Stepping away from writing and opinion—whether as retreat or as an unintended consequence—can offer a measure of calm. The genocide in Gaza has imposed a moral gravity that renders all other subjects secondary. And yet, as the machinery of annihilation momentarily recedes from the headlines, other stories begin to resurface in collective awareness—not because they matter more, but because media priorities are recalibrated according to power, not justice.
Syria remains, for me, a thorn in the throat.
Since what came to be called the “revolution,” speaking about Syria has become inseparable from a larger question about the meaning of change itself. The concept of “revolution” in modern political discourse is no longer a neutral description of a social event; it has become a ready-made linguistic frame, easily repurposed within international systems of influence. Over time, it has grown clear that much of what unfolded in the region was judged not by its capacity to liberate societies, but by its usefulness in reconfiguring them in line with external power interests.
In this context, what happened—and continues to happen—in Syria cannot be detached from the regional and international architecture that transformed protest movements into proxy wars, drained the language of change of its social content, and reduced it to a struggle over influence. Syria stands as one of the clearest examples of this descent from emancipatory rhetoric into political dependency.
Any project of change that is constructed within imperial conditions, or moves according to their political design, cannot reasonably be read as liberation. Any opposition that operates from outside the society it claims to represent, while asking that society to bear costs it does not itself endure, forfeits any ethical claim to representation. This is not a question of intentions, but of structure.
Bashar al-Assad is a dictator and should be held accountable when Syria is able to rise on its own terms, through a sovereign process that does not enlist the enemy—visible or concealed—as a partner in “liberation.” Change imported through the very gates that produce domination does not end authoritarianism; it reproduces it in new forms.
From here, the political elevation of figures and forces integrated into a particular regional and international order reflects not a rupture with power, but a transfer of authority within a broader security framework. In such a setting, the language of “worse” and “better” loses meaning, because the standard by which judgment is made has already been hollowed out.
The Palestinian case follows the same logic. Yes, the Palestinian Authority is corrupt, and dismantling it has become a necessity. But replacing it with actors whose legitimacy is forged under occupation, or through its sponsorship, does not constitute liberation. Peoples may experience a moment of exhilaration at the fall of a tyrant, but accepting his replacement through collaboration with an occupier produces not freedom, but a transition from local despotism to mercenary tyranny.
This brings me to the reason for writing today: the recent circulation of what were described as “leaks” involving Bashar al-Assad and his media adviser Luna al-Shibl, and the way these materials were repackaged through a familiar mode of sensationalism and distortion. This mode—employed by major Arab news platforms that routinely act as political players rather than professional mediators—is the same one consistently used in coverage of Palestine, where reading is replaced by narrative, analysis by insinuation.
What has been marketed as “leaks” does not, in itself, carry the weight of secrecy in any legal or political sense. In any system of governance, not everything is broadcast live, not every backstage exchange is meant for publication, and recorded material is routinely edited or cropped for functional purposes. The transformation of such material into a “revelation” says less about its original nature than about the way it is later redeployed by media.
More importantly, what appears in these clips—when read outside the intended shock effect—does not point to coherence or self-assured authority. Instead, it reveals a fragile power structure, obsessively managed through image. Rather than a confident ruler, we see a figure dependent on constant consultation over even the smallest details of appearance, seeking reassurance beyond himself. In this sense, the relationship with a media adviser appears entirely professional and unsurprising: a space for easing tension, restoring confidence, and calibrating presence—not a scandal, and not evidence of criminality.
This story ends with a more painful irony: the sudden death of Luna al-Shibl in what was officially described as a traffic accident, within a political environment that neither permits transparency nor allows for independent verification. In such systems, the problem lies not in the official account itself, but in the absence of any public mechanism capable of confirming or questioning it. Proximity to power—any power—thus becomes a permanent risk, and the individual, regardless of competence or presence, remains vulnerable to being reduced to a narrative that neither honors their life nor their work.
This essay is not an attempt to rehabilitate anyone, nor a revision of past positions. It is a refusal of the way judgments are manufactured, narratives managed, and tragedies compressed into spectacle. In a time when enemies multiply and positions blur, maintaining intellectual integrity becomes harder than taking a loud stance—but perhaps more necessary.