Syria, Latakia 2018
This article has been written and produced by Adam Abdullatif for Alaquarium.media. The opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the author/s and do not necessarily reflect any opinions or views held by Alaquarium.media or its contributors
In 2018, at age 19, I board a flight from Melbourne, bound for the Middle East. I land in Beirut, Lebanon, and embark on a long drive under a hot sun. Photo opportunities for post-card travellers are plentiful. The roads are nuanced: ancient ruins lay beyond lively cities. Roadsides are ripe with fodder while some cities stand torn and ghost-like. My mother’s land. The land of my ancestors. A cradle of civilisation. Welcome to Syria, reads a weathered poster at the border.
At military checkpoints at both ends of the border soldiers check passports and visas. A lot of people are trying to enter. An older man, in uniform, leans his head through the car’s window.
Why are you in Syria?
My mother leans across to answer on my behalf. Family holiday!
Her life may have moved out of Syria, but her friends, family and memories remained, and she’s excited to be back; it’s the only land she knew before moving to Australia in the 90s and raising a family in Melbourne. My home. I last visited Syria as a nine-year-old child, before the recent war.
He asks to see my passport. The end of his rifle, strapped around his back, is visible past his shoulder. Posted on a wall behind him are many photos of younger men. Soldiers martyred on the battlefield. They resemble me in age and as though glimpsing into an alternative reality, in those faces I see a fate that could have been my own: a casualty of war – a headshot plastered on a wall, had my parents never left the Middle East.
What country is this passport from?
Australia.
In 2011, protests engulfed the Arab world. From the Middle East to North Africa, people shared real hunger for reform. A US led, NATO, coalition engaged directly in Libya first, where protesters called on the resignation of their long-standing despot Colonel Gaddafi. Airstrikes. War for democracy. Land that had boasted the highest standard of living in Africa is now plagued by perpetual war. Amidst the chaos, protests sparked in Syria. The nation stood divided. Washington shifted its focus from Libya, showing political support for the Syrian opposition. Political support turned to military support. The mass transfer of arms from militias in Libya & Iraq into Syria, turned a spark into a blaze. The US began a campaign of directly training and briefing militant rebel groups forming in Syria. As Syria spiralled into a vicious civil war, US arms could be found even in the hands of Al Qaeda affiliated militias.
ISIS, an offshoot from Al Qaeda, spread from Iraq to Syria absorbing US-armed, Al Qaeda linked Syrian rebel groups. In 2014, ISIS claimed the Syrian city of Raqqa, declaring it the capital of its brutal caliphate. In response, a US led coalition, including Australia, launched an ongoing airstrike campaign. The coalition has launched airstrikes in at least 17,000 locations within Syria to date. US bombs continue to drop in retaliation against the rise of a violent militia the American government had nurtured.
Despite the war, Syria’s heart still beats. On the Mediterranean coast, the cities of Latakia and Tartous blossom in the Middle Eastern summer.
Tartous is a small port city. The sea ahead, and the mountains above. With beach-side festivities and an amazing view of the coast, it’s always been a Syrian getaway. During the recent war however, it’s become a destination less for holiday makers and more for displaced families, casualties of terror, who’ve fled from cities stricken with violence, like Aleppo and Homs. But in Tartous, I’m immersed in ancient architecture and breath-taking scenery, both within the city itself and in its surrounding regions.
Latakia is like Tartous, but bigger. The city is bigger. The port is bigger. The population is bigger. During the war, more displaced Syrians have come to Latakia. On a Thursday night, I peer through a taxi’s window. The Syrian school year has come to an end. The world cup seems to hijack the city. Any and every open bistro with a TV is swamped. Innocent children turn into radical fanatics, cheering with every flashy pass and shot on goal, making heroes of players they see across their city’s screens.
Mum was raised in the capital, Damascus. Given the chance to visit her childhood home, I become sick. Paper bag in hand – vomit pouring in. This goes on for over four hours on a crowded bus, well into the night along the road to Damascus. Families play hostage to my relentless coughing. Outside, the world is not in its greatest condition either: homes reduced to rubble, debris along the ailing streets of Homs.
