‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’, the fall of Assad, and the missing chapter

When the moment of Assad's overthrow did finally arrive—a moment that many Syrians still struggle to believe—it felt as though it were a scene that García Márquez had forgotten to include in his novel. 

In many ways, the fall of Assad mirrors the moment when José Arcadio Buendía realises that the sea he had been searching for his whole life had always been right before him, he could just never see it. 

The power of the regime, once considered invincible, seemed to dissipate within hours. All the empty rhetoric that had defined the Ba'athist and Assadist discourse—freedom, justice, Arabism, Palestine, confronting the "forces of arrogance and colonialism"—was suddenly exposed as totally devoid of substance.

History repeating

When Hafez al-Assad died on 10 June 2000, Syrians, Arabs, and the world were struck by a sense of disbelief. With his cold, statue-like presence scattered across the country, he had managed to cultivate an image of eternity.

Many hoped that Syria would finally embark on a path of change, but the arrival of his Western-educated doctor son, Bashar—who unexpectedly became heir after the death of his brother Bassel in a car accident—did not initially inspire optimism. 

Bashar's young age sparked hopes that his era would be different from his father's, particularly regarding freedom of expression, and Syrians did see brief, formal signs of change, but those illusions were quickly shattered by the violent crackdown the regime unleashed during the 2011 revolution. Syria was back to square one.

In the novel One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez explores the cyclical nature of time, where history repeats itself with little to no escape. Similarly, Syrians made sacrifices that no other Arab Spring people had to endure, with millions dead, wounded, and displaced over 13 years. 

Sinking stagnation

None of it succeeded in removing Assad, his party, or his regime. A sense of fatalism crept in, not just among Syrians, but across the world. Bashar appeared to be the embodiment of fate, a version of his 'eternal' father. 

As the world began to normalise relations with Damascus, Syria sank into a state of stagnation and influence-peddling. It seemed the revolution had died, that the chance for change had passed, and that future generations would be left with no hope for liberation. 

Syrians had not forgotten the early 1980s when Hafez, after the massacres in Hama—the largest in the region's history—solidified his hold on power, letting him rule until his death, which seemed only natural in the context of his long reign. This sense of continuity made 8 December 2024 seem wholly unimaginable. 

The 'Eternal Monday' that Syrians lived through for decades seemed to finally give way to a miracle, one that many still struggled to comprehend. The cycle of stagnation and oppression ended and a new chapter began. Time, frozen in its 'eternal' slumber, moved forward again, as if the hands of Syria's clocks all rediscovered their rhythm.

García Márquez had written his epic One Hundred Years of Solitude parallel to the history of his native Colombia, a country ruled for generations by a corrupt alliance of military and business elites. 

Márquez's Colombia

Colombians, like the inhabitants of Macondo, seemed perpetually bound to their dark destinies, caught between the gun barrels, the manipulative games of politicians, and the ambitions of colonial foreigners, haunted by myths, legends, and the unrelenting grip of historical forces. 

When Marquez published his novel in 1967, he could not have known that its wondrous, magical events were not just reflections of his country's history, but would echo across continents, including the Middle East, where the mix of foreign influence, political corruption, military coups, and social stagnation felt very familiar. 

Syria in 2011 represented a final moment of hope—a fleeting belief that it might be possible to break free from this vicious cycle of repeated tragedies and move toward the future. But when that dream faltered, it came at a cost no-one had dared imagine. The country seemed doomed to languish in a forever nightmare.

The 'City of Mirrors' dreamed of by the founder of Macondo became, in Syria, a 'City of Statues.' It was no surprise, then, that the first act of the Syrian people after the regime's fall was to destroy these statues, dragging them through the streets, insulting and ridiculing these constant reminders that Assad was their only mirror, their permanent fate. 

The regime's slogan—'Assad or we burn the country'—embodied the idea that the fate of the Syrian people was inexorably tied to the will of their 'eternal leader'. The destruction of those statues symbolised a decisive rejection of that dark destiny.

Utopia and Bab al-Hara 

Macondo began as a utopian city, a place where there were no parties or rulers, and where people lived in complete, unchecked freedom. This is something akin to a creation story, an existence of absolute innocence, where people live without concern for the past or future. 

When the gypsy sage Melquíades brings the outside world to Macondo, he introduces modernity, embodied by science—the magnet, the compass, and later, the camera. Macondo transforms from a simple, primitive village into a city of stone houses. With this transformation comes politics. 

