Damascus Unveiled: Why These Photographs Will Change How You See Syria – and Ourselves
This is the fourth and final post in a series introducing my new photo book “Return to Damascus: A Personal Journey.” The book’s text is mainly about Christian immigration through my family’s experiences, examining how that history resonates from two perspectives: mine as a descendant and my father’s as an immigrant. But to me the photographs show more than that, revealing an other story concerning issues in urban society. The book is available at this link and will ship in the first week of November.
Exploring Syria through Photography
There’s one photograph in this collection that stops people in their tracks. It captures the main hallway of the Al-Hamidiya Souq, Damascus’s legendary covered market, where late afternoon light filters through corrugated metal roofing installed decades ago to protect the ancient stone walkways below. The light creates cathedral-like beams that illuminate an empty souk, stalls closed and people gone for Friday prayers.
This photograph tells a story Western media has never bothered to share. It shows a place deeply embedded in community life – a place that is as normal to Damascenes as it is foreign to us as we rush through florescent lit grocery aisles. The textures leap from the frame weathered by decades of Damascus use, Arabic calligraphy painted directly onto shop front signs by local artisans, stone curbs and sidewalks worn smooth by millions of footsteps.
This is Syria in 2000 – not the Syria of headlines, but the Syria of heartbeats. We are seeing Syria in the last moments of an era and to me it holds lessons that most of us in the West are only beginning to think about. These 88 photographs capture a view that most Western media has never invited its audience to witness: a complex, ancient civilization that had figured out some of what we’re still searching for.
What Damascus Looked Like Under Unbiased Observation
Step into the photographs in this collection and you’ll find yourself questioning what you thought you knew about Syria. Look past the obvious lack of material wealth. Here are bustling markets where vendors remember their customers’ names and children’s ages. Local businesses passed down through generations, their hand-painted signs faded but proud. Young people playing soccer in narrow streets between buildings that have sheltered families for centuries. Ethnic and religious diversity woven into daily life.
The architectural layers tell Damascus’s story in stone and mortar: Roman foundations supporting Ottoman courtyards where contemporary Damascenes conduct their daily business, drink tea, and solve neighborhood problems. These aren’t museum pieces and often it’s messy and decrepit – but yet they’re living, breathing spaces where community life unfolds with a sophistication that puts many Western urban planning efforts to shame. Street photography in Damascus reveals something we’ve largely lost in North America: spontaneous community interaction as the default mode of urban existence.
Look closely at these images and you’ll see the sophisticated values of a four millennium city in action. Shopkeepers who close during prayer times not out of religious obligation, but because the community rhythm expects it. Neighbors who share meals across religious and economic lines. Children who play freely in streets because everyone knows everyone, and community safety emerges naturally from social connection rather than surveillance systems.
While we’ve known the stories of a dictator-ruled nation, which were true, these images show a people who never stopped building, creating, and trying to find a better future, even under difficult conditions. The Syria captured in these photographs challenges us in what we think about the Middle East, revealing a society that preserved what we’ve spent decades trying to rebuild: authentic community life.
Community Architecture: What We in the West Lost That Damascus Kept
The most striking contrast in these photographs isn’t between wealth and poverty – it’s between connection and isolation. Damascus in 2000 maintained urban design principles that Western cities abandoned in pursuit of efficiency and individual privacy. Together the images tell a story of community architecture: spaces designed for human relationship.
Consider the Damascus public spaces, people gather for business and social reasons. Vendors, even bakeries, have little or no interior retail space, instead they face out towards the public space. The difference isn’t just aesthetic; it’s philosophical. Damascus is built to encourage social interaction; our spaces are built for independence.
Street life in these photographs reveals vendor relationships that span decades. The baker knows not just what each family prefers, but whose daughter is getting married, whose son needs work, whose grandmother prefers a certain cookie. These aren’t transactions – they’re social connections that happen to include commerce. Contrast this with our anonymous grocery chains where self-checkout machines are replacing even minimal human interaction.
The visual textures in these images tell stories of sustained craftsmanship: stones polished by generations of feet creating organic pathways through neighborhoods, hand-painted shop signs in Arabic calligraphy that announce not just businesses but family legacies, faces that show curiosity about strangers rather than the urban wariness we’ve normalized. In Damascus markets, haggling isn’t about getting the best price – it’s relationship-building, a dance of mutual respect that creates ongoing social bonds.
