A Review of Asmae Dachan’s Syria, the Day After: Wounds and Hopes
Asmae Dachan alongside the cover of her 2026 book Syria, the Day After: Wounds and Hopes.“The only things here that verge on eternity are sorrow and waiting.”
Asmae Dachan / translated from the Italian
That phrase is the leitmotif of an extraordinary new book on Syria, a singular and moving account of one woman’s three-week journey to the country her parents left several years before she was born. It’s a reportage, told with journalistic rigour, documenting facts, places and events. But it’s also a story allowing readers to experience one woman’s discovery and contemplation of the face of the country only nineteen days after the fall of the Assad regime. Sorrow… an important word, but one that carries significant weight in Italian, the language in which the book is written.
Dolore is a word that appears many times throughout the book. It is a word pregnant with a range of meaning: from physical and mental pain to spiritual suffering and sadness. But the potency of the word is best expressed in a religious symbol, an artistic and cultural phenomenon particularly felt in the Mediterranean, the Mater Dolorosa, the “Lady of Sorrows”, often depicted clad in black, with a tear-stained face and seven daggers representing her sorrows piercing her heart. She is a woman who foresees, and then endures, the suffering and death by torture of her son and must live past, and with, that enormous grief. If a key of reading is required that represents the spirit of coming to terms with what the Assad dynasty did to its people and country during almost half a century of rule, and the aftermath of fourteen years of brutal war, it seems as though no better image could depict it than a modern Mater Dolorosa.
“Sorrow is not merely part of Syria’s story; it is one of the languages through which its wounds, memories, and endurance are understood.”
Mary Rizzo
Asmae Dachan listens to the many people she meets and has set as a goal to faithfully transmit their personal testimonies. It is a confessional and revealing opportunity that many sought, though most felt the need to protect their identity. She enters dialogue with colleagues, but also with soldiers and shopkeepers, lawyers and the internally displaced, with a special attention to widows. Along with Damascus and Aleppo, some of the places visited were villages or formerly insignificant small towns; but a revolution that evolved into a war put some of those villages on the map and made them immortal. Kafranbel and Daraa might not have meant much to outsiders before the war, but, like Anghiari or Waterloo, are now names that evoke history.
The author has been able to gain entry into many spaces in Syria, both because she is a journalist and a Syrian in the diaspora (the only persons with foreign passports admitted to the country at that time were those who could prove their Syrian origin), but especially because she is invited into the private and intimate spaces where a mother’s particular and stinging sorrow lives. These people, some of whom have been observing a painful silence for decades, entrust to her details of the massacre of Hama in 1982 as well as describing the torments that families of the “disappeared” and detained were subjected to under the regime.
Asmae Dachan and the Journey Home
Though just a short distance separated Asmae Dachan’s home in Italy from Syria, she had only been in the longed-for country once, in 2013, when she entered clandestinely, as many aid workers and journalists had to do. Her name on a blacklist, which propagandists in the West gladly furnished to the regime, meant that her presence in the Syrian Arab Republic was not welcome and would be punished. Early on in her career as a journalist, having met refugees of the Bosnian war in her native Ancona, she decided that she would leave the geopolitical analysis to others, and would hold onto the perspective and tell the story of those most affected by war and oppression: the people, and in particular, the women, children and most vulnerable. Remaining true to her commitment also meant that she had to always take a side, and in this case, it was deeply personal and human.
She tells this story through a combination of sensations and thoughts, drawing upon memory, direct experiences and experiences transmitted, mostly through the way a person’s body and mental health register and process things. The book almost viscerally describes these things, from the different tastes of the coffee that accompany a happy or sad event, to the smell of death, dust and deterioration, to the color of the soil and the monstrosity of the endless ruins of the war, and the tangible signs of human suffering and torture. The things witnessed during her visit to the dungeon/prison of Sednaya and the feelings elicited by the Queiq River, where the bodies of over 200 men and boys executed by the regime had been dumped. She mentions the noise of celebratory fireworks, as well as popular Syrian music heard on this voyage, but also the songs of the revolution that had just ended, with the country taking its first fragile steps into freedom.
Indeed, those of us who had followed the revolution from abroad, in solidarity, recognize so many of the scenes, moments and people depicted in this book, and it touches emotional chords that range from our memories of enthusiasm and hope to despair and anger. Some of the people whose stories are told were, and are, our friends or, at least, we have seen the art, banners, photographs and reports they have shared with us or mourned their disappearance or death. There have been countless massacres of innocents and Asmae Dachan pays her respects to the family members of martyrs, especially children and those whose only crime was seeking a peaceful solution or asking the regime for accountability. She touches with her fingers the price of dreaming of freedom and democracy while she caresses the soil at their graves.
“Dachan does not simply document the longing for freedom; she brings us close enough to touch the human price that was paid for it.”
Mary Rizzo
Not all Syrians were such dreamers, but no matter what one expected from the regime, the depths of its depravity were bottomless and no crime was too small to escape punishment. Yet, there was always a lower level it could sink to, and it used every opportunity to involve its allies and explore the possibilities of new weapons such as barrel bombs and sarin gas, and double-tap bombing raids to achieve the most human carnage. Torture was just the antipasto; the regime was providing a seven-course meal of misery, served with a digestif of propaganda, and many (who should have known better) had gladly partaken in the feast.
