madian.

Drought, the latest threat

This year, the rose faces another threat in Syria: it's not blooming as it used to, now because of the weather. A stifling, almost summer-like heat has prevailed during the spring. Syria is experiencing one of the worst droughts in the last fifty years. "Before, it snowed in the mountains in winter. This year, nothing," says the farmer.

As he walks through empty fields, Madian laments, "That used to be a carpet of flowers. Now there's nothing left. Two years of work, and the drought has taken it all." A rosebush can live up to eighty or a hundred years. "Normally, it regenerates itself, but with the drought and the lack of water... God has stopped sending us rain." He approaches a rosebush. "This green should be happier," he remarks. The rosebushes are small: if they're lucky, they reach half their usual size. To pick the flowers, you have to crouch down.

They are requesting the construction of new wells and new solar panels to pump water using solar energy. The cost? Seven thousand dollars. They hope to receive support from the new government.

Soad, Amin's wife, says solemnly: "If one day I wake up and the rose has disappeared, I will feel dead. And I will replant it."