For most of her life, Sumaya Ainaya spent weekends and summer nights on Mount Qasioun, which overlooks the city of Damascus, joined by other Syrians drinking coffee, smoking hookah and eating corn on the cob grilled at nearby barbecues.
But soon after the Syrian civil war broke out in 2011, the military under President Bashar al-Assad closed the mountain to civilians. Suddenly, instead of family and friends shooting fireworks into the sky, soldiers with tanks and artillery launchers were firing into rebel-held areas below.
This New Year’s Eve, weeks after the rebel coalition overthrew the Syrian regimeMs Ainaya, 56, and her family returned to Mount Qasioun with snacks, soda and scarves to ward off the winter chill – and reclaimed a favorite leisure spot.
“Thank God, we’re back now — we feel like we can breathe again,” said Ms. Ainaya, an Arabic literature graduate and mother of four, standing along a ridge and pointing out several Damascus landmarks.
“We feel like the city has come back to us,” said her son Muhammad Qatafani, 21, a dental student.
Across Damascus, as in most of the country, Syrians are reclaiming, and in some cases re-accepting, the spaces and freedoms that were forbidden for years under the Assad regime. There were places ordinary Syrians were not allowed to go and things they were not allowed to say while the Assad family was in power. Many said that the land increasingly felt like it did not belong to them.
But with a newfound sense of freedom comes some anxiety about a future under a government to be formed by Islamist rebels and whether it will eventually introduce new restrictions and limitations.
Many Syrians see every decision and announcement as a sign that their new rulers can rule. Last week, the de facto new leader of Syria, Ahmed al-Sharahe said it could take two to three years to draft a new constitution and up to four years to hold elections, unnerving Syrians who fear they may have replaced one authoritarian leader with another.
For now, there is also a certain level of chaos under the caretaker government as it races to set priorities certain state-building measures over others. With many economic restrictions and regulations gone, men and boys sell smuggled gas from large water jugs on street corners. Traffic in the city is difficult, because there are few policemen on patrol, and double parking is widespread, residents said.
Despite the anxiety, people are returning or rediscovering spaces across Damascus, the capital. Protest songs can be heard on the streets, because of which someone could have ended up in prison a month ago.
“We haven’t seen the city, Damascus, or any city, in all its details,” Yaman Alsabek, a youth group leader, said of his country under the Assad regime. “Public spaces — we stopped going to them because we felt they were not for us, they were for the regime.”
His organization, the Sanad development team, began organizing youth efforts to help clean the streets and direct traffic. “When Damascus was liberated and we felt this renewed sense of ownership, people came out to rediscover their city,” he said.
After last month a stunning attack by the rebels, the icons of the Assad regime were demolished. Children play on the pedestals and plinths where the tall statues of Mr. al-Assad, his father and brother. Murals cover the spaces where pro-regime slogans were carved.
On a recent gray and rainy day, there was standing room only in the auditorium that was the headquarters of the ruling Baath Party, which represented the Assad family’s totalitarian grip on political discourse. Hundreds of people gathered to hear Syrian actress and activist Yara Sabri speak about the thousands of detained and missing prisoners in the country.
“We all decide what it will look like and what we want it to be,” Ms. Sabri said of the country’s future.
A few weeks ago, she was in exile for her activism. Now the Syrian flag, with new colors, hung above the lectern from which she spoke. Above the entrance to the building, the old Syrian flag and the Baath Party flag have been partially painted over.
Salma Huneidi, the organizer of the event, said the choice of location was deliberate. “We consider this a win,” she said. “This was a place where we could not do any activities, and now we are not only holding activities, but important ones that expose the previous regime.”
Recently, an event was held in the building where the writing of the new Syrian constitution was discussed.
“Syria feels bigger, the streets feel bigger – gone are the images that irritated us, the slogans that irritated us,” Ms Huneidi said. “We felt so limited before.”
Even saying the word “dollar” could land someone in jail under Mr. al-Assad. Foreign currency exchanges, banned for years under the Assad regime, have sprung up everywhere. Men walk through the markets and shout: “Exchange! Barter!” A vendor selling warm winter porridge was offering wads of Syrian pounds in exchange for crisp $100 bills.
Mohammad Murad, 33, sat in his car on a street corner, wearing a cap with the colors of the new Syrian flag. On the window it said: “Dollars, Euros and Turkish.”
Mr. Murad worked in the currency exchange for a long time, but after the previous regime banned foreign currencies, his business went underground. If the customer needed dollars or euros, said Mr. Murad, he would go to that person’s home, with bills hidden in his sock.
In the new Syria, he said, he stands in line at the central bank to exchange $1,000 for stacks of Syrian pounds. When potential customers come to his window to inquire about the exchange rate, he assures them that he offers “the best price.”
Across the street, the shelves of the small corner store look very different from just a few weeks ago, when store owners had to smuggle in foreign brands and hide them from most customers.
“I would only sell these brands to my regular customers who knew I was selling contraband, not to anyone who came in,” owner Hussam al-Shareef said.
Products made in Syria are now openly mixed with brands from Turkey, Europe and the United States. Customers enter and freely ask for “Nescafe, original.”
Three years ago, a police officer entered his store and saw six Kinder chocolate eggs in the back glass case. Mr. al-Shareef was fined 600,000 Syrian pounds, or about $50, and sentenced to a month in prison. He has been fighting it in court ever since.
On Mount Qasioun, a man was selling illegal fireworks smuggled from Lebanon. A few hours later, it will light up the sky to ring in 2025.
But Maadi, 35, was busy setting up a stall selling drinks, snacks and hookahs. Before the war, his family had a small but comfortable resting place along a mountain ridge. When he returned more than a week ago, he found that Syrian army soldiers had used it as an outpost and had broken everything, including the bathrooms. It is planned to be slowly rebuilt.
He played a mix of Syrian protests and folk songs from two loudspeakers in the back of his Peugeot. The lyrics of one song read:
We want to adore, we want to love
We want to walk the path
We want to learn to be men and love Damascus
From the heart and to see Damascus up close.
Nearby, Aya Kalas, 28, and her fiance-to-be, Khalid al-Qadi, 26, sat at a picnic table enjoying the view. She was 15 years old the last time she came to the mountain, she said.
“Any place you’re forbidden, you want to go back to,” said Ms. Kalas, a beautician.
Damascus, where Ms. Kalas has lived all her life, sometimes seems unrecognizable, she said. “There were whole streets that you couldn’t walk on because a military officer or official lived there,” she said.
“We want to see the country anew; we feel like tourists,” Mr. al-Qadi said. “It seems like it’s ours again.”
Zeina Shahla contributed reporting.
