I didn’t believe in life after war until December 2024, when the dictatorship regime in Syria fell. Political prisoners were freed, exiled citizens reunited with their families and heartbroken mothers were able to have closure, whether hugging their children again or accepting their loss after years of vanishing into thin air. The collective glee wave that burst in the country was enough to illuminate the world. Syrians who hadn’t seen a good day for many years could finally dare to hope.
Last week brought another turning point for the country as Donald Trump announced the lifting of long-imposed US sanctions on Syria. Those sanctions that were supposed to punish the previous government for terror-related actions ended up punishing the Syrians, choking the last bit of air they had. All while Bashar al-Assad and his family lived a life of indulgence before running away with millions of dollars to Russia.
The sanctions were imposed in the 1970s, long before the war. I used to hear stories from my parents about how life necessities like tissues or diapers were limited to poor quality local production, or smuggled from neighbouring countries like Lebanon. By the time I moved to live in Syria in 2003, things had improved. Syrians also got used to working around the sanctions. No McDonald’s or Starbucks? No problem, we love our Chicken Shawarma sandwiches and cardamom-spiced coffee. No Kitkat or Coca Cola? We have KatKot and Ugarit Cola. No ATM machines? Cash is the king, always!
Studying Information Technology Engineering in Syria put me at the core of the technology sanctions – software companies, mainly developed by American companies such as Apple and Microsoft, were not allowed to exist or trade in Syria. A whole commercial neighbourhood in Damascus called Albahsa was dedicated to selling pirated software, which my colleagues and I used for studying and working. Most of the internet was out of reach, whether by the government for political reasons, or by America for sanctions, so we used a virtual private network (VPN) that could change our location from Syria to anywhere else and allow us access.
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Even after travelling abroad, the sanctions followed me everywhere. I was banned from taking a technical exam for an Oracle certificate after paying and studying for months because the website failed to mention the list of sanctioned countries. I was asked to leave the exam centre in Cairo after I showed my Syrian passport with my only valid Egyptian tourist visa back then. Another time, I wasn’t eligible for a Google scholarship. This time, Syria was mentioned clearly on the website.
In a job interview, a white man explained to me the role of a compliance data analyst and how I would need to detect and stop unauthorised user access from sanctioned countries. “Do you understand what I mean?” He said in a serious tone.
I locked eyes with him, wondering if he had read my resume at all.
“Of course! I’m from Syria. I know exactly what you mean.”
Needless to say, the interview didn’t go much further after the awkwardness I created by declaring my Syrian identity.
But when I finally got a job offer from an American company in Dublin, I had to undergo an extra background security check. Through a mandatory training session for all employees, I learned how I’m not allowed to work with anyone in Syria (or the other countries on that sanctioned list).
All of this was tolerable, to me and other Syrians, but sanctions didn’t stop. It felt like the more ways we learned to survive the sanctions regime, the more creative ways it found to punish us.
Medicine was limited or out of reach. Cancer treatments were unavailable. Donations were hard to deliver. Financial transactions were not allowed. The currency value was crashing by the day, and nothing was affordable any more.
Syrians came together, building their own networks of transactions. In order to send money to Syria, you‘d have to find someone inside willing to give that money; in return, you need to pay someone connected to that person outside Syria in euro or US dollars. Medicine was sent through the same network of friends and relatives, sometimes through strangers on social media who were willing to take urgent items to the country. War was one thing, but the sanctions were like the nasty laughter of the bully kid after they trip you over.
As I watched Trump take credit for our bright future, I couldn’t help but think of all the times I was stopped for “random” security checks when travelling to the United States during my work with Unicef.
I was in New York in 2016 when Trump was running for president, when he said Syrians would be too cold in the US after living all their lives in the desert. I was in the US when he was elected and later ordered a ban on Syrians, among other nationalities, from entering the country. I was there waiting desperately for my husband, who was flying from Ireland to meet me for an emergency. Not knowing if he would be granted entry was an unnecessary stress. Luckily, he was saved by the exemption of holding a UN employee dependent visa.
I think of that quote from the Palestinian poet Gassan Kanafani:
“They steal your bread, then give you a crumb of it ...
Then they demand you to thank them for their generosity ...
O their audacity!”
Syrians are still celebrating and dancing again like last December, only this time with American flags and pictures of Trump. But no one really cares about Trump. Syrians are relieved that the sanctions are over and can now live without worrying about their daily bread or electricity. It still amuses me how those people, my people, can find joy, and how this country of layered tragedies can still find hope and hold tight to it.
Suad Aldarra’s memoir, I Don’t Want to Talk About Home, was published in 2022
