Where Damascus goes to breathe

I left Syria, like so many others, to avoid arrest. Shortly before, I visited Mount Qasioun one last time and said goodbye to my friends, my ex-girlfriend and a few fellow students. The journey there was complicated: the military had set up several checkpoints, and I was forced to walk through the neighbouring districts.  

From the vantage points of this mountain, your gaze wanders over the city. You're close enough that you can recognise the neighbourhoods and landmarks. The people gathering, the view, the feeling of being close to the city and yet far away at the same time—all this made this place so special for us young people at the time. It was a meeting place for everyone who otherwise couldn't meet, for all the ethnic and religious groups that made up this diverse country, and for people of all ages. 

But during the Syrian revolution, the mountain gradually turned into a restricted military zone, closed off to the people. It became a base, a barracks and a production site for the notorious barrel bombs that the regime, as cruel as it was cost-effective, deployed against armed groups. From Qasioun, it was easy to strike opposition-held neighbourhoods. The mountain, once part of the city's beauty and the setting of legends, poetry and stories, became a symbol of domination and destruction. 

What the mountain means to us

My first memory of Qasioun comes from a series of children's books written about the prophets. These were short stories, printed on thin yellow paper. Every week in fifth grade, when I was about ten years old, I spent my pocket money on them. 

One of these stories was about Adam. On the last page, it said that Cain, the son of Adam, killed his brother Abel on Mount Qasioun—and that the rock with which he struck him still weeps for him to this day. The story was meant more as entertainment than religious instruction. Legends repeatedly link Qasioun to prophets and mystics, giving it great religious significance. 

In the nineteenth century, migrants from the Caucasus, the Balkans and other regions settled there. Creative ways were found to separate these refugees from the long-established Damascenes, for example, through the planting of gardens. Over time, the area became one of the capital's most expensive districts. 

Yet Qasioun's central place in Syrian culture is not only rooted in legends and politics. The mountain's greatest draw is the freedom it offers. It was accessible to all parts of society, a place to breathe—the only one in the city. 

Damascus has few parks, public spaces or green areas. For a long time, Qasioun was a popular outing for poor and wealthy families alike, both seeking escape from the dusty, noisy city. Under the Assad regime, the view over Damascus was, for many, the only chance to feel "elevated" rather than humiliated. But after the 2011 revolution, access was blocked, and Qasioun was made an enemy of the Syrians. 

By closing off Qasioun, the regime didn't just make a public space inaccessible but also deprived the city of a place for intimacy and privacy. It was a place for lovers who came here to escape the control of a strict society, and for politically engaged people who met here to discuss politics beyond the surveillance of the security services—elsewhere, such gatherings required permission from the intelligence agencies. 

This mountain, carrying the legends of the prophets—from Adam and Abraham to Moses, along with scholars and mystics—offered people privacy, shielding them from both society and state. For us, a visit to Qasioun meant both discovery and concealment. It was a space for the privacy of a kiss, or of a thought. 

It welcomed me after all these years

After the fall of the regime in December, I returned to Syria. For 12 years, a visit had been unthinkable. A few days after my arrival, my mother asked if I wanted to see the Tadamon district, where we used to live. Our homes there had fallen into ruin; Tadamon was the site of some of the worst massacres carried out by the former regime and its allies. 

I felt uneasy but agreed. My mother packed drinks, sweets and fruit, as if we were going on a picnic. We made a quick round through the ruins of houses and shops, saw the destruction and the dogs that had inherited the neighbourhood from those who had fled or been killed. Then my father put on cheerful music and began to sing, and my mother and brother joined in. That's how we drove up toward Qasioun. 

I couldn't understand this indifference to the killings and the destruction—as if it were something that simply happened, inevitable. Here and there, they pointed things out, explaining the massacres and losses as if we were visitors in a museum, who, after our tour, simply carried on to Qasioun—the mountain that, after the fall of the regime, was once again open to the people. 

It was now accessible again as a place of refuge—from memory, death and loss. More than that, Qasioun is the only place in Damascus where you can breathe clean air. The Damascus air below, heavy with dust and toxic fumes from diesel, petrol and the poor-quality fuel used everywhere in the absence of electricity, is suffocating. 

The road to the summit was completely jammed, but everyone was happy. The car horns, ever-present in Damascus traffic, turned into a concert, soundtracking our journey up the mountain. With windows rolled down, horns and music took turns. A childlike joy spread, the kind that doesn't care about the next morning. This shared space of freedom had come alive once more.

Will the mountain remain a place for everyone?

With the same enthusiasm, the Syrian transitional government quickly announced sweeping measures to improve the Qasioun area: roads, parking lots and benches were to be built, and the mountain reforested, so that it could once again become a place for the city's residents. 

At the same time, however, Qasioun is also a site of political authority: transitional President Ahmed al-Sharaa intends to host guests there. Officials, investors and foreign politicians are showing interest in the mountain. While this is not inherently threatening, it is sparking fears that the space may be appropriated once again, whether for political purposes or other uses that do not serve the public good. 

Many months have passed since the fall of the Assad regime, and the ruling class has changed. Yet some political practices appear unchanged. New investment plans have emerged, including proposals to turn Qasioun into a tourist destination with shopping centres and a hotel.

This is fueling concern not only among opponents of the new regime but also among Damascenes in general. This open space was accessible to all groups in Syrian society—practically the only place to breathe freely, for residents, lovers, and any emerging opposition. Now it risks becoming like any other place: reserved for those with money and power.

This kind of political practice puts the burden on the people—they must inform the new government about poorly thought-out decisions. Blind investments and developments pose a danger to all of Damascus due to the mountain's structural fragility. Studies warn that excessive construction could trigger landslides along the entirety of Qasioun's slopes. 

If politicians, who know little about the area's history, now listen to investors more than to the population, it falls to the people to raise awareness. But the people are exhausted, financially and mentally, and desperately need this space to breathe, a space they have only just regained. 

My mother, for example, doesn't need a massive mosque to pray; she can simply do so on the mountain's slopes, in public space. And the people of Damascus don't need a five-star hotel that none of them will ever enter. 

What they need are open spaces—places accessible to everyone that remain so, where Damascenes can look out over their half-destroyed city and watch life slowly return, just as my mother watches her plants come back to life after a drought. 

This text will also appear shortly in a joint edition of Qantara and Kulturaustausch magazine. Find more stories, interviews and analyses in our Syria focus section.

This is an edited translation of the Arabic original. Translated from German by Max Graef Lakin.