The first decision of the city's first governor, appointed by the highest Colombian authorities, is that everyone must paint their homes the same shade of blue—the colour of the ruling Conservative Party. Thus, innocence ends, and a new era begins, marked by successive generations of the Buendía family. With this new order, the outside world enters Macondo.

In Assad's Syria, before and during the 2011 revolution, a similar narrative unfolded through what became known as the genre of 'The Environment' series. The most prominent and famous example was Bab al-Hara which, with its seemingly endless episodes, became emblematic of the fate shared by Syrians and the Assad family. 

In this series, the story repeats: a neighbourhood at the heart of the world (not just Syria) becomes a mirror of values like sacrifice, magnanimity, loyalty, and resistance to colonial powers, as well as to the perceived ills of modernity. At the end of each season, the forces of good triumph, and the neighbourhood is cleansed of the evil, the foreigner, the traitor, or the spy who had sought to undermine it.

An unlikely hero

In Macondo, the seeds of revolution begin with a simple act of resistance: the right of each inhabitant to paint their house in whatever colour they choose, not just the uniform colour mandated by rulers. 

Aureliano Buendía is born as an unlikely hero. His struggle against the authorities does not stem from personal ambition, but from the injustice he sees inflicted upon the people of his city. His revolution, which lasts more than 30 years, makes him a legend, someone who sacrifices everything for a cause greater than himself. 

This image, as painted in the novel and later in the TV series, is strikingly similar to what many people—including Syrians—have experienced under the rise of dictatorships.

Revolutions always start with a loyal hero, someone who emerges from the people who, over time, becomes an absolute ruler—controlling the country's resources and shaping the people's destinies. 

This pattern, familiar in both the fictional world of Macondo and the harsh reality of Syria, reflects the tragic arc of revolution turned to tyranny, where the desire for change is often co-opted by the very powers that people sought to overthrow.

Bashar and Buendia 

With these comparisons, it is clear that Bashar al-Assad has little in common with Aureliano José Buendía, who, at least, was a genuine fighter and taciturn in a way that suggested complexity—an inability to explain his motives that, in a sense, added to his tragic depth. Assad, on the other hand, had nothing but words. 

Syrians remember his speeches as awkward, childlike attempts at articulation but which resembled the confused ramblings of a disturbed child still learning to speak. Over time, they became a source of ridicule, almost rendering him incapable of using the tool of communication effectively. 

José Arcadio Buendía, bound by his madness to the chestnut tree in his yard, deliriously spoke in Latin. Assad's delirium, expressed in Arabic, was not much different. 

In One Hundred Years of Solitude, we can still sympathise with the Buendía family—even as their actions wreak havoc on their own lives and those around them—because they remain deeply human and believable. By contrast, the Assads long ago lost any semblance of humanity. 

Even the regime's attempt to humanise Asma (Assad's wife) through her illness failed to generate any genuine sympathy. The Buendía family is driven by feelings, passions, fears, and superstitions. The Assads, like most dictatorial families, resemble the cold, inhuman ice that García Márquez often evokes in his novel. 

Devouring each other

We must wait for Part 2 of One Hundred Years of Solitude to see the fates of the remaining six generations of the Buendía family, and with them, the fate of Macondo. But we already know from the novel that Macondo ultimately turns into a land of ruins. This is the image of Syria before the fall of Assad. 

Within the large house Ursula built for the Buendía family, we find intrigue, jealousy, selfishness, and—above all—madness. Within the Assad family, we likely find similar traits. In the end, all members of this family, including the broader 'party family' and their supporters, devoured each other long before December 2024. Defections, conspiracies, and betrayals accompanied the regime's downfall. 

Finally, Syrians have been liberated. The swift takeover of power by Hay'at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) prompted many to ask how this miracle had occurred. HTS leader Abu Muhammad al-Julani transitioned into Ahmed al-Sharaa, swapping his military uniform for a suit, a transformation that mirrors the mythic evolution of legendary characters in Márquez's novel. 

The fall of Assad itself seemed like the supreme end, a fulfilment of a 'one hundred years of solitude' cycle. The ensuing debates—about justice, a new social contract, civil society, and secularism—cannot help but recall the discussions in Macondo about religion and the role of the church in their lives. 

Syria's new ruler seems to have emerged from the defence of liberalism and the freedom of people to live and think, creating the illusion of a fresh start.

The hope remains that the new chapter in Syria will not be anything like the anticipated second part of One Hundred Years of Solitude, which would doom Syria to yet another unending cycle of stagnation and despair.