Thread by @PeterHarling

Although I returned to Damascus—a city where I have personal roots—I must admit: I was among the people inexplicably reticent to go.

In my circles, quite a few Syrian exiles have found reasons, like me, to dither and delay. Part of my trip was an attempt to understand why 🧵

Central Damascus remains a bubble of seeming normalcy, now as always. This already was a problem in the 2000s, when the privileged viewed economic progress as sipping cappuccinos in fancy new cafes, while the working class descended into poverty—a backdrop to the uprising.

It was a problem during the conflict itself, when foreign delegations and resident UN staff would form opinions detached from tough realities across the country. It is a strangely similar problem now, as we inevitably celebrate all the pleasures and comforts of central Damascus.

Indeed, Damascus city has retained, to a large degree, its unshakable identity. So many places haven't budged one bit: the shops, the shopkeepers, the goods, the atmosphere. Old habits and ways of life endure.

It's reassuringly easy to feel at home, to find one's way, to reclaim the city for all its charming scenes and smells and flavors. Even unknown faces can somehow feel familiar. Today like yesteryear, people don't pay attention to foreigners, as if novelty just wasn't a thing.

There are, of course, many noticeable changes. Street vendors are everywhere, in a city that has become one gigantic sidewalk hustle. Beggars, once a rarity, have multiplied, and include children, broken men, and veiled middle-aged women.

The city is reshaped by a whole new demographic: gun-toting Islamists, women in burkas, exotic cars from Idlib, tourists spending Turkish lira. The traffic is choking, as is the air itself. Damascus is also blanketed with solar panels, among other reminders of the lack of power.

There are less visible changes too. The city isn't just starved of electricity, but of water: Its river, the Barada, is just a trickle now, even in winter.

Economic uncertainty is reaching equally frightening levels. The souks struggle to function given a volatile exchange rate.

Factories close due to the flood of cheap foreign wares. Civil servants who haven't been laid off aren't receiving their puny salary either. Those made redundant are joining the mass of sidewalk vendors. Smuggled fuel is sold on every corner not because fuel is lacking: Jobs are.

The emotional landscape is perhaps one of the things that have changed the least. Relief is obvious: Few people describe the Assad regime as anything but odious, and the way it collapsed reinforces that judgment. Yet fear remains rampant, although it has partially changed camps.

Bits and pieces of the regime's infrastructure are back in service. It's disturbing, in fact, to see just how many bases and buildings attached to the security apparatus are still in use. Checkpoints are few, but armed young men acting as bullies aren’t so rare.

In reaction, some citizens are cautiously adopting submissive behaviors already. Among Damascenes, this latest invasion by a horde of rural outsiders elicits resentment and suspicion.

The biggest transformation by far is also the least openly discussed. If central Damascus seems relatively normal, a shadow looms on the horizon. Something terrible, incomprehensible, unspeakable has happened in the suburbs.

Even a quick drive through a suburb like Jobar reveals scenes that the brain cannot truly understand: complete desolation, vast uninhabitable expanses, another Damascus of which nothing is left. It's still not clear what "liberation" means in areas so depopulated and destroyed.

These obliterated suburbs represent an extreme version of the loss many residents of Damascus have experienced in other forms, along with Syrians more broadly. In preserved areas, not every person in exile has a home in waiting either.

Some flats have new tenants. Others are in too great a state of disrepair. Meanwhile, extended families are dislocated and in need: For returning exiles, it has become surprisingly costly to visit friends or relatives, because of all the urgent cash handouts involved.

Loss is on many levels, and it goes beyond the more obvious tolls of war. In 14 years, old friends passed, younger ones moved on, children grew up. All that may sound natural, if it weren’t for the fact that those 14 years are especially difficult to account for.

People coped and carried on. But for many, these were years of surviving in a suspended, stolen, soulless time. The manner of the regime's collapse—so sudden, so absurd—makes that period even harder to comprehend: So what was all the violence, all the suffering, all the ruin for?

Regardless, visiting Damascus is a blissful experience: No matter what they have been through, the city and its people can be trusted for their magic. But it is important to accept that, with the recent turn of events, many other emotions have been “liberated” too.

There is no particular compulsion to rejoice, to look forward, to rush into the future. There is no reason to expect some elusive "closure" without even taking the time to grieve. And the truth is that there is so much to grieve, still.

On a visit, it is perhaps helpful to go back and forth, between the soothing and the sorrowful. The city is full of beauty and pain. The better parts of Damascus make everything easier. The worst parts of Damascus make everything real.