Guest columnist Musbah Shaheen: Loving a country that doesn’t love you back — My story from Syria

A group of young volunteers paint a mural symbolizing peace on the outskirts of Damascus, Syria, on Jan. 12.

A group of young volunteers paint a mural symbolizing peace on the outskirts of Damascus, Syria, on Jan. 12. AP Photo/Mosa’ab Elshamy

By MUSBAH SHAHEEN

Published: 01-17-2025 11:29 AM

 

The news came through my phone like a burst of light after years of darkness — congratulations, messages of joy and relief flooded in. The Assad regime was toppling, they said. It should have been a moment of celebration, a victory for those who had dreamed of freedom for so long. But as I sat with my phone in hand, I couldn’t shake the unease growing in my chest.

My problem wasn’t just with Assad’s brutal regime, though its cruelty had loomed over my life like a storm cloud. My discomfort went deeper, rooted in the social dynamics of a country that had never truly felt like mine.

When the revolution first broke out, I, like so many young Syrians, felt an electric hope coursing through me. We were the generation that had watched Egypt and Tunisia rise, the generation that had whispered forbidden political conversations behind closed doors. We had grown up with the knowledge that our parents had lived their lives under the oppressive weight of a regime that silenced dissent.

This was our chance, our moment to demand the freedom that had always been out of reach.

In those early days, protesting felt almost sacred. I was 18 years old, and after the evening prayers, young men would gather outside the mosques, their voices rising in unison with chants of “freedom” and “down with Assad.” I joined a few demonstrations with my father, his protective presence a reassurance in the sea of chaos.

One evening, I decided to join my friends instead. We lingered near the mosque, waiting for the demonstration to begin. It should have been a moment of solidarity, a shared yearning for a better Syria. Instead, it became a moment of disillusionment.

They called me names. They mocked the way I walked, the way I looked. To them, I was too feminine, too effeminate, too gay. Their words stung more than I care to admit. These were the same men who chanted for freedom, for a Syria unshackled from tyranny. Yet their vision of freedom didn’t seem to include people like me.

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It was a cruel paradox: I was fighting for a country that wouldn’t fight for me. The same voices that demanded liberty would just as quickly take mine away.

That night, something shifted inside me. The chants of “freedom” began to sound hollow. How could I fight for a revolution that might only replace one form of oppression with another? How could I love a country that seemed incapable of loving me back?

As the revolution dragged on, the news from Syria grew darker. Stories of intra-religious conflict and the rise of Islamist ideals filled the airwaves. The secular state I had dreamed of felt more and more like a fantasy. The possibilities that had once seemed endless now felt suffocatingly narrow.

For many Syrians, the revolution was a beacon of hope, a chance to rewrite the future. But for me, it was a reminder of how deeply entrenched the divides in our society were. The Assad regime was monstrous, but it wasn’t the only monster we had to face.

Even now, as I reflect on those days, I struggle to celebrate the changes. Yes, toppling a dictatorship is a monumental achievement. But what comes next? Will Syria ever be a place where someone like me can truly belong?

The answer, I fear, is no. Syria was never mine, and it looks like it never will be.

And yet, despite everything, I find myself yearning for a Syria that could have been. A Syria where freedom truly meant freedom for all. A Syria where young people like me didn’t have to choose between fighting for a better future and being true to themselves.

Loving a country that doesn’t love you back is a strange, painful thing. It’s a love that demands nothing and expects even less. But it’s still love. And maybe, just maybe, that love is enough to keep dreaming of a Syria that might one day feel like home.

Musbah Shaheen lives in Amherst.