We Syrians are no longer just 'refugees,' but a nation with dreams

I still remember my first trip to Aleppo, Syria, on June 28, 2001. I was almost seven years old. School holidays in Spain had begun, and like many families in the Syrian diaspora, my father, Fathallah, saved money every year for this moment.

It was an expensive trip, especially for a large family like mine. But he never stopped telling us about Syria: about Aleppo, particularly Al-Bab, and about its people, its ethnic and religious diversity, its history, its flavours. And that love, that connection to our land, he instilled in us with the same intensity.

He used to say that we had to love Madrid, but without forgetting where we came from. He dreamed of going back one day when Syria would be free. He fantasised about opening hospitals, schools, mosques, and humanitarian centres.

But it was a difficult dream, and he knew it. Syria had been suffering for years under the Baath Party Regime, and my father, like so many others, had to leave in 1969. Not because he wanted to, but because he saw no other option.

With the support of his family and through his own efforts, he finished his medical degree at the Complutense University of Madrid while working to support himself. He never stopped thinking of Syria. The liberation of his people was one of those things that always came up in his conversations.

Civil war

Back to my first trip to Syria. I remember how much it impacted me. Everything was impressive/breathtaking/astonishing, but what caught my attention the most were the pictures of the dictator, Bashar Al-Assad, in every corner.

Innocently, I asked why his photo was everywhere. "'Lower your voice," said my mother and older brother, who, apparently, had already learned the lesson from his previous trips. It was as if Assad couldn't even be mentioned if it wasn't to praise him.

When the revolution broke out in 2011, it was as if an impossible dream was starting to materialise. We clung to the hope that things would change for the better with everything we had. We followed the news 24/7 - Al Jazeera was always on.

At first, the calls to our family were to share hopes and updates, but soon they turned into an endless list of tragedies: bombings, arrests, disappearances. We lost so many.

My maternal uncle Mahmoud, a veterinarian with six children, died in a bombing while protesting in Aleppo. Two cousins, Firas and Hasan, disappeared, and we didn't even have their bodies to bury. My cousin Amani's son, Ali Rakan, only 14 years old, was brutally murdered by the regime and Russian forces. And another uncle was arrested.

Over time, desperation became stronger than hope. But my father never stopped dreaming. Every step the rebels took was, for him, "the decisive one."

He said victory was close. We never imagined that this struggle would last 14 years and that my father wouldn't live to witness it, as he passed away three years ago.

The end of Assad

Then on Sunday, everything changed. The night of December 8 will be unforgettable. When the capital Damascus fell, the news reached us at 5:30 am after only two hours of sleep. We knew this would mean the end of Assad.

You could see my brother and me here in Istanbul with the TV on, following the news. More updates on Twitter and Instagram. Video calls with family—some in Madrid, others in Qatar, Norway, Syria, Germany… spread across the world. Each new advance by the rebels was a huge celebration.

At 3:30 am, I was half asleep, but still paying attention, until my brother woke me up about two hours later, shouting with joy: "Bashar has fallen! Bashar has fallen!" It was an explosion of emotions that I can't describe. Laughter, tears, hugs. We couldn't go back to sleep.

We went out into the street in Istanbul, to the Fatih neighbourhood, where a large displaced Syrian community lives. People were handing out sweets, especially halawet el jibn, a traditional dessert for special occasions.

Others were singing "One, one, one… the Syrian people are one" while celebrating. Although we didn't know each other, that day we were one family. We congratulated each other. After so much pain, we were together celebrating the same victory, dreaming with the same hope.

Finally, Syrians deserved to be happy again. We finally stopped being just "refugees" to become, once again, a people with land, with a name, with dreams.

Ready for the future

Syria, or as we like to call it, Sham, the land of jasmine, will be remembered for its beauty, its history, its ancient civilisations, its rich culture, and not for its wars.

I know what lies ahead won't be easy. Post-war nation-building never is. But at least, for the first time in years, we have something to celebrate and hope for in the future.

I think of all those we've lost, those who gave their lives for this, from little Hamza al-Khatib, the first martyr of the revolution, tortured and killed in Daraa for daring to write the word "freedom" on a wall, to Abdul Baset al-Sarout, the great symbol of this struggle.

A former goalkeeper for the Syrian national football team, his voice resonated in the streets of Homs, an act of bravery that he paid for with his own life.

I think of my father and smile, because I know he's smiling too. Thank God.

And yes, we are already planning our next trip. Because now, finally, we can visit Syria and Aleppo again. For us, yes, but especially for him.

This piece was originally published on TRT Espanol.