What madness it is for tourists to visit Damascus in its current state. I envision them with cameras slung around their necks, astounded by the faces of those emerging from a 13-year-long war, inhaling the fragrant spices, and revelling until the early hours in the bars of the old city.
The idea seems like an unimaginable fantasy. Night after night, I am jolted awake by indescribable nightmares: severed heads, knives ruthlessly slitting children's throats, birds dropping lifeless as they arrive in this unfamiliar city called Damascus, reputedly the oldest city in history.
Yet, day after day, I navigate its roads, remembering that 13 years ago, I never ceased to welcome friends from all corners of the world, their visits bringing me endless joy.
We would improvise activities in this enchanting, hushed city, where silence conceals more than it reveals. And in the late evening, we would find moments of languor, immersed in conversation, discussing a myriad of topics.
Still caught amidst these nightmares, I dream of my friends returning to visit, and I rush to the airport to greet them. But laughter fills me when I realise the airport has been closed for years, except for the enigmatic flights between Damascus and its allied capitals like Tehran and Baghdad.
We remain uncertain about their cargo, but the resemblance to war supplies requires no guessing. Only a few flights remain, ferrying Syrian citizens from Cairo and some Gulf countries.
One day in April, the city woke up to a typical spring-like day. The radio announced a new low-pressure system, but those standing in queues paid no heed. They have grown accustomed to traversing muddy roads, unfazed by the inconvenience.
My car holds only a tiny amount of gas, enough for a journey or two. It matters little; I will find a solution. My neighbours will share their cars, and we will endure the waiting time together.
A city forever lost
Memories intertwine, images of Damascus from 20, 30, and 40 years ago. That city is gone, forever lost. Even its once-enticing scents have evaporated, leaving behind a pitiful Damascus burdened by an incomprehensible silence and lingering anticipation.
