Milan (AsiaNews) – The Damascus International Fair has never been merely a venue for commercial stands and economic agreements. In Syria’s collective memory, it has always been a window onto the world. From this stage, in the 1960s and 1970s, the great Arab singer Fairuz sang: “Sham (Damascus), what is glory? You are the glory that has not faded”.
This stands in stark contrast to certain scenes from the Fair’s 63rd edition, held from 26 August to 4 September.
Presented as proof of Syria’s economic revival, the event, according to official statements, brought together around a thousand companies and groups from nearly 60 countries, figures that cannot be ignored, even though, alone, they are not enough to deem it a success.
An international fair is a showcase, revealing how a country views itself and how it wishes to be viewed. And it is precisely in this regard that the latest edition raises troubling questions.
From songs dedicated to the city to songs of vengeance
In a video widely circulated on social media, a group of men performs on a stage bearing the logo of the Syrian Ministry of Culture, singing verses cursing the souls of Hafez al-Assad and his son Bashar, while part of the audience applauds.
The performance was released as part of a programme of revolutionary songs by the group Sayhat Hurriya (Cry of Freedom).
Syrians do not need to be reminded of the crimes attributed to the Assad regimes, nor of the suffering endured by detainees, displaced persons, and the families of those killed or missing.
After decades in which even mild criticism of the president could have devastating consequences, anger toward the old regime is neither surprising nor illegitimate. Instead, the issue is over the role a Ministry of Culture should play in shaping such expression.
There is a fundamental difference between art that documents repression, gives a voice back to victims, and confronts a violent past, and a spectacle built on curses, insults, and threats voiced in generic terms against the alleged remnants of the old regime.
The term commonly used to describe them, fulul, makes no distinction between those who committed crimes, a former civil servant, an ordinary citizen who simply adapted to authority in the past, and someone who simply does not support the country's new rulers.
When a cultural institution places its stage at the service of the rhetoric of vengeance, it does not necessarily contribute to establishing accountability. Instead, it risks turning culture into a tool for political mobilisation.
It reduces the country to its rulers once again, merely changing the signs. Caught between the cult of a leader and the cursing of his predecessor, art loses the capacity to imagine a society that transcends power and vengeance.
When sport becomes a religious lesson
A second video from the fair shows young people engaged in physical and acrobatic exercises, while a speaker argued that constant training is not enough, without faith and reliance on God, athletes cannot succeed.
The footage has sparked a debate over why a performance presented as a sporting event had been turned into a religious lesson.
For many athletes, faith is a genuine source of strength, and everyone has the right to speak about its importance in their lives. However, the message takes on a different meaning when a public institution presents athletic success as dependent on religious faith.
Implying that those who do not believe, or who conceive of faith differently, cannot succeed even in physical activity effectively turns a shared space into an indirect test of religious conformity.
Images of collective prayer at the fair also sparked heated debate. In the footage, men and women appear to be situated in completely separate areas. All the women that can be seen wore headscarves, while the men’s section was dominated by clerics and individuals whose attire clearly signalled a religious affiliation.
Clothing alone cannot determine a person’s religious affiliation, just as a photograph cannot prove that members of minority groups were not present just outside the frame. Yet, public images convey meaning. In those specific scenes, Syria’s religious and social diversity was nowhere to be seen; a single model of public identity dominated.
The issue is not praying, nor the headscarf or religious attire. Providing a place for prayer within a large exhibition is entirely reasonable, and freedom of worship is a fundamental right.
The concern stems from the cumulative effect: collective prayer, religious hymns, preaching integrated into a sporting event, and a public programme whose most visible elements all seemed to operate within the same ideological framework.
Exclusion does not necessarily begin with a law barring entry to a particular place; it can begin when the nature of that place changes, when its activities repeatedly cater to only one segment of society, when the same type of speakers take the stage, and when the same faces define its public image.
Citizens need not be explicitly told that they do not belong there – the atmosphere itself can convey the message.
The weight of the term “Alawite regime”
This cultural shift coincides with the persistent use of the term “Alawite regime” to describe the former government. It is true that the Assad family relied heavily on family and security networks in which Alawites held prominent positions. However, its political, military, and intelligence structures also included key figures from other communities.
The defining principle of the system was loyalty to the ruling family and its patronage networks, not representation of the Alawites as a religious community. Reducing the entire former regime to a single sect erases the distinction between those responsible for crimes and ordinary citizens. It transforms political and criminal accountability into collective guilt based on birth.
The risk is compounded when this definition is coupled with a loose application of the word fulul. If those in power can redefine the term to suit their immediate political needs, any dissident can sooner or later be lumped into that category.
Genuine transitional justice does not require chants of condemnation. It requires evidence, case files, independent investigations, and fair trials. Above all, it demands a clear distinction between perpetrators, victims, witnesses, and citizens who lived under an authoritarian system without becoming complicit in its crimes.
Minorities: between physical violence and symbolic erasure
There is nothing abstract in the fears expressed by minority communities. Syria’s coastal region has witnessed widespread violence against Alawite civilians, while Suwayda has seen deadly abuses inflicted upon Druze and Bedouin communities, involving various armed actors.
A United Nations inquiry into the violence in Suwayda in July 2025 reported that over 1,700 people were killed and approximately 200,000 were forced to flee their homes.
According to the probe, acts committed by government forces, tribal fighters, and Druze armed groups could constitute war crimes or crimes against humanity.
Syria’s minorities – Alawites, Christians, Druze, Ismailis, Shiites, and Kurds – do not all face the same conditions. Risks vary depending on the community, location, and individual circumstances. Yet, what unites them is the need for a state that does not turn religious or ethnic identity into the basis for rights, suspicion, or punishment.
Security is not merely the absence of killings and kidnappings. It also means that a woman without a headscarf can enter a public institution without feeling at odds with the social model that institution appears to favour.
It means that a Christian, Alawite, Druze, or secular Muslim can step onto a cultural stage without hiding their identity or pronouncing a declaration of loyalty.
It also means that religious citizens can freely practise their faith without that faith being appropriated and turned into political theatre.
A new government or a new language of loyalty?
For decades, the Baathist state ruled through familiar rituals: portraits of the leader, mandatory rallies, and displays of loyalty in schools, universities, and workplaces.
Many did not believe what they were saying; they simply performed what they thought the authorities wanted to see. The danger today is that this mechanism might survive, merely with new content.
The leader’s portrait might be replaced by a religious figure deemed preferable. Praises of the president might give way to public denunciations of his predecessor. A mandatory party rally might be replaced by an event where participation is measured by conformity to an approved identity.
The Damascus International Fair cannot be reduced solely to its most controversial videos; it may well have hosted serious conferences and initiatives that received less attention. Yet, institutional accountability also entails the duty to prevent a single ideological current from overshadowing every other aspect of the event.
The Ministry of Culture could have used the fair to showcase the music, theatre, literature, and heritage of Syria’s diverse regions. Above all, it could have revived what Fairuz once represented: an art form that did not ask listeners about their sectarian affiliation, nor demand a declaration of political loyalty before allowing them into the concert hall.
The success of the new Syrian order will not be measured merely by the toppling of Assad’s statues or the number of businesses attending a trade fair. It will be measured by the country’s ability to create a shared civic space with which all Syrians can identify.
