“They destroyed everything”: Russia gone, Syrians begin a long and painful process of reconstruction

Damascus Governorate, SYRIA — The souk on the central alley of Arbin, a neighborhood on the outskirts of Damascus in Eastern Ghouta, is full of people. Among the ruined buildings, sellers have set up their stalls and shout at the top of their lungs the prices of the day.

A month ago, the HTS, a movement born from the merger of rebel and jihadist groups based in the governorate of Idlib, in the northwest of the country, overthrew the regime of Bashar al-Assad following a lightning offensive, ending five decades of dictatorship in less than two weeks. Russia, an ally of Assad, which had supported the regime with military force, was forced to withdraw to its bases in Tartous and Khmeimim.

Since then, civilian voices, long suppressed, have come to the fore.

“The Russians destroyed my house during the siege,” cries an old man at the market, his cane raised to the sky.

“My son and my daughter also died because of the Russians,” adds another. “They killed everyone and destroyed everything.”

Located just a few kilometers from Damascus, Eastern Ghouta was the scene of one of the most violent and deadly battles of the Syrian civil war. The epicenter of anti-Assad protests in 2011, it was besieged by the regime from 2012 and relentlessly bombed by Russian aircraft.

It was only in 2018, after five and a half years of siege, chemical attacks and starvation, that the Eastern Ghouta rebels agreed lay down their arms and go into exile in the Idlib pocket as part of an evacuation deal brokered by Russia.

Seven years later, the neighborhood is nothing more than a field of ruins, sparsely populated by survivors who, until the fall of the regime, lived under the control and repression of the Russian forces operating there.

Mamdouh Abdul Latif, 32, an egg seller at the Arbin souk, remembers this time with bitterness. His round face, framed by a blond beard, sparkles in the sun.

“Russians based nearby often attacked our neighborhood,” he said. “We were afraid of them, especially the Chechen fighters. We avoided interacting with them, but it was not a peaceful relationship. They were monstrous. They often came to our market and took what they wanted. But what could we do?

Abu Salmun, an elderly man standing nearby whose face is scarred by an explosion during the siege, interrupts Latif.

“Under the 2018 agreement, Assad’s forces could not enter Ghouta. So it was the Russians who took care of security,” he explains. “Assad had the Iranians behind him, and the Iranians had the Russians behind them. In the end, it was the Russians who took the lead.”

Abu Salmun recounts how Russian troops arrested his own son.

“They took him away for no reason. I sold my house and paid a bribe to get him out,” he says. “Yesterday I saw photos of Saydnaya (a prison in Damascus governorate known for atrocities). God knows what would have happened to him if he had stayed there. Prisoners were herded like sheep in these prisons.

Pausing for a moment, Abu Salmun leans against a nearby vegetable stall. He smiled, a grimace lost in the scars on his face.

“At the end of the day, it’s because of the Ukrainians that we are free,” he says. “If they hadn’t destroyed the Russian army, God knows how long Assad would have stayed in power.”

Rebuilding amid the ruins

In Arbin, the time of celebrations for the overthrow of Assad is gradually coming to an end, giving way to a phase of uncertainty over the future of Syria.

In Damascus, al-Julani, leader of HTS and new Syrian head of state, abandoned his jihadist identity to adopt his civilian name, Ahmed al-Sharaa. He swapped his khaki uniform for a European-style suit and now welcomes diplomats and ministers from all over the world into his office.

But despite this symbolic transformation, al-Sharaa and its “salvation government” face the immense challenge of rebuilding a country devastated by more than a decade of war.

Large parts of Syria, including areas controlled by Kurdish or Turkish militias, remain beyond its reach. In areas liberated from the Assad regime, tensions between Alawites (the sect from which Assad’s family comes and the backbone of his regime), Sunnis and Christians are likely to intensify further.

Meanwhile, in territories previously held by Assad, the situation is just as bleak: the economy is almost non-existent, electricity is available for only a few hours a day, and rampant inflation continues to paralyze daily life. The government also faces tens of thousands of Syrians finally returning home after years of refugee status.

Abu Rami, an HTS soldier, is one of them. A knife and magazines attached to his uniform, he is a child from Eastern Ghouta.

“I first served in Bashar’s army. Then, I defected to join the opposition and defend my neighborhood,” he explains. “I barely remember those years. Everything is blurry in my memory.

From 2012 to 2018, he and his comrades from Faql Al Rahman, a moderate Islamist group, lived daily under bombings, famine and sarin gas attacks. Their return is tinged with melancholy.

“The first hours after the liberation were so overwhelming that I could barely breathe,” said Abdul Rahman, one of his comrades.

“Everyone gave us a hero’s welcome. People were shooting into the air, playing drums and having parties. But after that, it was hard to come home. Everything in our life here has been destroyed by Assad and the Russians.”

Walking through the maze of streets, Abu Rami stops in front of a mosque under construction.

“It was an 11th century mosque. The Russians destroyed it. Further down is the church that they bombed. Assad claimed he was protecting Christians, but he also killed them,” he says.

Further along the streets, he adds: “No one was waiting for me at home. My parents died during the siege, as did other members of my family. All my memories are gone. The house where I got married was destroyed.

A hundred meters away, his eyes widen. “My father and mother died on this street, killed by a Russian Iskander missile. »

In what remains of a central square, Abdul Rahman points to a building. “It was my house. The Russians destroyed it. One by one, he climbs the stairs. At one point, he stops, and after a few seconds of silence, pushes a stone aside with one of his boots. “This is the room where my sister and my mother died.”

The return

In a room of his house damaged by a Russian airstrike, Nasser, a young HTS soldier recently returned from exile, feeds a central stove with sunflower seeds to heat one of the few renovated rooms in the family home. Part of his family remained behind after 2018, while he went into exile in Idlib.

“I hadn’t seen him since 2012,” says his uncle Ayman, who fled to the north of the country before the siege of Ghouta began.

Nasser is still trying to readjust to his return. On several occasions, he attempts to describe the emotions he feels upon his return.

“I can’t believe it. My body is there, but my heart can’t understand what’s happening. I don’t think anyone expected that the regime would fall so easily or that we would have returned home so quickly,” he says. Between two cigarettes, he admits: “I had resigned myself to the idea of ​​never seeing my family or my city again. »

“I met my nephew for the first time last month,” Nasser said, pointing to the young man. “Look how big he is. He has a beard. He’s a man now.

Wissam, Nasser’s nephew, barely knew he had an uncle in Idlib.

“Because of Bashar, we didn’t call each other anymore. We were too afraid to speak. We knew they were there, but we never expected to be able to speak. Seeing yourself now is like living a dream,” says Wissam.

Ayman, with a round face worn by years of poverty, nevertheless recognizes the difficulties that exiles face when they return to their neighborhoods.

“There are two big problems: housing and jobs,” he said. “More than 90% of the buildings have been destroyed and there are not enough jobs for everyone. »

Abu Rami, Nasser and their comrades are stationed in Ghouta, but they do not know for how long. As soldiers, they could be sent to another city or district at any time. So they take things one day at a time, relishing the opportunity to be home.

“I dream of bringing my children here,” sighs Abu Rami. “I have three. They are with my wife in Idlib. Inshallah, they will come here soon. The only thing I long for is to live peacefully in my neighborhood and never leave it again.