Look at the light filtering through ancient souq ceilings, creating natural gathering spaces where people linger, children play, and business happens at human speed. These aren’t accident architectural features – they’re designed for community life. The intricate geometric patterns in everyday objects, from mosque balconies to door hardware, represent a design philosophy that values beauty in daily life over mass-produced efficiency. Most of the people are poor and struggling, but there is still awareness of community and looking beyond simple economic survival.
The University of Damascus Streets
The photographs in this collection underline community resilience in the face of adversity. These images capture neighborhoods that maintained social cohesion through economic challenges, political pressures, and cultural changes – lessons particularly relevant as Western communities struggle with atomization, mental health crises, and civic disengagement.
Community Resilience While Western communities fracture under much lesser stresses – think of how rarely we know our neighbors’ names – Damascus neighborhoods in 2000 demonstrated social structures that automatically activated during difficulties. Extended families, religious communities, and neighborhood networks created overlapping safety nets that no government program could replicate.
Cultural Preservation emerges in photographs of traditional crafts continuing alongside modern life. The optician whose family has served the neighborhood for generations, using techniques perfected over decades while adapting to modern lens technology. Traditional techniques surviving modernization not through museum preservation, but through continued relevance to community life.
Western cities losing their cultural identities to globalization could learn from Damascus’s integration of old and new knowledge.
Sustainable Living appears throughout these images: repair culture over disposal culture, walking cities over car dependence, local production over global supply chains. Damascus in 2000 was necessarily resource-conscious, but the visual evidence shows this creating stronger communities, not deprivation. Cobbler shops, tailors, mechanics – all embedded in neighborhood life, all contributing to local economic circulation.
Damascus is an example of cultural evolution without cultural abandonment.
Your Invitation to See Differently
These 88 photographs aren’t asking you to visit Damascus – they’re asking you to question what you think you know about resilience, community, and cultural continuity. They’re asking you to see our own Western cities with fresh eyes: What did we lose in our pursuit of efficiency? What did we abandon in our quest for individual freedom? What can Damascus teach us about building communities that survive?
This collection challenges comfortable assumptions about progress and development. Damascus in 2000 wasn’t primitive or backward – it was sophisticated in ways we’re only beginning to understand. While we’ve been perfecting individual liberty, they were perfecting community sustainability. While we’ve been optimizing economic efficiency, they were optimizing social connection.
The lessons here aren’t nostalgic – they’re practical. Urban planners struggling with social isolation, community organizers trying to build civic engagement, anyone wondering why Western cities feel increasingly lonely despite unprecedented connectivity will find answers in these images. Damascus demonstrates that community life isn’t about returning to the past; it’s about integrating human-scale values with contemporary possibilities.
This book should appeal to anyone interested in urban planning and community design that prioritizes human flourishing over economic optimization. For cultural preservation and revival strategies that keep traditions alive through relevance, not museums. For understanding the Middle East beyond headlines and finding hope and practical wisdom for Western urban challenges.
This is Syria in 2000 – not the Syria you see typically portrayed, but the Syria that has lessons for us all.
The Sacred Mountains: Aramaic Villages and Ancient Pilgrimages
The third in a series introducing my new photo book “Return to Damascus: A Personal Journey.” This post exploring Syria’s Christian heritage and linguistic treasures in the Qalamoun Mountains.
From Damascus, the Qalamoun Mountains rise like ancient guardians along the Lebanese border, harboring some of the most unusual Christian cultural and religious treasures in the Middle East. Our journey through these mountains revealed communities that have maintained their distinct identities for over fifteen centuries, preserving traditions that connect directly to the earliest days of Christianity.
The Qalamoun region, the northeastern portion of the Anti-Lebanon Mountains, stretches from the Barada River Valley southwest of Damascus to the city of Hisyah in the northeast. While we didn’t visit my paternal grandmother’s hometown of Yabrud during our stay in Syria, we made an unforgettable day trip to two of the region’s most significant pilgrimage destinations: Seidnaya and Ma’lula. What we discovered in these mountain communities challenges the widespread stereotypes about religious coexistence in the Middle East.
