Eurasia Press & News
Since the ousting of Bashar Al-Assad, Syria’s transitional government has been racing to project an image of renewal.
Nearly every week brings announcements of investment deals, unveiled at high-profile press conferences and televised ceremonies. From glittering real estate ventures to energy and transport projects, these deals are meant to signal rapid progress and national revival.
In a country scarred by war and economic collapse, the optics are powerful. Yet beneath the spectacle lies a problem: not all communities welcome the projects supposedly designed to serve them.
Last month, this disconnect erupted into public view. In both Homs and Damascus, residents mounted successful campaigns against investment projects to prevent their implementation.
In both cases, communities were informed only after agreements had been finalised, leaving them no option but to push back to protect their neighbourhoods and public spaces. The government ultimately sided with public opinion, cancelling one project outright and scaling back the other.
These incidents are not isolated disputes. They are warning signs of a deeper flaw in Syria’s reconstruction model: a lack of meaningful engagement with the communities these projects are meant to serve.
For Syria’s reconstruction to be sustainable, officials and investors must adopt a new approach – one that places Syrians at the centre of the rebuilding process, not on the sidelines.
The boulevard backlash in Homs
Take the case of Boulevard al-Nasr, unveiled during an 8 August investment conference at the presidential palace and touted as one of Homs’s flagship postwar projects.
The redevelopment, contracted with a Kuwait-based firm owned by a Syrian expatriate businessman, promised to transform battered districts into a modern urban hub. Promotional materials showcased renewable energy, eco-friendly design, and contemporary architecture.
Instead of applause, the project was met with immediate resistance. The land earmarked for redevelopment overlapped with Qarabis, a neighbourhood that had already suffered mass displacement under a notorious prewar initiative known as “The Homs Dream”.
For residents still nursing the wounds of dispossession, Boulevard al-Nasr looked less like progress than déjà vu.
Despite official assurances of compensation and property rights protections, protests flared. Many residents argued that the project was not designed with their needs in mind. Within ten days, under growing pressure, the Qarabis neighbourhood was removed from the plan altogether. That retreat marked the first major post-transition investment to derail due to community resistance, but it would not be the last.
Saving a park in Damascus
At the same time, another project stirred anger in Damascus. In the upscale district of Abu Rummaneh, residents discovered that part of Al-Jahiz Park – one of the capital’s last remaining public green spaces – had been quietly handed to a private investor under the pretext of rehabilitation. Billboards at the park’s entrance promised new cafés, parking areas, and fenced-off sections.
To officials, this was an upgrade. To residents, it was privatisation in disguise. Outrage spread quickly online. Families gathered inside the park for a sit-in, holding signs demanding protection of public space. Videos went viral, petitions circulated, and the story dominated headlines.
The backlash worked. Within 48 hours, the governorate met with community representatives, cancelled the deal, and pledged a community-led rehabilitation plan instead.
For residents, the victory was about more than a park – it was proof that citizens could still defend their rights, even in the heart of Damascus.
A flawed model
Though different in scope, the Homs and Damascus cases highlight the same systemic problem: reconstruction is being imposed from above, rather than built from the ground up.
Projects are designed behind closed doors, announced with great fanfare, and dropped on communities without consultation. Authorities then react to resistance rather than preventing it through genuine engagement.
While the government’s willingness to reverse course marks a break from past authoritarian practices, these reactive responses are no substitute for inclusive planning.
Assuming public consent is automatic is a dangerous miscalculation. In both cases, there were no public forums, no participatory planning sessions, and no mechanisms for communities to provide feedback.
Residents were informed, not involved. The outcome was predictable: frustration, anger, and mobilisation.
In a country where social cohesion is already fragile, pressing forward with investor-driven projects without local buy-in is not just shortsighted – it is reckless. Rather than uniting Syrians around recovery, this approach risks deepening divides and alienating those most in need of rebuilding efforts.
Consultation matters
The pushback in Homs and Damascus highlights more than a gap between official planning and local needs. It signals the rise of grassroots civic power. Syrians, long treated as passive recipients of top-down decisions, are increasingly asserting themselves as active stakeholders. Their demand for participation should not be mistaken for resistance to progress. It reflects a readiness to engage and a determination to shape the future of their communities.
Syria’s need for reconstruction is beyond dispute. War has left entire cities in rubble, infrastructure destroyed, and an economy in freefall. Investment is vital. But rebuilding must go beyond bricks and mortar. It must also restore trust between citizens and the institutions meant to serve them.
Without social legitimacy, physical reconstruction is hollow and unsustainable. When redevelopment is perceived as dispossession – when a park upgrade feels like privatisation, or a housing project threatens to uproot families – resistance is inevitable.
For reconstruction to create the conditions for a sustainable peace, communities must be consulted before projects are approved, not merely informed afterwards. This means embedding consultation into every stage of planning, from feasibility studies to contract negotiations.
It means publishing terms, opening tenders to scrutiny. It means granting communities the right not only to provide input but also to veto plans that threaten their livelihoods or public spaces.
Beyond reconstruction
In a country emerging from authoritarian rule and civil war, trust is the most valuable currency. It cannot be engineered through press conferences. It must be earned, project by project, through respect, transparency, and genuine partnership.
The recent victories in Homs and Damascus offer a glimpse of what is possible when citizens organise and speak out. They also warn of the risks ahead if reconstruction remains an elite-driven process.
Without Syrians at the centre, the country risks repeating past mistakes: rebuilding that alienates rather than heals. With genuine local participation, however, reconstruction can be more than physical renewal.
It can lay the foundation for a new social contract between state and society – one built not just on new roads and buildings, but on shared legitimacy and trust.
