March 2024 marked the end of my tenth year of exile from Aleppo, my hometown. On March 17, 2013, I was detained for several hours, and by the morning of March 18, I had left Syria, aware that any attempt to return could lead to my assassination or prolonged imprisonment at the very least. I had spent most of my thirty years living within a relatively confined geographic and social circle in my city, which lacked diversity in terms of class, sect, and religion—except during the years of the revolution. My decision to engage in the Arab Spring through demonstrations, writing, and political organizing led to over a year of security persecution before I finally fled the country. I crossed into Turkey through the then-open borders, heading toward a Turkish city called Gaziantep.
Early on, I realized the profound emotional impact of being forcibly uprooted from my country. To cope with the pain of this uprooting, I clung to the belief that my exile was temporary—not years, but mere months. I followed political developments with both an analytical and a personal lens, considering what each change might mean for my return. During those initial years of displacement, I had neither the desire nor the energy to assimilate into my new environment; the local resentment toward refugees only deepened my sense of alienation. I did not learn Turkish, nor did I make any efforts to build bridges or relationships. I was simply waiting to return home.
To resist accepting that I was exiled, I continued to view my role as an activist, a feminist, and a writer as unchanged. I behaved as if my connection to Syria—its streets, its public discourse, and my access to knowledge, information, oral history, and observations—had not changed. I denied the limitations of maintaining only a virtual relationship with my country and the political constraints associated with it. In the rare moments when I acknowledged that I was now in a different country, under different forms of oppression, I quickly suppressed this realization, convincing myself that my exile was temporary. I firmly believed that I would return to Syria and that it was only a matter of time.
Early on, I realized the profound emotional impact of being forcibly uprooted from my country and I clung to the belief that my exile was temporary
I refused to accept the more likely outcome that I would not return to live in Syria, until after the Syrian regime’s relentless siege and bombing of Aleppo, which ultimately fell under regime control at the end of 2016. I think it was the beginning of my understanding of my own exile.
Exile intensified the limitation of our political choices in the relationship to our country. I want to live in my country, but I will die if I return. This creates an impossible choice between life and homeland. After prioritizing life over returning to Syria, guilt, rather than political change, became the driving force behind much of my political activism in the early stages of displacement.
Guilt is intensely self-centered, even when expressed in terms of the sake of “those we left behind.” It often assigns superhuman responsibilities to the individual to save others. Driven by the burden of guilt, we gravitate towards actions that promise immediate positive impacts, favoring short-term, directly effective solutions over long-term strategies. These are typically not political or cultural efforts but humanitarian work.
Consequently, many Syrian revolution activists, myself included, shifted from political resistance against the war and various occupations of Syria, and from cultivating a political vision for a more democratic, dignified, and just future, to focusing primarily on immediate humanitarian efforts.
However, guilt was not the sole reason for this shift. The severity of the war, the collapse of essential daily life supports for our people, and a recognition, sometimes unacknowledged, of the defeat of the Arab revolutions and the suppression of the peoples’ demands for liberation also played significant roles.
I want to live in my country, but I will die if I return. This creates an impossible choice between life and homeland
“We who survived must do something”
This emerged as the slogan for those of us who still possessed the energy to resist, while many others in exile either withdrew from public activism towards personal salvation, or to nihilism. Our means of resistance were limited to humanitarian efforts or the redoing of protests resembling the Arab Spring, albeit in our countries of refuge. These demonstrations, echoing the songs and chants from the revolution’s early days, carried a raw honesty when voiced in the streets of our homelands as we tried to reclaim them from political oppression. In contrast, in foreign lands, our protests often went unnoticed, the local passersby indifferent, sometimes unable to differentiate our flags from those of other nations. These protests represented a blend of nostalgia and a firm assertion that, despite our exile, we remained connected to that brave and dignified chapter of 2011. Over time, however, we gradually began to acknowledge, at least to ourselves, that small-scale demonstrations in our countries of refuge were not the most effective means of sustaining our political struggle in the diaspora.
In the face of ongoing catastrophic situations, pausing to reflect on what this “doing something” might be felt like a luxury. There is no time to contemplate our complex circumstances, despite knowing that the only solutions to our complex political challenges demand deep thought—a luxury we perceive we cannot afford.
The rush in choosing methods of resistance, or outright withdrawal, among the exiled activists comes with many misleading assumptions. It presumes a homogenous diaspora among the politically exiled, that this diaspora holds similar or unified roles, regardless of geographic differences, levels of political and racial oppression, and the concentration of refugees in each country. It overlooks the passage of time which invariably alters our relationships with the country and its dynamics.
Over time we gradually began to acknowledge that small-scale demonstrations in our countries of refuge were not the most effective means of sustaining our political struggle in the diaspora
It now requires more effort and time to access and understand local knowledge that is not written down. We were once locals, but not quite so anymore. A decade ago, I could effortlessly gauge the relationship between a Syrian employee’s salary and the price of a loaf of bread. Now, I need to convert both to dollars in a way that is far from intuitive just to grasp such a basic fact.
Without acknowledging that I have lived in two different countries outside of Syria—Turkey and the US—each with potentially different roles for me. Without accepting that I have been out of Syria for 10 years and that the Syria I knew has significantly changed. Without admitting, too, that I might never return and may have to make a new country my home for as long as I lived in Syria, I remain stuck in my methods of resistance, dominated by certainty rather than dialogue. We risk becoming entrenched in repeating programs and methods, rather than truly listening and forming new collective demands.
What could be done in the slightly longer term in the battle for liberation? What is my personal role? What does the country need in its new political context? These are necessary yet infrequently asked questions.
