Amid the fragmented realities that emerged after the collapse of the Baath Party and the Assad regime, celebrations unfolded at Fatih Mosque and later at Saraçhane Square in Istanbul's Fatih district. The soundscape, shouting at the top of their lungs—"Freedom forever, despite you, Assad!"[1] and "One, one, one, the Syrian people are one!"[2]—marked powerfully December 8, 2024. Whether it be a living room in Damascus or streets of Berlin, these gatherings have witnessed imagined, experienced, and bodily shared collectivities on various levels.
I want to begin by clarifying what this work does not do. This photo-essay does not provide answers, nor does it aim to tell a cohesive story or present a complete picture. Likewise, these photographs do not depict the raw anxieties over the lack of clean water for relatives in Aleppo, the fears of returning to homes that may no longer exist, the daily struggles to secure precarious living conditions in exile, or the immense emotional, physical, and material labor of homemaking during a series of generational disasters. They do not capture the haunting hopes for forcibly disappeared loved ones or the relentless checking of WhatsApp and Telegram groups for any trace of information. Yet, all these remnants of oppression and emotions—ranging from joy to fear, from hope to anxiety, and from dreams to despair— are entangled in this "new" fragmented reality.
When the secret doors of Sednaya Prison were finally opened—some rooms revealed, others concealed, some imagined, and others left in obscurity and unknowability— an informant reflected: "This is the same anxiety, the same pressure, and the same loneliness we felt while waiting for news of our relatives buried under the rubble," echoing sentiments shared during the devastating 2023 earthquakes in Turkey and Syria. How, then, could a moment of victory simultaneously evoke such disastrous emotions at the same time?
I do not recount these stories to diminish the joy of a long-awaited liberation from a violent regime, its generational dictatorship, and the apparatus of surveillance, the mukhabarat, that was ingrained in the bodies of Syrians both in exile and homeland. Yet, if this photo-essay accomplishes anything, it is an invitation to reflect on the celebrations captured in these images through the lens of their fragmentations and absences. It seeks to hold space for the intertwined realities of anxiety, fear, despair, and suspended breath alongside the reliefs, shocks, and future-making endeavors that remain inextricably linked to unlived pasts and ambiguous presents.
On December 8, Saraçhane—one of Istanbul's iconic squares (maydan), renowned for hosting demonstrations and standing prominently beside the municipality building—transcended its role as a mere "physical" gathering place. At any moment, as you turn your head from right to left, you could see Syrians bridging distances to connect with loved ones scattered across different countries. Through WhatsApp group calls or Instagram live streams, the square transformed into a vibrant digital landscape and a celebration arena.
As hundreds stream online, the internet struggled under the weight of this collective demand, which briefly reflected the intensity of human connection and the limits of infrastructure under such strain.
In the quieter parts of Saraçhane Square or in the middle of the lively celebrations, faces and voices of loved ones came together and connected through screens. An informant, phone in hand, reached out to a relative in Damascus and eagerly tilted the screen towards me. "Look!" he said, his voice trembling with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. "I wanted to show him what all this was for." In that moment, the digital connection bridged not only geographical distances, but also generations of hope, resistance, and dreams that were entangled with amazement and shock.
As if preparing for an unexpected performance, the celebration scene in Fatih gradually gained momentum and vibrancy. Through improvised arrangements and creative solutions, its landscape steadily expanded, and ultimately encompassed thousands of participants. Torches and fireworks illuminated the square, creating a hazy atmosphere that triggered occasional coughing. Faces of children and youth were adorned with painted the "real" flag with three red stars —emblematic of Syrian revolutionaries and opposition groups. As the evening unfolded, the crowd grew more diverse, incorporating women, families, elderly Syrians, and Turkish attendees.
During this patchwork of festivity, a dabke dance—music interrupted by internet glitches and YouTube advertisements—seemed to embody the improvisational spirit of the celebration. Half-completed dance steps, songs fading into silence, and police announcements banning "megaphones and loudspeakers" in the area (just as they had ostensibly prohibited torches and fireworks); they all hinted at an incomplete enthusiasm that lingered behind the laughter and photographs.
Celebrations spreaded beyond the physical borders of the square, occasionally with a touch of sweetness. From the Emniyet-Fatih metro station to the Saraçhane Square, and even at the corners of the main streets, it was common to see people offering treats —ranging from traditional delights like baklava to eclairs. As captured in this fleeting moment, they vanished almost as quickly as they appeared, consumed within minutes. Young Syrian girls extended eclairs to police officers, who appeared momentarily conflicted: hesitant to accept, yet unable to find a compelling reason to refuse.
The mobile meatball cart—a ubiquitous fixture near stadium exits, concert venues, coastal areas, and late-night taxi stands throughout Turkey—seamlessly merged into the square's celebratory landscape. Its smoky aroma mingled with the flicker of torches and the crackle of fireworks, thickening the hazy air and adding to the jubilant atmosphere. A Turkish vendor, who had begun the afternoon selling only Turkish flags, managed to acquire Syrian flags by evening and started selling low-quality, mass-produced flags next to the meatball cart. This scene stood in stark contrast to the earlier moments at Fatih Mosque's courtyard, where people lined up to take photos with the scarce number of Syrian flags available.
In the middle of this celebratory atmosphere, I found myself with my camera in hand, becoming part of the scene. It's only when people approached me, asking, "How much do you charge for photos?" that I began to grasp the role I've taken on here. Their words filled me with a wave of nostalgia and evoked the memory of old-fashioned instant cameras and "souvenir photographs". The unique temporality of what we were witnessing reminded me to document and preserve them as a testament to their ephemeral spirit.
