by Hummam Sheikh Ali
DAMASCUS, Dec. 9 (Xinhua) -- In the 12 months marked by upheaval and constant surprises since the fall of Bashar al-Assad's government, an idea I have kept revisiting is my eight-year-old niece's birthday wish.
Living in Europe, her impression of Syria comes from brief visits, family lore and video calls.
On her birthday, after we sent our recorded wishes, she replied with a short clip of her own: "I hope one day we can all be together in one country."
Her words were simple and sincere. Yet they framed the question hanging over every Syrian household this year: Can Syria ever become a place safe enough for everyone to return?
When the old order collapsed on Dec. 8, 2024, Syrians began waking up each morning unsure what new threat might emerge. Sporadic violence along the coast and later in Sweida in the south exposed deep fault lines, showing how quickly local tensions can ignite broader security crises.
For me, as a journalist witnessing this critical moment, much of the year unfolded not through headlines but inside homes.
One morning before dawn, I found my father making coffee in the dark. Only a faint bulb lit the kitchen. Electricity prices had surged, and now a quarter of his modest pension went toward keeping the lights on.
He did not complain. Like many Syrians of his age, he adjusted, quietly, stubbornly, in the face of new economic realities.
There are rare signs that Syria might be reconnecting with the world. My friend Tareq told me that he is saving up for his first car. "Yes, things are fragile. But look at the signs: international visits, diplomatic activity ... Car prices are dropping. It's slow, but it's movement."
But for Monzer, a journalist friend from Sweida, things were different. After the political shift, he stayed in his hometown with his wife and two sons. For a while, it felt safe. Then in mid-July, tensions erupted between local Druze factions and Bedouin tribes. Checkpoints multiplied. Gunfire echoed at night. Families fled in waves.
Monzer sent his wife and children toward the Jordanian border while he stayed behind, torn between his duty as a journalist and his instinct to protect the family. Eventually, he had to leave, moving between villages and temporary shelters, not sure if they could ever return home.
Their story is far from unique. Countless Syrians still live between suitcases and thresholds, rebuilding one week and retreating the next.
Much of my work this year focused on Syrians returning home. By late 2025, more than 3 million people had returned -- roughly 1 million refugees from abroad and over 2 million internally displaced. Many returned to shattered homes and broken infrastructure. Some pitched tents atop the rubble of what had been their living rooms. The war may be over, but its aftershocks continue.
My life looks the same from the outside: same house, same streets. But the air feels different. People are adjusting, recalibrating expectations, gently testing the idea that stability might be real.
What changed most for me this year is my appreciation for the people around me -- family, friends, colleagues, the small circle that keeps me anchored. After everything the Syrians have endured, it is the human connection that keeps us steady.
Despite the fragility, hope is what millions of Syrians still carry. It is not naive; it is directional. It points toward the only Syria worth rebuilding -- one safe enough, and whole enough, for its children to come home. ■