Seidnaya: Where Faith Transcends Boundaries
Our first stop was Seidnaya, a major pilgrimage destination about 20 miles north of Damascus that exemplifies an interfaith reverence that might surprise many people. The Convent of Our Lady of Seidnaya, founded in 547 AD, sits atop a steep hill requiring a challenging climb on foot. According to legend, the Virgin Mary appeared to the Byzantine Emperor Justinian I, first as a beautiful gazelle and then as an icon, asking him to found the monastery in her honor.
What makes Seidnaya truly remarkable is not just its ancient Christian heritage, but the fact that both Christians and Muslims have venerated this site for centuries. The monastery houses the miraculous icon of the Virgin Mary known as the Shaghoura, which legend attributes to Saint Luke the Evangelist. This icon, kept in a dimly lit chamber adorned with silver and gold offerings from pilgrims, draws thousands of visitors annually on September 8th, the Feast of the Nativity of Mary.
The sight of Muslim pilgrims seeking blessings alongside Christian worshipers, sometimes having their children baptized in gratitude for answered prayers, is an example of the religious tolerance that characterized much of Syria’s history and is struggling to reassert itself now after the civil war. This shared spiritual space represents something that many might find difficult to imagine: a place where religious differences fade before common human yearning for the sacred.
About 50 nuns lived in the convent when we visited, presided over by an abbess, and the site was bustling with pilgrims from across the region. The monastery’s architecture reflects its layered past, with medieval elements incorporated into later Ottoman and modern reconstructions. Despite the turbulent events that have shaped Syria over the centuries, the convent has continuously served as a center for Orthodox monasticism, maintaining its religious traditions since antiquity.
For visitors unfamiliar with Eastern Christianity, Seidnaya offers an introduction to Orthodox monasticism that differs significantly from Western Christian traditions. The nuns’ daily rhythm of prayer, the elaborate iconography, and the mystical atmosphere of the ancient buildings create an experience unlike any typically found in North American Christianity. The monastery’s survival through various conquests, political upheavals, and social transformations testifies to the deep roots and resilience of Syria’s Christian communities.
Ma’lula: The Last Echo of Jesus’s Voice
From Seidnaya, we continued to Ma’lula, a village that represents an extraordinary linguistic and cultural survival story. Located about 56 kilometers northeast of Damascus and perched 4,500 feet above sea level amid towering cliffs, Ma’lula is one of only remaining places (the other is a small nearby village) in the world where Western Neo-Aramaic is still spoken as a living language – the closest surviving connection to the language Jesus Christ spoke nearly two thousand years ago.
The village’s very name, derived from the Aramaic word “maʿəlā” meaning “entrance,” reflects its position at the opening of a narrow mountain pass between two steep cliffs. This natural gateway has not only shaped the village’s physical character but has also contributed to its cultural preservation. The dramatic landscape, with houses built directly into the steep mountainside and seemingly stacked upon one another, creates a beehive-like structure attached to the edge of the precipice.
For a visitor such as me, hearing elderly residents greet each other with “Shlomo” (peace) or listening to children recite prayers in Aramaic provides an almost mystical connection to biblical times. The village’s isolation, protected by its challenging geography and distance from major urban centers, allowed this ancient tongue to survive when it disappeared elsewhere. Ma’lula’s residents can still recite the Lord’s Prayer in Aramaic, offering visitors a direct auditory link to the earliest Christian communities.
The religious significance of Ma’lula extends beyond its linguistic heritage. The village is home to two Christian religious sites that have served as pilgrimage destinations for centuries. The Greek Orthodox Convent of Saint Thecla, built around the grotto where the legendary saint is said to have lived and died, houses what believers consider to be sacred healing waters. According to tradition, Saint Thecla was an 18-year-old Christian convert who fled from an arranged marriage to a pagan. When Roman soldiers pursued her to the rocky heights near Ma’lula, she prayed for divine intervention, and the mountain miraculously split open, allowing her to escape into the grotto where she spent the rest of her 90-year life.
The second major religious site is the Monastery of Mar Sarkis (Saint Sergius), a Greek Catholic church that contains what is believed to be one of the oldest Christian altars still in use. Built in the fifth century on the remains of a pagan temple, this monastery features a rare horseshoe-shaped altar table that may date to pre-Constantinian times – before Christianity became the official religion of the Roman Empire.
A Linguistic Treasure Under Threat
What many might not realize is how precarious the survival of Aramaic has become. UNESCO classifies Aramaic as a “severely endangered” language, part of the more than 40% of the world’s languages at risk of extinction. Ma’lula’s population, which once numbered around 10,000, had been reduced to approximately 3,300 inhabitants even before the Syrian Civil War further depleted the community.
