By: Rita Mahmoud, Syrian Artist and Activist.
September 2024
The poster is designed by Sulafa Hijazi.
Note: This article was written before the fall of the Assad regime, the victory of the revolution, and the liberation of Syria.
In recent years, my problems have multiplied and got inextricably intertwined—particularly over the past seven years since I arrived in exile, forbidden from returning to my homeland. Day by day, the challenges of being a refugee grow more intricate. Of all these, estrangement weighs heaviest. I’ve come to detest the word “homeland.” It echoes in my mind alongside the hollow rhetoric of the elder Assad: “The homeland is precious; the homeland is dear…”
Would I still be consumed by this anxiety if I had remained in Damascus? The label refugee has forced me to confront various situations I never had to consider before. I never imagined that over three thousand kilometres away from my home, I would find myself justifying my origins. Upon my arrival in France, I was asked repeatedly, “Where are you from?” My answer, then and now, remains the same: “I’m from Damascus.”
I always assumed this response was sufficient, and that anyone seeing me—without hijab, cigarette in hand, laughing with a friend—could intuit my background. Yet to my surprise, the questions persisted: “Where in Damascus?”
Damn it. I don’t have an answer! Alright, stay calm. I’ll name my area of residence: “From Al-Muhajireen.”
- Not enough… "I mean, where are you originally from?”
About a decade ago, when I explained my family history to a friend’s father, he likened me to an orange tree, grafted with flavours from across Syria. “You’re a tree of many roots,” he said. I cherished that metaphor. I do, after all, love my four roots.
I turned back to the person asking me now, with a faint panic creeping in my chest. Would he accuse me of betrayal If I told him my paternal grandfather was an Alawite from Jableh? Maybe if I told him my father had been imprisoned, even if only briefly, and that his family had opposed the regime since the so-called Correctionist Movement, he’d understand that I'm not a regime supporter.
“Listen,” I said firmly, “I’m Damascene. My parents and I were born in Damascus. My mother’s father was from Deir Ezzor, and her mother was Circassian. As for my father, his mother was a Damascene from Al-Qanawat neighbourhood, and his father was from Jableh.”
“An Alawite!...”
“Yes, but my family opposes the regime.”
I saw the confusion on his face as he struggled to categorise me. To him, I neither resembled the archetype of a “Damascene woman” nor fit the mold of an “Alawite from the mountains.”
This exchange has replayed itself countless times, each instance cutting just as deeply. My identity, which I once thought unshakeable, now exhausts me. I have never denied my origins, but deep in my heart, I am Damascene. I lived in Damascus for twenty-one years; I know its streets, its cafés, and its bookstores by heart.
No one in Damascus ever asked me about my roots. I never imagined I would one day face an identity dilemma, let alone have to explain to Europeans that I am an open-minded Syrian—like so many Syrians, not some anomaly.
When I asked my father whether he had ever faced similar struggles, he recounted how his friends at the café, where they gathered weekly for card games, would tease him, saying, “If he loses, he’ll call in an officer to settle the score.”
He wasn’t bothered by such jests. “They can’t ignore the fact that the ruling class is Alawite,” he said.
I asked him, “Would you feel afraid if another Alawite were present in your group?”
“No,” he replied, “I wouldn’t.”
Together, we pondered why neither of us fears Alawites or Sunnis. Perhaps it’s because we don’t fully belong to either group? Is that why? Why does fear exist at all? Why the us versus them? Imaginary hostilities born of a whispered fear—the fear of walls that eavesdrop on every word. Fear has become a political tool, ripping apart our country and dividing its people. Everyone seems convinced the other side will annihilate them, as though the world isn’t vast enough for us all.
This isn’t some relic of ancient social divides: Up until the mid-20th century, the enemy was external, and no one of us viewed the other as a foe. And yet, we’ve become pawns in a game of chess, manipulated by a regime that manipulated our differences, fracturing us into dissenting factions, each fearing and distrusting the other.
When will we stop being afraid? Maybe when we come to know one another, to build bridges instead of walls. Perhaps my unique position, standing equidistant from all parties, offers me the clarity to see them all, to understand them, to belong to them all at once.
I know them all. I know my grandmother, who told me stories of prophets, as much as I know my other grandmother, who spoke of 1950s music, ballroom dancing, and the military coups that shook Damascus.
I have lived between these two identities, amidst voices that harmonise despite their differences. Can we truly rewrite the narrative of "the other—the traitor, the enemy"? Perhaps… but perhaps only when we achieve social justice on our own terms, free from political impositions—when society reflects on its history, reconciles with itself, and acknowledges its crises, mistakes, and wounds.
Political justice is relative and uncertain, so it remains our responsibility to accomplish self-justice. It lies within our power to treat others fairly, to let go of exclusion and mistrust, to realise that safety cannot exist in segregation. If my neighbour is safe, then so am I.
Social justice might begin when I reclaim my lost identity, when I let go of fear, and when I understand that identity is not confined to differences but thrives in our capacity to coexist and tolerate one another.
Perhaps everything I’ve shared is meaningless. What I’m trying to convey is that I am grappling with a profound identity dilemma and a deep mistrust. I suffocate in moments where I am denied the chance to introduce myself as I truly am. People don’t afford themselves the opportunity to know me; instead, they see only a false stereotype of me, shaped by preconceptions and prejudices. I find myself consumed with justifying my identity and my stances, unable to simply be myself. I am not a girl in a frame. I have a name, a personality, and traits that deserve to be seen in this world, without fear. Yet…
I am sad. It stings when someone remarks: “So, you’re not really from Damascus?” What's happening? Why don’t the Europeans' attempts to assimilate me into their culture hurt as much as those words from my fellow people of "our homeland"? Do they fear me? Will they accept me? Will the family of the man I love accept me? I don’t feel wronged, nor do I think I’ve wronged anyone. I’m just afraid…
I am looking for someone who will accept me as I am: unaffiliated, alone, and freestanding. I've been exiled from Damascus twice: first when I became a refugee, and again when I was asked, “Where are you from?”
By: Rita Mahmoud, Syrian Artist and Activist.