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At the base of a police station, recently captured from Assad’s forces, young fighters from Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham gather around a pickup truck mounted with a heavy machine gun. One, his face tanned and partly obscured by a black-and-white keffiyeh, sips tea from a small cup, seemingly unfazed by the surroundings.
Another fighter, leaning against the vehicle, methodically flicks the selector switch on his Kalashnikov. The sharp click of the mechanism pierces the otherwise quiet afternoon.
A month ago, HTS forces—a group formed in 2017 from the merger of rebel and jihadist factions in Syria’s northwestern Idlib governorate—overthrew Bashar al-Assad’s regime in a lightning offensive, ending 52 years of dictatorship in less than two weeks.
In Damascus, the leader of the HTS group and Syria’s new head of state, Al Jolani—formerly the head of Al-Nusra in Syria—has shed his jihadist identity, adopting his civilian name, Ahmed Al Shara. He has swapped his khaki uniform for a European-style suit and now welcomes diplomats and ministers from around the world to his office.
However, despite this symbolic transformation, Al Shara and his “Salvation Government” face the immense challenge of rebuilding a Syria left deeply scarred by years of war.
Large parts of the country, including regions under Kurdish or Turkish militia control, remain beyond his reach. In areas liberated from Assad’s control, tensions between Alawites (the sect from which Assad’s family originates and the backbone of his regime), Sunnis, and Christians threaten to ignite further conflict.
Meanwhile, in territories previously held by Assad, the situation is equally bleak: the economy is nearly non-existent, electricity is available only a few hours a day, and rampant inflation continues to cripple daily life.
Yet, for now, it is still a time for celebration and joy. Symbols of the regime have been dismantled one by one, and along the M5 highway, tens of thousands of refugees are finally returning. For the first time, they are going home.
Abu Rami is one of them. With a knife and ammunition clips strapped to his uniform, the 33-year-old returned from Idlib to Eastern Ghouta at the head of an HTS column.
No one was waiting for me at home. My parents died during the siege, along with other members of my family. I couldn’t even find my house because the neighbourhood was so destroyed.
Abu Rami on returning home
Located just a few kilometres from Damascus, Eastern Ghouta was the site of one of the Syrian civil war’s deadliest and most violent battles. The epicentre of anti-Assad protests in 2011, the district was besieged by the regime in 2012, supported by Russian airpower and pro-Iranian militias.
“I first served in Assad’s army. Then I deserted to join the opposition and defend my neighbourhood,” Rami told Byline Times.
“I can barely remember those years. Everything is a blur.”
From 2012 to 2018, he and his comrades from Faql Al Rahman, a moderate Islamist group, endured daily bombings, starvation, and sarin gas attacks.
“The Russians destroyed everything in Eastern Ghouta. They prioritised targeting hospitals and civilians. Their goal was to force us to leave. That’s why they also used gas against us,” explains Abdul Rahman, one of Rami’s companions, also from Ghouta.
It wasn’t until 2018, after a final offensive by Assad’s forces, that the opposition, exhausted by more than five years of siege, ultimately surrendered. A deal allowed them to capitulate in exchange for safe passage to exile in Idlib governorate.
“When we left for exile, I never thought I’d return here one day,” Rahman, 24, admits.
Rebuilding Amid the Ruins
Seven years later, Rami, his bulletproof vest tightly strapped to his shoulders, walks through the debris of his past, accompanied by two of his comrades.
Their return is tinged with melancholy. “The first hours after the liberation were so intense I could hardly breathe,” Rahman recalls.
“Everyone welcomed us as heroes. People were firing into the air, playing drums, and organising feasts. But it was hard to come back home afterward. Our entire life here was destroyed by Assad and the Russians.”
Wandering through the maze of streets, Rami stops in front of a mosque under construction. “This used to be an 11th-century mosque. The Russians destroyed it. Farther along, there’s the church that was bombed. Assad claimed he was protecting Christians, but he was killing them too.”
A hundred meters away, his eyes mist over as he gazes into the distance, lost in memories. “My father and mother died on this street, killed by a Russian Iskander missile”, says Rami.
Nearby, on what remains of a central square, Rahman points to a building. “That was my home. The Russians destroyed it.”
He climbs the stairs, one by one. At one point, he stops, and after a few moments of silence, uses his boot to push aside a stone. “This is the room where my sister and mother died.”