By Dr. Hassan Merhej
The war did not change Syrian identities; it exposed them. It was as if the roof had been lifted off a crowded house, revealing the supporting pillars we had been pretending not to see. We were never one people, in a political or psychological sense. We were groups ashamed of our own names, afraid of our past, and preferring to live under an artificial official identity that resembled no one.
The war did not create division; the division was always here, hiding in everyday language, in small prejudices, in jokes, in the hierarchy of “higher” and “lower” identities, in our blind fear of one another. But the centralized system had mastered the art of silencing voices, keeping identities in a latent state until they exploded.
Today, we are living a moment of truth. The identities we tried to bury have returned, not as cultural differences, but as conditions for survival. Here, we can say the following:
Syrians can no longer live inside the illusion of “we.” “We, the Syrian people” is a comforting phrase, but an empty one. The war has forced every group to ask: Who are we, really? Whom do we fear? Who kills whom? Defining identity has become an act of self-defense before it is an act of belonging.
In post-war Syria, the question is no longer: Do we have multiple identities? It is: How do we stop these identities from devouring one another?
The centralized state was always a project of erasing identity before it was a project of state-building. It was as if the state said: “Dissolve so that we may rule you.” And society behaved as though it suffered from a phobia of mutual recognition. This is how the center collapsed: not because it was weak, but because it was built on the denial of reality.
A state that denies the existence of identities turns into a security apparatus, then into a war machine, then into ruins.
Identities that are not acknowledged turn into armed identities. This is a basic social law, but Syrians learned it in the most devastating way. Whenever you try to erase an identity, it returns in a more rigid, and perhaps harsher, form. Identities that are not spoken of are fought over. Identities that are feared have walls built around them.
That is why Syria’s war is no longer merely a war over power, but a war over the right to exist.
Federalism is not just a political project; it is a way of surviving ourselves. In a country unable to produce a shared national common ground, federalism becomes a form of modesty: an admission that we cannot live on the same map unless each component has the space in which it can breathe.
It is not partition, nor is it revenge against the center, but a philosophical recognition that “forced unity” is the biggest lie in our political life.
Federalism is an attempt to make difference a lived reality, not a battlefield. It means transforming identity from a weapon into an institution.
What remains for us, then?
If we want a future, we must start from scratch, by recognizing that we are not one family, not a finished nation, not even a cohesive society. We are a fragile mosaic, and it will not find stability unless we stop trying to melt it down.
Unity is not destiny. Unity is a project, and it does not succeed through force, but through trust. And trust is not born in the shadow of fear, but in the shadow of recognition.
A brief conclusion for the reader tired of theory:
Syrian identities after the war are not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be dealt with. Every attempt to erase them will reproduce the war. Recognizing them—in their depth, their history, and their fears—is the only path to avoiding another war.
Identities do not wait for the state.
They wait for courage:
The courage to see what we have always been running away from.
Academic and lecturer specializing in Syrian and Middle Eastern affairs.
* This article was first published in Arabic in Raialyoum on 8 December and has been translated into English by The Levant Files for its readers.