If each star in the sky truly reflects a soul of the dead, then on this beautiful summer’s night, death surrounds us. A full moon lights both disaster and beauty with no bias but that of its own reach; exposing images of destruction I could’ve sworn I’d seen as a child in war-grappling video games. Swallowed back into night, our bus continues. What is pop culture for me, is reality here. And not just in Syria. The flames of war burn bright in the Middle East and beyond.
Cities turn to geopolitical chess boards for world leaders. Young men become soldiers. Families leave everything in search for peace.
On this road to Damascus you would move from checkpoint to checkpoint. Now things are returning to normal, says a man on the bus. His voice and his words carry a sense of optimism. We’d passed through very few military checkpoints in the past four hours and beyond this last checkpoint, stands Damascus. Cars are piling up to enter. Soldiers ask to see identification and quickly pat down bags and luggage. Everything moves fast. The soldiers seem relaxed, as do the commuters. Reflective of the conflict, nearing its final stages. The war has fizzled into isolated pockets of the country.
Illness runs its due course and recovery takes time. I spend a day bedridden before truly being able to experience one of the world’s oldest cities.
Damascus has recovered from conflict numerous times in the past; from Ottoman occupation and destruction to the struggle against French colonialism in the 1920s, to now re-stabilising after eight years of civil war. It’s a city coloured with people from all walks of the country. Some have endured years of instability, staying within the city throughout the war and many others have found refuge within the capital, their homes elsewhere lost to bombs or hostility. Throughout the war, the city itself remained relatively safe and for the first time in seven years, all regions of the wider governorate are without conflict.
At its core, modernity clashes with the ancient. I visit two markets. One is a relatively new shopping centre. Neon lights. Modern brands. A flashing sign reads In English: Uptown. I forget that I’m in Damascus, an ancient city.
The other, Souk al hamidiya, flourishes in the Syrian summer. Vendors litter the old bazaar, selling anything and everything to a constant flow of shoppers piling in. One merchant tells me I need new socks, another thinks I need a hat. Amidst the madness, I spot a small ice-cream parlour. An endless crowd of women, men, children and families are waiting to enter. Had it been any other store, in any other place, I wouldn’t even bother but this parlour, Bakdash, is my Mum’s childhood favourite.
From the outside, I have a clear view of the kitchen. Workers pound the frozen cream with a wooden pestle until it reaches a perfect consistency. Bakdash’s Arabic ice cream is said to be the best in the world. The line seems endless from a distance, but a constant stream of people simultaneously flows in and out. Inside, it’s chaotic, but in some odd way everything runs smoothly.
The ice cream is worth the wait. In this ancient market, bursting with life, culture, and the “best ice cream”, I forget that I’m in Syria. The land at war.
For Syria, recovery is underway. It will take longer than a day, or a year, but from Homs to the embattled city of Aleppo, the country of my ancestors enters a period of recuperation. Some refugees, both internally and externally displaced, have already made the difficult decision to return home.
Leaving Damascus, I present my Australian passport to another soldier, at another checkpoint. Handing it over, I ask myself: what is the price of this passport? How many families have left everything they’ve known, risking death to reach Australia’s border, but are yet to set foot on its land? And since Australia’s bombs have struck regions in Syria, I think of the parents who would die for their children to hold an Australian passport, having a chance at a life away from conflict. The families who’ve endured the war here, or another elsewhere, and traversed dangerous waters only to remain detained on Manus or Nauru. In this one moment, holding this one passport, I feel grateful, but guilty.
In 2020, America’s war machine now aims at Iran and the prospect of another brutal war looms. We as Australians have a responsibility to ensure that our leaders don’t engage in a new conflict, lest Iran be the new Syria.
On my last day in my mother’s homeland, from my room’s window in a small village atop the mountains of the Tartous governorate, I observe sunrise above Syria. Strokes of red and yellow melt above the horizon and detonate explosions of colour. Light momentarily bridges the gap between land and sky. From darkness, the sun rises.
Adam Abdullatif is a Melbourne based journalist and writer. As Part of the Syrian / Lebanese diaspora in Australia, the ongoing conflicts within both his family’s homeland and the wider Middle East inspire some of Adam’s writing. Adam is a founder of Alaquarium.media. Currently, he is a student at RMIT University.
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