What if we acknowledged that traditional methods of nonviolent struggle have failed to protect lives from genocides in conflicts from Yemen to Sudan, Palestine, and Syria? And to admit as well that armed resistance has also not improved people’s lives either. And that we, despite our varying perspectives, from leftists and feminists to human rights defenders, are facing an ideological and humanitarian defeat. That our various methods of resistance have become insufficient in offering any political hope for a more just future.
What if we acknowledged that traditional methods of nonviolent struggle have failed to protect lives from genocides and to admit that armed resistance has also not improved people’s lives either?
What if we shifted from the “let’s do something” mindset, valid in the urgent face of loss of life, to asking “What can be done?” From certainty to humility and uncertainty. To accept that the next phase of our struggle in the diaspora relies heavily on experimentation and collective rethinking, moving beyond the obligation to act towards exploring new forms of struggle. This shift could pave the way for more strategic, intentional approaches to our struggles for liberation.
What can be done to support our people both inside and outside the country?
How can we politically shape demands and messages without overshadowing the voices of those within the country, without marginalizing them or oversimplifying their diverse experiences by treating them as a monolithic group?
As we acknowledge our privileges in asylum countries, it is crucial not to see this as a hierarchy of suffering but as a way to hold our role and the space for our voice accountable. Over time, many of us learn multiple languages of globalization and gain greater access to universities, the press, and platforms with global reach. Whether intentionally or not, we often become seen as the model of the ‘good immigrant.’ Amidst this, how can we use these advantages to advocate for improved rights for all, both inside and outside our homeland? How can we amplify their struggles without taking over the voices of those who lack means of communication such as the internet, electricity, and have limited opportunities to travel and participate?
The rights to life and dignity of those within our countries are neither more nor less important than our own—they are equally critical in our collective pursuit of land, justice, and democracy. How do we ensure that our approach remains as grassroots as possible? Are we listening adequately to those with whom we share our struggle, particularly those who remain in catastrophic living conditions?
How can we politically shape demands and messages without overshadowing the voices of those within the country, without marginalizing them or oversimplifying their diverse experiences by treating them as a monolithic group?
What can be done collectively and meaningfully online, beyond the trends and influencers?
Our activism in the diaspora often risks falling into the trap of neoliberalism due to its forced reliance on social media and virtual spaces, which can lead to the commodification of issues to make them more marketable. Activism can take on a highly individualistic tone that is appealing for marketing on platforms like TikTok and Instagram, transforming us from members of a collective movement into individual influencers followed as if they were pop celebrities, and turning our causes into competitive trends. Withdrawing from virtual spaces, however, seems less effective in resisting this trend towards influencer-dominated phenomena.
How can we make the most of virtual communication spaces despite their limitations, and avoid forming rhetoric and demands that impose additional burdens on those we aim to support? How can we belong to movements as one of many activists not the one and only?
What can be done to foster as much collective action as possible?
This might begin with acknowledging that we have lost access to our streets and the organic ability to organize with our communities back home. Once we accept this, we should aim to expand our definition of community, adopting a more intersectional approach. In Aleppo, I could have organized in my neighborhood, on my street, or at my university. In New York, I can build sisterhood and allyship with individuals beyond our national identity and unite around a global liberation movement. The challenge is to accept that the nature of our collective has evolved for us in the diaspora. From this acceptance, we should strive to counteract individualism and instead forge a new, intentional collective.
What resources do we have at our disposal to think collectively in times of defeat and widespread genocide, rather than simply organizing another protest or commemorating events like Women’s Day, Human Rights Day, and the anniversary of the revolution?
We should stay engaged with the issues of our homelands, ensuring that our struggles and stories remain visible and active, but simultaneously, it is essential to immerse ourselves in the political landscapes of our new countries, advocating for our rights and forming alliances with local movements
What can be done? This question should be our guiding question. How can we create spaces to collaboratively envision creative answers to that?
What can be done within the political spaces in our new countries as refugees?
What is our role today as refugees, not only in political change in our home countries but also in our host countries that are increasingly becoming hostile towards refugees? How can we balance that with our focus on our homeland rights? How do we play a role in creating change, not through assimilation and conformity, but through resistance and enriching diversity?
To achieve this, we need to cultivate a dual focus on our political commitments. We should stay engaged with the issues of our homelands, ensuring that our struggles and stories remain visible and active. Simultaneously, it is essential to immerse ourselves in the political landscapes of our new countries, advocating for our rights and forming alliances with local movements. This requires learning the political systems, understanding local issues, and finding common ground with activist groups. It is crucial to actively work to demand these activist spaces to become more inclusive and supportive of refugees
What can be done?
It is okay to admit that in the face of the massive oppression we are witnessing in our world today, the answer to what can be done is not clear or concrete. In my country, Syria, the regime has been as fascist as ever, hundreds of thousands have been killed, hundreds of thousands are still missing, and millions have been displaced to countries that are outright xenophobic. Inside the country, people are bombarded and targeted; five different countries occupy different regions of Syria, along with many foreign militias. Many of our population are still in refugee camps, and many more live below the poverty line.
It is okay if we, the newly exiled, do not have a clear answer in the face of these ever-changing challenges. As long as we resist withdrawing into political apathy, nihilism, and complete surrender to the injustices of the world. As long as we keep that question alive, with humility, curiosity, compassion, and courage. Let’s keep asking, over and over, what can be done?
This article has been written before the fall of the Syrian regime in December 2024.
Photography
Sewing workshop of the “Cuerpos Gramaticales” activity with the Colombian diaspora in Barcelona, 2017. Author: Ingrid Guyon.