The challenge of language preservation in Ma’lula reflects broader patterns affecting indigenous and minority languages worldwide. Young people often leave the village after completing high school to study in Damascus or abroad, seeking opportunities unavailable in their mountain home. Each departure represents a potential loss for the linguistic community, as Aramaic transmission depends entirely on family and community usage rather than formal education systems.
The linguistic situation in Ma’lula also reflects the complex religious and ethnic identity of the region. Both Christian and Muslim residents identify ethnically as Arameans, maintaining this ancient identity rather than adopting an Arab ethnic identity like most other Syrians. This shared ethnic identification across religious lines provides another example of how Syrian communities have maintained distinct identities while participating in the broader national culture.
Religious Coexistence in Practice
Ma’lula’s population demonstrates the kind of religious diversity that characterized much of pre-war Syria. The village included Antiochian Greek Orthodox Christians, Melkite Catholics, and a minority of Sunni Muslims, all sharing the common Aramaic language and Aramean ethnic identity.
This religious coexistence wasn’t merely tolerance but represented genuine spiritual sharing that transcended sectarian boundaries. The landscape itself tells a story of human adaptation and spiritual resilience, with numerous caves and rock shelters that have provided refuge for Christian martyrs throughout history. The terraced slopes supporting figs, grapevines, and other crops have sustained the community for generations, creating an integrated relationship between human settlement and natural environment.
For visitors accustomed to more rigid religious boundaries, Ma’lula’s example of interfaith reverence might seem almost impossible. Yet this pattern of shared sacred spaces and mutual respect characterized much of Syria’s religious landscape for centuries. The village represents not an exception but rather a surviving example of the pluralistic traditions that once existed, at times unsteadily, throughout the region.
A Personal Spiritual Awakening
While my father rested with our driver below, I climbed one of the rock mountains overlooking Ma’lula. The ascent was challenging but rewarding, offering panoramic views of the ancient settlement with its houses painted in shades of blue and white, clinging to the mountainside like something from a fairy tale. From the summit, I could hear the bells from churches below echoing off the cliff walls.
Sitting on that summit, surrounded by the dramatic landscape and listening to the ancient sounds of worship, I experienced what I can only describe as a visceral connection with Christianity unlike any I had felt before. This wasn’t the intellectual appreciation of religious history or architectural beauty, but something more fundamental – a sense of spiritual continuity that spanned nearly two millennia.
The experience was particularly meaningful because it occurred in a place where Christianity has maintained an unbroken presence since the earliest centuries of the faith. Unlike many historical Christian sites that have become museums or archaeological curiosities, Ma’lula remains a living religious community where the ancient and contemporary coexist naturally. The prayers I heard were not performances for tourists but part of the ongoing spiritual life of people whose ancestors had worshiped in these same places for over 1,500 years.
This moment of spiritual recognition occurred in a landscape that itself tells the story of religious persistence. The caves and rock formations that provided shelter for early Christian hermits and martyrs remain visible throughout the area. The integration of human settlement with natural environment creates a sense of organic belonging that connects the present community with its ancient predecessors.
The War’s Impact and Uncertain Future
The Syrian Civil War brought devastating challenges to Ma’lula, testing the survival of both its linguistic heritage and religious traditions. In September 2013, the village became a battleground when al-Qaeda-linked jihadist groups, including the al-Nusra Front, attacked the town following a suicide bombing at a government checkpoint. The subsequent battles saw the village change hands multiple times, with reports of churches being burned, looting of religious sites, and threats of forced conversion directed at Christian residents.
Twelve nuns from the Greek Orthodox monastery were kidnapped in November 2013 and held for two months before being released in a prisoner exchange. The conflict forced most of the village’s approximately 3,300 inhabitants to flee, with only 50 remaining during the heaviest fighting. When Syrian government forces eventually regained control in April 2014, the damage was extensive – monasteries, churches, shrines, and much of the old town had suffered damage, looting, and vandalism.
Even after the recent fall of the Assad regime in December 2024, the few Christian residents remaining continue to live in fear and uncertainty, reluctant to resume their normal activities. Many have permanently left, joining the broader pattern of Christian emigration from Syria that has reduced the Christian population from approximately 10% before 2011 to less than 3% today.
