As Syrian people take to the streets of Damascus to celebrate our newfound freedom, those of us living in exile are still dealing with a complex blend of emotions. For me, both as a Syrian and as someone who works at a non-profit organization who left home at 21 in pursuit of education and safety, this moment is bittersweet. In this extraordinary time, I find myself thinking about my journey from Syria to the United States, my work advocating for Syrian refugees, and the profound loneliness of celebrating a long-awaited freedom far from my family and home, from a quiet hotel room in a state that is even further away from my diasporic home. As I travel to advocate for refugees, I sit with joy, sadness, and fear—emotions that resonate with Syrians across the diaspora. This is a moment we’ve all been waiting for, so why do we feel empty?
To understand these feelings, we must look back. Eleven years ago, I left Syria not because I wanted to but because I had to. The Syrian regime’s violent response to the revolution forced so many of us to make impossible choices: to stay and risk everything or to leave and lose everything familiar. I left behind the warmth of the home where my family lives, the comfort of childhood streets, and the laughter of my childhood friends. I left to find safety, to dream of better opportunities, and to survive.
Exile is a strange place. It’s a world of new beginnings but also of loss. The streets Syrians walk now are not the ones we once knew. The homes we live in are not the ones that raised us. We take every opportunity to try and make these places familiar, to feel like ours, but they never truly do. The longing for home is neverending— a constant thought in the back of our minds reminding us of what we’ve lost.
And now, after so many years, something unimaginable has happened: Assad is gone. Liberation has come. The dictator who ruled with fear and violence is no longer in power. Our happiness is beyond words, yet so is our pain.
We watched from miles away as our families and friends flooded the streets of Damascus, celebrating in Umayyad Square. We see joy in their eyes; their voices rise in chants of freedom, and their tears fall with relief. They raise flags with proud colors and feel the weight of decades lifted from their shoulders. But here in the United States everything is still. Outside our windows, the world goes on as if nothing has happened. There are no celebrations, no flags waving, no shared understanding of this moment we are living through.
This loneliness is a different kind of exile. To be separated not only by distance but by experience: to long for the touch of home even as it continues without us, to feel happiness softened by the emptiness of not being there. It is a bittersweet liberation, one that reminds us of what we have gained and what we continue to lose.
Talking to displaced Syrians at the Karam Foundation where I work has given me a deeper sense about their feelings about our newly freed home’s latest chapter. Many of them share the same bittersweet emotions: happiness mixed with fear. For so many young men and women, Syria exists more as a memory than a tangible reality. They left when they were very young, spending years learning the language of their adopted countries and struggling to fit in. They hope to one day return and rebuild the homes they lost, but uncertainty weighs heavy on their hearts. For many, the houses they dream of returning to have been flattened by the war. Their resilience and hope, however, remain strong as they draw a picture of a future where they can contribute to a liberated Syria.
But even in this loneliness, there is hope. This moment reminds us of why we left and what we fought for. It is proof that dreams of freedom are not in vain, and that one day, we too will return to those streets, those friends, and to those memories that we held onto so tightly and stored in suitcases, under beds, and in our attics.
But for now, we will celebrate in our own quiet ways, carrying the voices of our families, the strength of our people, and the hope of a new Syria in our hearts. Even in exile, we remain connected to Syria through our love, longing, and the unshakable belief that liberation, no matter how lonely, is still worth it.
