Plagued by war, queues and sorrow, Syrians await their inevitable demise

As the freed prisoners glanced at the numerous photos presented to them, they quickly checked to see if the person holding the photo was a family member before moving on. Like the mothers, they too sought any information that could help them reunite with their loved ones, hoping to find someone who could aid them in their quest.

Unhealed wounds

The city was in a charged state of anticipation, awaiting the news of the 200,000 missing individuals. It was an unforgettable scene as people swapped stories of their disappeared loved ones, reopening old wounds that never healed.

Those few days will be forever etched in the history of the city — boasting to be the oldest inhabited place on earth.

The Syrians' anguish and heartbreak over their losses are indescribable, and the authorities' decision to prohibit gatherings under the bridge after several days only served to fuel their rage and frustration towards the empty promises of false amnesty that perpetuated their suffering.

The nation sank into a sorrowful slumber, consumed by grief and despair. In the cold confines of their homes, they discussed the uncertain fate of those lost forever.

Each passing day saw the departure of yet another group of fortunate young men and women who secured places in universities, job opportunities, or family reunification, in Germany or other European countries, knowing that for ordinary citizens, obtaining a visa to Europe was nearly impossible.

Meanwhile, the remaining youth have been forced to sell their belongings or take out loans to travel to places like Erbil or Beirut, where Syrians are still welcome, but with strict orders not to return to their war-torn homeland, now reduced to rubble. TS Eliot's epitaph would fall short of describing the true horrors they face.

Making light of the situation

I pen these words to describe the place where Syrians live in the midst of rubble and ruin, and where emotions of happiness, sadness, anger, and satisfaction melt into an indistinguishable blend.

The simple pleasures of life — the joy of a wedding, the cheer of a party — have long eluded me, replaced by the all-consuming struggle for survival.

With each passing day, the struggles and turmoil of existence seem to mount, leaving me uncertain if death would offer a respite from this suffering.

I find myself observing the never-ending queues for basic necessities like bread or fuel, enduring the bitter cold for four to five hours. During my last stint in the gas queue, I decided to make light of the situation. I woke up at 6 am, packed my sketchbook, two books, and a flask of coffee, and set out for the queue.

There, I spent the mornings conversing with the destitute inhabitants of my city about the soaring prices and the prospects of leaving the country. I thought that the impoverished would be more optimistic and accommodating during the early hours of the day.

After spending four hours both drawing and reading, I managed to procure 20 litres of fuel. During my wait, I drew four sketches. One was of a man who begged me to hold onto my place in the queue and not let anyone cut ahead. This man was a driver and porter, driving a run-down Suzuki car.

I asked him to stand still so I could sketch him while waiting. He liked my proposal and stood there with a smile. He then told me about his family and even scolded me for not being married, offering to help me find a suitable bride. I politely declined and thanked him with a small laugh.

As I sketched him, I realised I had unintentionally drawn Jesus Christ. This revelation led me to contemplate the idea that every Syrian had transformed into Jesus Christ, bearing their own crosses in the face of adversity.

While the concept was intriguing, it was impossible to ignore the reality that waiting in a queue was a humiliating experience, and even invoking Christ as a saviour was not enough to alleviate our struggles.

Layers of sorrow

I am writing from Damascus, the city of queues, plagued by warfare that persists even after its supposed end. It is a city with multiple layers of endless sorrow, hidden from plain sight.

I vividly recall the first time I witnessed Damascus in complete darkness nine years ago. Although it only lasted for a few hours, it was an incredible sight to behold. I wrote about it then, noting how the view of the city in the dark captured the essence of boundless despair.

As I drove through the city's streets, I stopped alongside other cars at various checkpoints that divided the city. I felt the urge to reach out and touch the darkness that surrounded me, unable to believe that I was actually experiencing such a moment.

Hours later, as I returned to my home overlooking the southeastern part of the city, I was once again struck with disbelief. The entire city was engulfed in darkness, stretching from my northernmost location to the airport. The only bright lights were from hospitals and security facilities with access to constant generator power and electricity.

The veil of darkness has been gradually thickening every day for the past four years. Its once surprising presence has now manifested into a grim reality.

My focus has shifted from trying to touch the darkness to simply being careful not to slip into a hole and break a bone.

This is no laughing matter. My friend, Dr. Bashar al-Mir Ali, a renowned orthopedic specialist within the city, told me that during the recent winter months, every hospital bed in the city was occupied due to the high number of fractures resulting from people stumbling in the darkness.

Fridges become mere cabinets

I imagine a bustling clinic, overrun with people carrying their broken bodies, in search of medical attention or even just a hospital bed. Life in this city has become unrecognisable.

Our fridges have become mere cabinet spaces, and people have reverted to the traditional practice of preserving vegetables through dehydration for the winter months. Even dreaming of cold water seems like a luxury now, and household electrical appliances have become nothing but scrap.

The best-case scenario for electricity rationing is two hours on, four hours off, but even those two hours can dwindle down to just half an hour. Other cities look upon Damascus with envy, as some places such as Latakia only receive half an hour or an hour of electricity every six hours, and in cities like Aleppo, there is no electricity at all.

This scenario reminds me of the title of my novel, No Knives in the Kitchens of This City, since in this city, we do not have electricity in our homes.

A miles-long passport queue

From Damascus, I write to describe the daunting passport queue that stretches for miles, with hundreds of thousands of hopeful individuals vying for a chance to escape — even to the depths of hell. The overwhelming number of applicants has left authorities dumbfounded in the past two years, confused over what to do.

Fees have increased and the Syrian passport — now the most expensive — is among the lowest ranking-passports in the world. It may come as a surprise, but its cost ranges from $20 to $800, depending on specific conditions.

Every day, I am humbled by the Syrian people's resilience, while acknowledging my own capacity for patience and adaptation to basic living conditions.

Writing from Damascus, I feel compelled to share our story. We are living in a destitute land, where anxiety consumes us when we think of both the past and the future — whether its fear over arrest and disappearance, starvation, thirst, and cold, or just reliving past trauma.

All of this culminates into a deep-seated fear of vanishing altogether.