Looking Ahead
The 88 photographs in “Return to Damascus” capture Ma’lula and Seidnaya during a happier time when these communities could pursue their spiritual and cultural traditions without fear. The images document the physical beauty of these mountain settlements and preserve a record of communities that are important cultural treasures.
In my final blog post, I’ll explore the story of Abd el-Qadir al-Jaza’iri, the Algerian Muslim exile who saved thousands of Damascus Christians during the 1860 massacre – including my own ancestors. This story of courage and humanitarian intervention across religious lines provides another example of the moral complexity and human dignity that have characterized Syrian history, offering a different perspective on the Middle East.
Through these glimpses into Syria’s cultural and religious heritage, I hope I’ve not just shown the beauty of ancient traditions but also the universal human values of courage, compassion, and spiritual seeking that transcend national and religious boundaries. The story of Ma’lula and Seidnaya is ultimately about the enduring power of place and faith, about communities that have maintained their identity while contributing to the broader human story of spiritual and cultural development.
“Return to Damascus: A Personal Journey” can be pre-ordered from Phoenicia Publishing at a discount for delivery in November.
Beyond the Headlines: Discovering the Real Syria Through My Father’s Eyes
This is the second in a series introducing my new photo book “Return to Damascus: A Personal Journal.” This post is about my family’s connection to Damascus and my own personal journey.
“This was all different,” my father murmurs as we walk through Bab Tuma (Saint Thomas’s Gate) which gives its name to the old Christian quarter of Damascus. “And yet, somehow the same.”
His paradoxical statement captures something essential about Syria that most of us never get to see. At ninety years old, walking slowly through the streets he once knew as a boy, my father was experiencing something profound: the simultaneous recognition and alienation that comes from returning to a homeland that exists partly in memory, partly in reality.
It was May 2000, and I had traveled to Damascus with him. This was a man who left Syria in 1928, moving to Beirut for his education before eventually emigrating to the United States in 1946. He wanted to share the city with his American-born son, and I wanted to learn more about how Syria intertwined with our family history. What I discovered challenged everything I thought I knew about this ancient crossroads of civilizations.
The Problem with How We See Syria
The morning light filtered through the ornate wooden shutters of my room at the Sultan Hotel, casting intricate patterns across the tiled floor. I awoke at dawn to the foreign sound of the muezzin’s call to prayer from the nearby Takiyyee Mosque pulling me from sleep. Outside my window, Damascus was already stirring to life in the warm May sunshine, the air carrying the mingled scents of cardamom, exhaust fumes, and jasmine that seemed to define this ancient city.
This Damascus – vibrant, complex, culturally rich – bears little resemblance to the Syria portrayed through media coverage. Even in 2000, before the devastating civil war that would begin eleven years later, Western portrayals consistently framed Syria and Syrians through a lens of “otherness” and conflict. The tendency to classify entire nations and peoples as exotic, dangerous, or fundamentally different from “us” was already well-established, focusing on political tensions while ignoring the rich cultural heritage, intellectual traditions, and everyday humanity of Syrian people.
Since 2011, this pattern has only intensified. Coverage focuses almost exclusively on war, refugees, and extremism – creating a one-dimensional image that flattens the complexity of a civilization that has been a crossroads of culture for millennia. We hear about Syria as a problem to be solved, a tragedy to be pitied, or a threat to be contained. We rarely hear about Syria as a place where people wake up to the smell of jasmine, where ancient traditions of hospitality still flourish, and where people from different traditions have coexisted for centuries.
My two weeks in Damascus revealed a cultured society that contradicted these stereotypical portrayals. I encountered university professors debating philosophy in coffee houses, artists preserving traditional crafts passed down through generations, and merchants whose families had operated the same shops in the al-Hamidiyah Souk for centuries. This was not the monolithic, threatening “other” of Western imagination, but a complex society grappling with modernity while maintaining deep roots in history.
Syria at a Crossroads
The Syria I encountered in 2000 was a nation holding its breath. President Hafez al-Assad, who had ruled with an iron fist since 1971, was visibly ailing. His health, which had begun deteriorating in 1983 due to diabetes and heart problems, had become a matter of quiet speculation among Damascenes. Though no one spoke openly about succession, the question of what came next hung in the air like the scent of cardamom from street vendors’ carts.
