DAMASCUS – When you reside in a city where snowfall is a rare event, occurring perhaps once or twice a year, or even less frequently, each occurrence becomes a moment of excitement. I remember, back then, whenever it snowed, we gleefully played with the white fluff for a single day before it inevitably melted away by the following day, if not sooner. Fond childhood memories linger of those times when I felt a twinge of sadness as the snow vanished before my eyes.
A couple of days ago, I caught wind that a snowstorm was on its way to Syria. While such occurrences typically create a picturesque scene in Lebanon and certain Syrian regions, this time, I felt no excitement at the news. Instead, I was gripped with concern. I knew that venturing out into the snow would mean having no warm refuge to return to afterwards.
This year, much like the last, everything feels different. Since the outbreak of war, most of us abandoned our possessions and sought shelter in abandoned homes scattered across the capital. Gone are the days of cozying up by a $700 Italian diesel stove or a crackling fireplace, serenaded by the sounds of “Let It Snow.” Even the modest warmth provided by a smaller, more affordable Syrian-made stove feels like a distant luxury now, especially in the cramped quarters we now inhabit, where multiple families share space, and energetic children race about.
The landscape has shifted dramatically since the onset of conflict. Daily power outages and soaring diesel prices have turned heating into a pressing concern for locals. Winter, once a season of romance, now bears the weight of frustration as economic woes plague the populace, and everyone seeks ways to trim their expenses.
Yet, when the first snowflakes descend, all these worries fade into the background. A cousin points excitedly out the window, “It’s snowing!” Another rushes to the balcony. You step outside the door to catch a glimpse, and before you know it, you’re venturing out into the snow, followed by the rest of the household. Our mothers may not have approved, but they didn’t bother to protest either.
Yesterday, the snowfall began in earnest around 1 pm. Within hours, a blanket of white draped the ground and covered the vehicles. As I left the house, I found our neighbors already outside, reveling in the snow. Though unfamiliar faces to me, being new arrivals in the neighborhood, they wasted no time in initiating a friendly snowball fight—a peculiar yet effective form of neighborly bonding.
As I strolled through the city, I encountered more people outdoors—civilians and soldiers, children and adults—engaging in playful camaraderie, capturing memories with photographs, and sculpting snowmen. Some soldiers strolled down the streets, serenading with song, while others gleefully hurled snowballs, engaging in spirited exchanges with civilians who returned fire. One soldier cautioned against hitting the nearby restaurant’s windows, mindful of not scaring away potential customers.
At one point, I felt a snowball strike my back, and I turned, ready to admonish my cousin, only to realize it was a playful soldier who had aimed the shot. Grinning, I brushed it off and continued on. In moments like these, you forget about titles and uniforms, simply joining in the snowy revelry. Another soldier, overcome with excitement, handed his rifle to my cousin, eager to join the fray. In that moment, even he seemed to momentarily forget his military role. Soon, the distinction between civilians and military blurred, as everyone became participants in this frosty celebration.
Previously, fear, tension, and mistrust had pervaded interactions. Most people dared not engage with soldiers, and the soldiers, in turn, kept their distance. Yet, for that single day, everything changed. Whether civilian or military, Sunni or Alawite, all that mattered was the shared enjoyment of the winter wonderland.
They say you need to break the ice between people, but in Damascus, it was the ice itself that brought people together. On days like these, you’re reminded that winter itself isn’t the enemy; it’s the lack of adequate heating that poses the true challenge. Syrians aren’t inherently violent; it’s the absence of sound political solutions that fuels conflicts.
On December 13th, the people of Damascus demonstrated that they wouldn’t let the darkest times overshadow even the smallest joys. Despite shared concerns about food, heating, and security, compounded by the lack of a voice in regional and international policies, they voiced their political views through their actions. This scene likely repeated itself across the country in recent days.
As the snowflakes blanketed the land, obscuring flags and fading into the fog, the country united under a neutral color.
Roumani Line 