Between Cups of Coffee

The smell of diesel hangs in the air. Damascus moves in organ­ized chaos: cars weave in and out, parking is scarce, and motorcycles—small enough to slip between vehicles stalled in traffic—dart past. No one wears a helmet. The streets are loud and vibrant, the cars old, a visible consequence of more than a decade of civil war. Stray cats slink along the sidewalks, while above them the winter sky is crisp and white.

But the chill of December and that rush-hour disarray melt away as you enter al-Rawda Café in Syria’s capital. 

“This is a public café and respectable people meet here. It’s not a 5-star cafe and not a 1-star café,” says Faisal Azzouz, an elderly man, with white hair peeking out from under a pageboy cap. He is with friends and playing backgammon.

“People used to come to al-Rawda from all over Damascus. This was an artist base. One time a director asked me to be in a scene for a TV show, but I turned down the offer,” says Azzouz of his experiences in the café over the years. He is a former member of Parliament, having served three terms during Bashar al-Assad’s reign. He retired from this work in 2024 – not surprising as that coincides with the fall of the previous leadership and the move into a new period of governance.

On December 8, 2024, the dictatorial regime of Bashar al-Assad toppled, after rebel forces seized Damascus. It was a rapid offensive that included factions led by Abu Mohammed al-Jolani, a one-time al-Qaeda-affiliated commander. Assad had run a totalitarian state, marked by civil war, vast human rights abuses, the literal disappearances of opposition figures, and, broadly, a period of extreme turmoil and pitiless hardship for the Syrian public.

Since the regime’s collapse, al-Jolani has shed his nom de guerre and goes by Ahmed al-Sharaa. Formerly the leader of Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), an Islamist organization with militant history, he now stands at the helm of the country as its de facto transitional president, as he seeks to recast himself from jihadist to pragmatic political figure. 

Though overt warfare has ended, in Damascus its remnants persist as physical—and emotional—testaments to the Assad era and its punishing rule. The suburb of Jobar, for instance, stands as a wasteland of shattered buildings and rubble. To this day, no one lives there; the homes are empty, and seemingly few buildings exist unscarred by violence. Once controlled by rebel forces, the area was relentlessly bombarded by the regime, resulting in the destruction of an entire neighborhood that included one of the oldest synagogues in the Middle East. 

Nearby cities tell similar stories. Maloula, renowned as one of the last places on earth where Aramaic is still spoken, bears its own wounds: monasteries were looted, and the mountainside town is dotted with ruined buildings. And though life continues—as it so often does in places shaped by conflict—the social atmosphere feels unmistakably subdued.

Emerging from Assad’s Rule

One year after the fall—December 8, 2025—marked Syria’s first Liberation Day. In Damascus alone, hundreds of thousands filled the streets in celebration, jubilantly gathering at Umayyad Square. The sea of people carried Syrian flags and chanted liberation slogans, while young boys lit fireworks on the perimeter of the crowd.  

Yet, even as the country emerges from Assad’s brutal rule, it faces profound challenges ahead: ongoing sectarian violence, a hobbled healthcare system, and Israeli military incursions, to name a few. At the center of this transition sits the nation’s new leader, al-Sharaa, embraced by some as a stabilizing force and viewed by others with skepticism over how his past may shape the future. Syria now stands at a pivotal moment, poised, with some uncertainty, to turn a new page in its history.

Al-Rawda Café is a fixture of Damascus, a space with a long artistic and political history, and a microcosm of the myriad feelings, hopes, and challenges that many in Syria harbor today. Visiting this coffee and hookah shop, on December 9, 2025, gave a glimpse into how local Syrians, alongside newfound visitors, experience this decisive moment in time.

Like many at al-Rawda, Azzouz has a long relationship with this café. “I have been playing backgammon, chess, and cards here for 40 years.” But the games belie a deeper engagement with history and politics. Azzouz, though he worked under the old regime, is watchfully open to a new future: “The people welcome change. My advice to the new government is to look to Egypt and Saudi Arabia to forge strong relationships with them.”

The café itself is mesmerizing. You pass beneath a large chandelier as you enter, greeted by plumes of smoke—whether from cigarettes or hubba bubble, as hookah is colloquially known. Al-Rawda unfolds across two main rooms: a street-facing salon and a larger inner space. Both are sparsely furnished, featuring wooden chairs with lattice seating abutting small tables. But the inner room has more character—a fountain, quirky décor, old photographs, and a tree growing straight through the center of the space, its trunk adorned with an accordion.

The café was founded in 1938 and the offerings include pizza, sandwiches, manakeesh (flatbreads with various toppings, such as zaatar or cheese), and chicken with vegetables. But by and large, people come for the atmosphere, not the food. By day, al-Rawda is quiet, primarily with retired men, like Azzouz, chatting and playing games. Others sit solo and work on laptops. Only a few women are present.

Those women include Zeinab Al Fahel, Ruba Al Shonan, and Hiba Moad, all three originally from outside of Damascus. “We like to meet here,” Al Fahel says on behalf of the trio. “We have been friends for 10 years, and we like the environment of the café.” All three are teachers. Al Fahel is a high school English literature instructor and her friends are both economics educators at a technical institute in the city

Warmth, Liberation, & Harmony

On this day, the three women wear green, proudly matching the Syrian flag. “This is a traditional café, and we come once a month. Now they play liberation music,” beams Al Fahel, a vigorous supporter of the new government. She and her friends hand out celebratory cards that depict the map of Syria and come adorned with a small candy. The women are exuberant in their excitement for Syria’s new future.