The city was plastered with images of Assad – stern Assad in camouflage, smiling Assad in a suit, saluting Assad in formal military dress. His presence was inescapable, appearing on billboards along major roads. But there was a disconnect between the vigorous leader of the posters and the pale, weight-lost figure who appeared on television. Military checkpoints dotted the city, their sandbagged bunkers a reminder of authority, though the soldiers manning them often looked more bored than alert.
Yet beneath this atmosphere of controlled stability, Damascus pulsed with life. By 7 AM, the streets were already teeming with activity. Small cars screeched through narrow alleys, buses overflowed with passengers, and motorbike-based delivery vehicles navigated the chaos with surprising agility. Street vendors set up their carts, selling everything from fresh bread to household items. The smells of brewing coffee and frying falafel permeated the morning air as cafés and food stalls prepared for the day’s business.
The Old City, with its division into distinct quarters revealed a historical coexistence that had characterized Damascus for centuries. The Christian Quarter, formed by a complex pattern of alleys and small streets, housing families whose roots stretched back generations. Though some areas were experiencing gentrification, with homes being converted to museums and restaurants, the sense of continuity remained palpable.
This was Syria on the cusp of change – a mixture of ancient traditions and modern aspirations, of political uncertainty and cultural vitality. The atmosphere was one of anticipation, a sense of waiting for something to shift, while daily life continued with its eternal rhythms.
From America to Syria: A Photographer’s Journey Home
My path to Damascus began decades earlier, rooted in my interest in using photography for social documentation. Growing up in Vermont after my family immigrated to the United States, I became fascinated with the camera as a tool for understanding human experience. My earlier work had focused on American social change – documented in my book “How Many Roads?” which featured images of America in the late 1960s and early 1970s during the turbulent Vietnam War era.
As a photographer trained in portraiture and street photography, I approached Syria with the same documentary instincts that had driven my work in America. But this journey was different – deeply personal in ways that challenged my usual professional objectivity. Walking through Damascus with my ninety-year-old father, I was simultaneously documenting a foreign country and exploring my own heritage.
My father’s perspective provided a unique lens for understanding both continuity and change in Syrian society. He had left in 1928 as a young man, spent decades teaching Arabic and Islamic studies in private high schools in Vermont and Connecticut, and was now returning to find a Damascus transformed yet somehow familiar. His memories of al-Salihiyah as “all orchards” overlaid the present reality of urban development, revealing the layers of change that had accumulated over seven decades.
Watching him move through the city – standing silently in Byzantine churches, recognizing the shape of mountains against the sky while acknowledging how everything else had changed – I realized I was witnessing something profound about heritage and belonging. This wasn’t about nostalgia or simple homecoming, but about the complex relationship between memory and place, between individual identity and cultural continuity.
Through my camera lens, I began to see Syria not as an exotic destination but as a homeland I had never known – a place where my family’s stories originated, where the Arabic language my father had taught was the natural medium of daily conversation, where the cultural traditions that had survived in diaspora continued to flourish in their original context.
The Mission Behind the Camera
What emerged from this experience was both a personal journey and a larger mission of cultural preservation. The 88 photographs in my book represent more than tourist snapshots or even professional documentation – they constitute an act of cultural counter-narrative, showing Syria’s humanity, complexity, and beauty before the widespread destruction that would follow.
This isn’t political advocacy. I’m not arguing for any particular government or policy position. Rather, it’s cultural documentation – an attempt to preserve and share the everyday dignity of Syrian life, the richness of its traditions, the warmth of its people, and the depth of its history. In an era when entire societies are reduced to headlines and sound bites, photography can serve as a bridge to deeper understanding.
My photographs capture Damascus awakening early – streets teeming with life by 7 AM, vendors setting up carts, the gentle hum of conversation rising above street noise as families emerge in the evening to shop and socialize. They document the architectural marvels of the Old City, where narrow streets wind like ancient rivers and balconies almost touch overhead. They preserve moments of daily grace – children playing in shadowed alleys, conservative Muslims waiting for taxis alongside bareheaded Christians, with no notice being given by either.
These images matter because they show Syria as more than a problem to be solved or a tragedy to be pitied. They reveal a society with the same universal human experiences that connect us all – people working, celebrating, worshiping, raising families, maintaining traditions while adapting to change. They document the complex religious diversity that has characterized Damascus for centuries, the intellectual curiosity that fills coffee houses with debate, the artistic traditions that continue despite political uncertainty.
