The symbols of Assad’s rule that once adorned Aleppo have been toppled, torn down, or burned. The colossal statue depicting Assad’s late brother astride a steed is mostly destroyed, leaving only the rearing horse, which young men eagerly climb, flashing victory signs.
Wednesday in Aleppo was a day of jubilation as exiled residents returned home over a week after Syrian rebels swiftly captured the city, ending Assad’s reign.
They came back from across the Turkish border or from safer havens elsewhere, not necessarily permanently, but to assess the remnants of their lives and explore possibilities for the future. They visited old neighborhoods and homes, some of which had vanished.
Amar Sabir, 23, fled Aleppo nearly a decade ago with her family, eventually finding refuge in Turkey. There, she married and started a family, but never relinquished hope of returning. On Sunday, she did just that.
“May God grant us never to have to leave Syria again,” she declared, standing with her back to the equestrian statue. Her cousins were guiding her through the city, reintroducing her to familiar landmarks and historical sites. “This place will become a historical landmark,” she proclaimed.
“This is where they brought down the regime,” added her husband, Basil al-Hassan.
Their first stop was the 13th-century citadel, a formidable medieval fortress that dominates the city skyline. This enduring landmark is Aleppo’s most famous structure and a symbol of the city’s resilience.
Little boys hawked Syrian flags to eager crowds wanting to pose for photos. At the citadel’s entrance, a popcorn vendor repeatedly played a protest song, the chorus a direct rebuke to the deposed Assad regime: “He who kills his people is a traitor.”
The song was largely drowned out by a nearby drum circle, whose celebratory rhythms only paused for the call to prayer. Men pounded their drums while others danced and twirled, their movements mirroring whirling dervishes.
Ali Siraaj Ali, 44, had also fled Aleppo during the war. Wednesday marked his first day back. Accompanying his son, he danced excitedly, catching his breath between bursts of joyous movement. “God willing, we will be happy,” he said, “but the future is uncertain.”
Despite the exuberance and frenzy on display in some parts of Aleppo, the scars of the 13-year civil war remained.
Not far from the damaged equestrian statue lay the stark remnants of one of Assad’s final acts of violence: a small crater created by a rocket that tore through a crowd on November 30, claiming fifteen lives and injuring dozens more. Dried blood stained the sidewalk, a somber reminder of the city’s recent past.
In Salahuldeen, the neighborhood where the first battles between anti-government rebels and Assad forces raged from 12, Zuhair Khateeb felt uneasy.
Standing next to his small mechanics shop, he tore pieces of pita bread and scattered them for the ten or so pigeons fluttering around his feet. The clinking of tiny bracelets on their legs provided a lighthearted counterpoint to a somber conversation.
Surrounding Mr. Khateeb, 43, were piles upon piles of rubble – the remnants of homes and buildings destroyed by Syrian airstrikes years ago. Other buildings appeared to have been brutally split in half. The government never cleaned up the debris or attempted to rebuild.
“We weren’t allowed to do anything,” Mr. Khateeb explained. “It was a slow death. They wanted to kill us slowly, and we couldn’t protest.”
He’d worked tirelessly to save enough money to send his eldest son to Dubai, sparing the teenager from compulsory military service under the Assad government.
In the weeks leading up to the unexpected rebel offensive last month, the military began sweeping through Aleppo’s neighborhoods, rounding up men in their 30s and 40s. With the regime’s departure, he hoped his son could return from Dubai. Others were returning to the devastated neighborhood even without a place to live.
“People are saying there’s something better to come,” Mr. Khateeb added, “but we’ve already endured so much.”
At President’s Square, another toppled monument lay crushed on the ground. What was once the head of Hafez al-Assad, Bashar’s father and a former president, was barely recognizable, a shattered piece of stone clinging precariously to shoulders by twisted rebar.
Seventeen-year-old Abdulhadi Ghazal sat on the pedestal that once supported the decapitated bust, striking a pose reminiscent of Rodin’s “The Thinker.” Someone had scrawled “11/30 the square of the free” on the pedestal.
“I sat where the leader was. I wanted to sit in his place,” the teenager said, his face accented by a faint mustache. But the presence of a few photographers taking his picture caused him to jump down, fearing potential repercussions for disrespecting a regime that still inspires fear.
“We saw so many people in prison,” he explained, referring to the horrifying images of emaciated and tortured prisoners that have emerged recently. “We’re scared the president might return.” He hadn’t been there when the bust was destroyed, but after seeing a video online, he felt compelled to see it for himself, to stand where the statue once stood.
Others simply spat at it.
Across the street, at City Hall, officials from Hayat Tahrir al-Sham and other rebel groups instrumental in toppling the Assad dynasty are scrambling to form a government for the towns and cities under their control.
A large photograph of Mr. al-Assad still hangs, untouched, on the building’s facade. No one has gotten around to removing it yet.