The temporality of the celebration scene reveals its underlying political economy, as flags, banners, and signs emerged and vanished—some of which I only noticed later while revisiting these photographs and videos. An outstanding example was Erdoğan's iconic photograph, depicting him in a symbolic pilot uniform during an aviation and aerospace industry event. This image briefly occupied a central position in the celebrations before being displaced.
Erdoğan's portrayal as a heroic, messianic leader is a well-established narrative strategy, particularly in framing his government as the savior of Syrian coreligionists and positioning him as the leader of the Middle East. This narrative aligns with Turkey's rapidly expanding war industry, largely controlled by Erdoğan's familial and political networks. The symbolic presence of Erdoğan's iconic photograph at Saraçhane Square reflected the rhetoric of a contemporaneous press conference, where Erdoğan praised his government's unprecedented hospitality toward Syrian muhajirs. Notably, the peripheral placement of Erdoğan's image within the frame—contrasted with the jubilant smiles and laughter at the center—invites questions about the metaphorical representation of Turkey's ambiguous politics of hospitality.
As the end of Assad's dictatorial regime brought hope, joy, and a sense of solidarity—embodied in the chants of thousands of Syrians gathered in front of the Fatih Mosque—this coalition was not without conflict or the anxieties tied to Hayat Tahrir al-Sham's control over Syria's uncertain future. I captured this photograph during a moment when the immense crowd made it impossible to take even a single step.
Shortly after, a group of women, initially jesting, remarked about a flag being waved nearby—one predominantly associated with jihadist ideologies and organizations. They insisted that today, of all days, should be free from the black flag, as "they've been dark for years." Despite their objections, the man holding the flag, along with his nearby group, remained unbothered and continued waving it. The women's tone grew more urgent as they argued that the black flag did not represent the unity of Syrians. The man loudly responded back, "What does it say on the flag? It is only the Shahadah."[3] Then, raising his voice, he shouted, "Takbir!" The nearby crowd responded in unison, "Allahu Akbar!"
The women found a solution by pointing out the flag to a Turkish police officer, who was stuck in the same crowd and inattentively observing the argument until then. He shouted in Turkish, "Pass the flag to me!"
Police violence in Turkey continues with a relentless intensity, as activists, workers, and human rights advocates have been detained during various political events. This violence remains an unsettling reality, overshadowing every public gathering that dares to challenge government narratives or interests. From feminist marches protesting gender-based violence and demonstrations against Turkey's commercial ties with Israel, to actions opposing the government's arbitrary appointment of trustees in Kurdish regions and sit-ins by hunger strikers fighting for their ignored legal rights, the police consistently act as enforcers of arbitrary power and exerts control over marginalized bodies.
In this context, the police's ambiguous presence during the December 8th celebrations was particularly perplexing. As captured in this photograph, police forces were stationed outside Saraçhane Square, maintaining a peripheral yet conspicuous presence while surveilling the event with comprehensive intensity. Meanwhile, they routinely monitored those passing through the main entrance of the square and their station. At one point, an officer shouted at a Syrian young man making a video call and showing the surroundings: "Are you recording us? Show me your phone!" The police's physical positioning and liminal choreography of power—close enough to exert authority yet distanced enough to avoid direct intervention—created a complex tension.
I want to conclude this photo-essay by shifting focus to the overlooked figures of the celebratory scene: Syrian youth collecting rubbish while celebrations are carried on. Barely noticeable to both the human eye and my camera, a self-organized group of volunteers equipped with oversized trash bags and rubber gloves meticulously cleaned the area—picking up plastic water bottles, torch wrappers, papers, and even yellowed fallen leaves that were clearly not remnants of the celebrations. When I approached one of the young boys to understand their motivation, he replied succinctly: "Because if we leave this place like this, it would be 'Syrians who messed it up here.'"
I value this moment not for a romanticized understanding of intrinsic goodness supposedly embedded in Syrians (though I genuinely appreciate their emotional and physical labor). The politics of hospitality in Turkey, which began by casting Syrians in a perpetual state of victimhood, has obstructed their recognition as right-bearing individuals. Therefore, any approach of pity risks obscuring the nuanced emotional landscape of Syrians within this historic moment where hope and anxiety blend into each other. Instead, I interpret this act as an acknowledgment of coexisting temporalities and realities. While returning to the homeland, watan, has been a recurring theme in chants, social media posts, and my daily interactions (where I was advised to conclude my research and invited to visit Syria), I recognize the profound yearning to reclaim a sense of home in Syria and definitively close the chapter in Turkey. However, as the material remnants and echoes of the celebrations similarly suggest, this imagined future is inextricably entangled with present uncertainties.
In these moments of celebration, Syria's story unfolds not as a straightforward narrative of triumph but as a complex tapestry woven from threads of hope, despair, anxiety, resilience, and an enduring longing for home—where joy and uncertainty intertwine. It is a fragmented landscape, shaped by the lives of those who have survived, resisted, and continue to dream.
________________________________________
[1] Ḥurriya lil-abad ghasb ʿannak yā Asad (حرية للأبد غصب عنك يا أسد)
[2] Wāḥid wāḥid wāḥid, al-shaʿb al-Sūrī wāḥid (واحد واحد واحد الشعب السوري واحد)
[3]Shahadah translates as "I bear witness that there is no deity but God, and I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of God."