Understanding Our Shared Humanity
As the muezzin’s call to prayer rose from minarets across Damascus on our last evening, creating a haunting melody that seemed to suspend time, I understood something fundamental about the relationship between documentation and understanding. Photography, at its best, doesn’t just capture images – it creates bridges between different worlds, different experiences, different peoples.
The Syria I documented in 2000 no longer exists in the same form. The civil war that began in 2011 has transformed the country, displaced millions, and damaged or destroyed countless cultural sites. Many of the people I photographed have likely fled, and some of the places I captured may be ruins. This reality makes the photographs even more precious as historical documents, preserving a moment of relative peace and normalcy before the storm.
But the deeper value of this work lies in its challenge to simplistic narratives about who Syrians are and what Syria represents. By showing the country’s complexity – its religious diversity, its cultural sophistication, its deep historical roots, its essential humanity – these images resist the reduction of an entire civilization to political conflicts or security concerns.
In our interconnected world, such understanding matters more than ever. When we see others as fully human – with the same hopes, fears, joys, and struggles that characterize our own lives – we create the possibility for genuine dialogue and mutual respect. When we reduce them to stereotypes or threats, we lose the chance for the kind of understanding that makes peace and cooperation possible.
My father’s words that final evening – about feeling both stranger and connected to Damascus – capture something universal about the human experience of belonging and identity. We all carry multiple histories, multiple connections, multiple ways of understanding home. The photographs in this book are my attempt to honor that complexity, to preserve a moment when I glimpsed my own family’s homeland through both familiar and foreign eyes, and to share that experience with others who may never have the chance to see Syria beyond the headlines.
In the end, this is what photography can offer: not just documentation, but invitation – an invitation to see beyond our assumptions, to recognize our shared humanity, and to understand that every place, every people, every culture contains depths that deserve our attention and respect.
The Bittersweet Story of Syria’s Christians
The first in a series introducing my new photo book “Return to Damascus: A Personal Journey.” This post is about my family’s long-term history in Syria and at least some of the story of how we ended up in America.
“He saved us with a single act of mercy.”
These words, spoken by my father, referred to Abd el-Qadir al-Jaza’iri’s heroic intervention in Damascus in 1860 – a moment that shaped my family’s destiny and countless others.
When I set out to understand my family’s roots, I discovered that the story of Levantine Christian migration is both a tale of lucky survival and and stubborn resilience. It stretches from the violence that erupted in Mount Lebanon and Damascus in 1860 to the streets of Montreal, Brooklyn, Detroit-Dearborne, Brazil, Argentina, and many other places today. Syrian Christians have forged new communities across the globe, carrying traditions, languages, and memories with them.
The 1860 Watershed
In the spring of 1860, centuries of relative coexistence between Christians and Muslims in the Ottoman Empire shattered. Economic tensions, administrative reforms, and armed conflicts in Mount Lebanon spilled into Damascus, where Druze militias and local mobs attacked Christian neighborhoods. Thousands were killed, and homes and churches were destroyed. It was a catastrophe that reverberated across the Mediterranean world.
Amid the chaos, one leader stood out: the Algerian-born Emir Abd el-Qadir. Living nearby, he intervened to protect Christian refugees – placing his family and followers between the mobs and Christians and personally leading women and children to safety.
This 1860 violence triggered the first large wave of Christian emigration. Families, traumatized by the massacres and fearful of a repeat, turned their eyes westward.
Pioneers to Canada
The earliest Levantine Christian settlers in Canada arrived in New Brunswick in 1879. Unlike the later urban enclaves in Montreal and Toronto, these pioneers ventured into small towns – opening general stores and peddling goods across rural routes. They etched their names into local histories as hardworking merchants who bridged cultural divides. Many never expected to settle permanently. They did though, building homes, marrying local partners, and raising children who knew their Syrian history only through photographs and stories passed down at the dinner table.
America’s Mass Migration
Simultaneously, a much larger exodus was underway to the United States. Steamship companies marketed opportunities in Philadelphia, Chicago, and New York – highlighting factories hungry for labor and the potential for a better life. Between 1860 and 1914, nearly half of Mount Lebanon’s Christian population emigrated, with Syrians joining the ranks of what was referred to at the time as “the new Americans.”
