This article has been published in partnership and cooperation between SyriaUntold, openDemocracy and the Conflict and Civil Society Research Unit (CCSR) within the London School of Economics and Political Science (LSE).
I took on the habit of walking through the streets of my city, Damascus, every day, particularly during the night. I love to stare into the faces and eyes of its people and the details of its lanes and alleys and I feel saddened by what eight years of war has done to them.
Faces seem more melancholy than usual this winter. Eyes wither from weariness and exhaustion. It’s true, this winter is relatively calmer. Mortar shelling has disappeared for the first time in years. But this winter carries with it another kind of war. A war that made many mumble amongst each other, wishing that the days of cannons and mortars, which showered the streets of the city, would return. Death was clear and direct back then. Unequivocal. It could not be mistaken for something else, life for instance. Death today is slow and painful. It disguises itself in a thousand colours and attires.
