T o be Syrian, it seems, is to live in disbelief. Even as I watched the news unfold overnight on Saturday and into Sunday morning that rebels had entered Damascus, Syria’s capital, and that long-time dictator Bashar al-Assad had fled the country, even as I learned Sunday morning that he’d officially resigned, and even as family members sent congratulatory messages, I didn’t know how to accept that the regime had finally fallen.
It was a familiar sort of disbelief. Fourteen years ago, as the Arab Spring uprisings tore through North Africa and the Middle East, toppling governments in Tunisia and Egypt, I couldn’t imagine that protests would erupt in Syria. I remember my shock the moment I learned that demonstrators had taken to the streets there. I was living in Ottawa at the time, and a few weeks after the protests began, in March 2011, I flew to Damascus for my older brother’s engagement party. But the festivities were muted and held at home. It wouldn’t have looked good to be seen celebrating any occasion when Assad’s power was being so publicly challenged.