In Philadelphia, Syrian entrepreneurs opened fruit stands and textile shops. In Chicago, they staffed steel mills during the city’s rapid expansion. My father, who left Damascus in the 1920s for Beirut and later America, found work in a Vermont school teaching Arabic and in a couple of nearby churches as an Universalist minister. Like many, he sent letters back home – describing snowdrifts blocking roads and the smell of pine forests in ways that made our family’s memories of olive orchards and souks feel like distant dreams.
A Special Bond with France
Across the Atlantic, France held a unique allure for Levantine Christians. The French “Protectorate” over Lebanon and Syria (1920-1946) created educational, linguistic, and administrative ties, making Paris a natural destination for students and professionals. Catholic missions in Beirut and Aleppo funneled promising young Christians into French universities, where they studied law, medicine, and literature.
After graduation, some returned home; others remained in France, blending into Parisian neighborhoods. Their emigration differed from North America’s because they often enjoyed closer political ties and shared religious networks – and yet, they encountered challenges of assimilation and identity that echoed those of their North American counterparts.
Economic and Social Drivers
These early migrants were motivated by more than fear. Steamship agents sold tales of golden opportunities, churches organized sponsorships, and community letters home detailed business successes. Young men also sought to avoid Ottoman military conscription, which often meant years of service under harsh conditions.
This “emigration fever” spread quickly. Prosperity stories – of peddlers returning with wagons full of cash – encouraged others to risk the voyage. Similar stories were repeated by migrants to Mexico and South America. Families pooled savings to buy single tickets, hoping to reunite later. Missionaries and diaspora societies provided lodgings, language lessons, and job placement assistance.
Preserving Culture in the Diaspora
Diaspora communities across Canada, the United States, and France worked hard to preserve their culture. Churches taught Arabic and Aramaic liturgies; social clubs hosted dance nights; local grocers sold za’atar and ma’amoul; newspapers in Arabic bridged generations. Families celebrated Christmas with mezze spreads, blending Levantine recipes with North American traditions.
Through these practices, they maintained a strong sense of identity – one that connected them to the villages of Mount Lebanon, the courtyards of Damascus, and the stone village of Ma’lula. Yet, each new homeland shaped them in turn, creating unique hybrid cultures that were neither fully Syrian nor completely Western.
Weaving Family and Diaspora
My own family’s journey followed these patterns. My paternal grandparents remained in Damascus where my father was born in 1909, later attending the American University in Beirut. In 1946, he and my mother traveled to Vermont. After departing the Middle East, he never returned for any extended period, yet It remained a strong part of him.
My mother, who was not Syrian but Armenian, had three children with my father, of which I was in the middle. The book “Return to Damascus” is loosely about my father’s own pilgrimage to Damascus in 2000 when he was ninety years old and where he retraced his arc: from the United States back to the streets he had grown up on.
Setting the Stage for Cultural Preservation
History plays an important role in my photography book. The images of Ma’lula, the candid portraits along with the streets and places of Damascus, carry deeper meaning for me because of the family diaspora story. But our stories are by no means unique. My family’s history reminds me that many family photo albums hold stories of departure and return, of belonging and loss. But for me the journey from Damascus to Montreal is not just geographical – it is a testament to the enduring spirit of Levantine Christians who carried their heritage across oceans and generations.
“Return to Damascus: A Personal Journey” can be pre-ordered from Phoenicia Publishing at a discount for delivery in November.
Tags: Middle East History, Syria
Return to Damascus is my new book of photographs, available for order, that preserves fleeting impressions and the spirit of a place through the lens. Accompanied by brief reflections and memories, the photographs offer a tribute to the place and its people, focusing on enduring character and the subtle interplay of light, architecture, and tradition. Return to Damascus is a quiet celebration of observation and memory, inviting viewers to participate.
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| How Many Roads? is a book of photographs by Jonathan Sa'adah, available for order, offering an unglossy but deeply human view of the period from 1968 to 1975 in richly detailed, observant images that have poignant resonance with the present. Ninety-one sepia photographs reproduced with an introduction by Teju Cole, essays by Beth Adams, Hoyt Alverson, and Steven Tozer, and a preface by the photographer. | |
| If you'd like more information, please have a look at this page. | |
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| To see more work To visit my blog Contact information All material © Jonathan Sa'adah no use without written permission | |
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