The author was present in a crucial historical moment, a Syria without Assad, long sought, or long feared, depending upon who she was interviewing, and she asked people from all walks of life what they expected and hoped for. The uncertainty of the moment was palpable in one and all, undergirded by a collective sense of relief. Dachan also noted a predominance of the attitude of “let’s wait and see” without the inevitable catastrophism the propagandists promoted for decades: that the Assad family and the country were one and the same, and that once it no longer ruled, the country would cease to exist. In reality, the country ceased to exist during the Assad reign but many who supported the regime had no inkling of it.
The book includes some quite illuminating opinions expressed by those who lived in regime-controlled areas. They doubt that parts of Syria had been under siege and the claims of devastating destruction. They believe the majority of the harm being felt in Syria was because of the sanctions imposed and foreign fighters who streamed into the country. Those expressing this view seem to carefully measure their words even after the fall of the regime. One detects that they are still using self-censorship, which may be borne from legitimate fear of vendetta or the loss of having what they thought was a secular State. It is actually disorienting to read that there was such a disconnect from the reality of war within earshot of their homes. Certainly, this was the case in Syria and is always the case wherever there is an occupier or a tyrant that controls the hearts and minds of those faithful to it. It might not always be a choice to ignore the evidence on one’s computers, televisions or the testimony of someone in a different situation, but many do try to justify other people’s suffering if it serves their interests.
A big take-away from this book is that while we often saw the war in Syria as exclusively sectarian, based on religion and ethnic group, with the criminal Daesh/ISIS adding to the chaos a dark mirror of the regime’s oppression, that is only part of the story. Much more frequently heard from those whose views are expressed in this book is one’s identity being defined by economic class. The contempt for those from the countryside voiced by the urbanites also mirrored the distance between the “haves” and the “have-nots”, with poverty often being associated with backwardness and religious fanaticism, which does not adequately reflect the reality. For the most part, bias was fueled by the fearmongering and propaganda drummed up by the regime that was rarely challenged in Syria and abroad at the time. In a country where at least a third of the citizens lost everything they owned, described in detail in this book, solidarity efforts were almost always taken up by diaspora Syrians and those in solidarity with them.
And, this, at least for me, is one of the most important aspects of the book by Asmae Dachan. Deprived of what was longed for: the ability to visit the country she belonged to, she was part of the diaspora that didn’t forget the internally displaced, the refugees and the vulnerable. Her family, like thousands of families in the diaspora, suffered alongside their fellow Syrians for decades, sometimes in silence and then, finally ceaselessly denouncing the crimes and injustice to anyone who would listen. When the uprising began, the spell of silence was broken, the diaspora community spared no effort in serving the people in Syria.
This is a story that the book barely hints at, though it touches upon a rare moment of personal sadness, and perhaps some comfort, for the author. The author’s sister, Noura, is given a brief and sensitive homage. Those who knew her were aware that she was a discreet thread of connection and a tireless advocate for the vulnerable. Though born in Aleppo, she lived her entire life in Italy and her last day on Earth was spent dedicated to providing comfort and aid to Syrians, preparing more things that would be brought to the internally displaced. Quite unexpectedly, Asmae meets a stranger in Syria who recognizes her surname because he knew Noura through messages of encouragement that she sent.
I know what those messages were like, because I too, though never suffering, was a recipient of the kind encouragement that was simply part of Noura’s nature. And knowing so many exiled Syrians whose hearts were hurting, literally and figuratively, for the beloved and bleeding Syria, I can’t help but think that the forced exile and decisions made to never set foot in the homeland turned out to be a blessing for their countrymen back home. I don’t think those in the diaspora ever envisioned this kind of life for themselves, but history provided that they would serve this role.
“Exile separated Syrians from their homeland, but for many it also transformed belonging into an enduring responsibility toward those left behind.”
Mary Rizzo
Dachan also includes powerful observations about borders and how they are needlessly cruel and dangerous places, where mistrust, fear and games of power and abuse are constantly played out. The symbols and flags that define most places, but particularly places at borders, convey a world of meaning and can be welcoming or evoke fear, just like the flags or shields bearing the arms of a rival political faction on a tower in medieval Europe meant either safe haven or imprisonment for the wanderer. One always bore in mind roads and routes that were forbidden, at least for the time that the dominant family or faction held onto power. Syria’s flags also had the same attractive or repulsive power. It is difficult to convey the importance of the two flags to those who were not following the modern history of Syria or the revolution, but the struggle for the right to wave the flag that no longer was associated with the Assad dynasty was long and filled with dolore.
The history is still unfolding, the story still being written, but the insights gained from this view into those first days of being a “Free Syrian” are extremely valuable and meaningful. I can only hope that this book finds readership beyond Italy, overcoming the language barrier, because it deserves to join other important books by Syrians on this topic, especially for the unique perspectives and voice it provides.
