Beirut to Damascus
My journey began in Beirut, just two days after the fall of Assad. I had been on holiday, but the moment I understood the urgency, I knew I had to be on a flight as soon as possible.
Upon landing, I searched for my driver at the airport. He held a sign with my name written in Arabic—or at least I thought it was my name. I didn’t really care much; I was excited to get going.
He drove me to our first stop: a location where I would pick up body armor and a helmet. The arrangement worked, but the situation felt odd.
I didn’t know this man, and my colleague—already in Syria—hadn’t been able to communicate. He was in a place with no connection, leaving me to trust the arrangement he had made to get me to Damascus.
The driver assured me he’d get me to the border. There, another driver would take over and help me cross. Crossing the border itself was an unsettling experience.
As we passed the remains of checkpoints, the signs of war kept creeping up: a destroyed tank, a torn-down poster of Assad. Most checkpoints were abandoned, damaged, or completely destroyed.
At one, a young boy stood alone, holding an automatic rifle. He looked barely old enough to understand the gravity of what had happened.
There was no passport control, no customs. The customs building was destroyed, a shell of what it once was, with some luxury cars outside in ruins. We drove through what felt like a no man’s land, a road empty of life.
I remember thinking that the rebels might have seen this as some kind of joke, but I was stepping into the country for the first time. I didn’t want trouble—not within the first 30 minutes of being there. That was a picture I didn't take.
The second driver took me further into Syria, toward Damascus. When we arrived, he didn’t bring me to the hotel where my colleague was supposed to be waiting. Instead, we stopped in front of an apartment block.
I felt a wave of anxiety. I had no idea where I was. There was still no connection to reach anyone, no one I could turn to for clarification.
In the distance, the sounds of gunfire echoed, and the smoke from earlier bombardments was visible on the horizon.
I got out of the car. A man approached me and gestured for me to follow him into the apartment building. I couldn’t speak Arabic, and no one around me spoke English.
I walked into the apartment as a small dog jumped up my leg. An elderly man with kind eyes offered me coffee and handed me a small piece of paper with something written on it: the password to their secret Wi-Fi. Within moments, I was connected again.
Relief. It was fleeting but powerful. The anxiety eased slightly, replaced by a renewed sense of focus. This was just the beginning—I needed to get to Daniel so we could start working before it got dark.