For all three, who are drinking juice and smoking hubba bubble, al-Rawda represents, in their words, “warmth, liberation, harmony, and an always welcoming atmosphere.”

That sentiment extends beyond the patrons to the person who has sustained the café itself. Ahmad Kozorosh, the middle-aged owner of al-Rawda, speaks with deep affection: “This place means everything to me.”

His attachment is rooted in a past that stretches back well before his own stewardship. “Before it was a café, it was an open-air cinema,” explains Kozorosh, as he sits with guests and enjoys the atmosphere. This locale has long functioned as a special gathering site.

Al-Rawda was started by his grandfather, and Kozorosh attributes its popularity over the decades to its location in central Damascus, near government buildings, religious venues, and historic souks (markets) and streets. 

A Storied History

The café’s history is inseparable from politics, art, and activism. Under Assad, it occupied a unique space: a haunt for government politicians and, at the same time, a gathering place for intellectuals, writers, musicians, and actors—many of whom opposed the regime. It was both a locality for political conversation and a space where spies might listen in. Everyone knew to be careful with their words. But as Azzouz says, it was a “respectful” café. In short, varying perspectives co-existed in one institution: Parliament members intermingled with opposition and intellectuals.

Historian Orfan Boukhari, 48, says that while al-Rawda’s political imprint endures, in today’s post-Assad era it has experienced a social resurgence, as civic discourse no longer carries the same risks it once did. “The first time I came here was 40 years ago, as a child.” Accordingly, Boukhari knows intimately how al-Rawda has grown and changed over time.

He elaborates, “I am a history researcher for drama TV series, and I used to run a journalism newsletter, about twenty years ago, called Cham Press.” (Cham, sometimes transliterated as Sham, is the Arabic term for the Greater Syria region, known as the Levant. It is also a reference to the city of Damascus.) Al-Rawda, he notes, as he sits alone with his laptop, getting a bit of work done on this quiet afternoon, “has historically been a political place.” For emphasis, he adds, “One of the many petitions against Assad was signed here by the opposition.”

“You would find pro-government at one table,” Boukhari goes on, “and opposition at another. Many times, they were related to each other. As far as I know, no one was detained at this café, but always ears were listening.”

Over the years, this was the hot spot. “A-list celebrities came here and so did aspiring actors, as well as the TV directors and producers. But during the war, most left the country for Lebanon, Turkey, or Dubai. They aren’t here now,” explains Boukhari.

The war itself, fought between the regime and rebel forces, occurred from 2011 to 2024, with a death toll of over half a million. More than 100,000 people, per the Syrian Network for Human Rights, were forcibly disappeared. Today, the local economy remains incredibly fragile, plagued by inflation, currency collapse, blighted infrastructure, and widespread poverty. It is a history that cannot be denied, even as locals and foreign visitors want to push forward.

In terms of recent politics, Boukhari continues, the day before the fall of the regime there was a feeling of doom. “People were afraid. They expected a long fight. But the next day [December 8, 2024], everything changed.”

“Al-Rawda, as I recall, closed for a few days, but was soon open and people came to celebrate. There was singing, chanting, flags, dancing,” Boukhari reminisces. “This went on for around a month. What had shifted wasn’t just the mood but the faces. There were people who had never been to Damascus. They weren’t able to travel here during the war.”

The shift that Boukhari describes is eminently palpable at this singular moment in Syria’s history, and particularly as al-Rawda transitions from its daytime vibe to its evening posture. By 7:30pm, the space is significantly more crowded; and the clouds of cigarette and hookah smoke hang thicker in the air. The large TV screen in the back room runs the current futbol match, for the FIFA Arab Cup. Egypt faces off with Jordan.

Meanwhile, the mix of people in the room has changed. There are many more women, and a noticeable percentage do not wear hijab. The DJ readies his soundboard. And the overall volume in the café is louder—more talking, more merriment, more socializing.

There are also more people for whom al-Rawda is not a weekly or monthly staple. There are those who are in Damascus for the first time—or for the first time since the start of the war.

Soulayma Mardam Bey, 37, a Lebanon-based journalist, has come to Damascus to meet with her brother, Fouad, 34, visiting from Mexico. She wants to “take him to the important places in the city,” including al-Rawda. The siblings were raised in France; but their family is Syrian by background and the older generations left the country for political reasons decades back. The Assad family’s 53-year rule coincides with Mardem Bey’s relatives needing to live elsewhere—one of many quiet ways in which political forces play out through familial dynamics.

Returning Home

“It is a cultural shock to be back here after so long,” says Fouad. “I was not expecting it to be so emotional. I feel like I am reconnecting with a childhood I didn’t get to have in Syria.”

Soulayma has visited “five or six times over the past year” since the change in political leadership. But for Fouad, “this is only my second trip to Syria. The first was when I was 18 or 19 years old.” In other words, this is his first time back since the civil war began.

“I rejoice to be here, but I am a tourist in my ancestral homeland,” says Fouad, as he describes al-Rawda as an icon of Damascus.

This experience of delayed return is not uncommon. The fall of Assad made it possible for many who had fled, or avoided travel to Syria during war, to journey back. To date, over 3 million displaced by the war have come home. Per the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), “more than 1.2 million Syrians have voluntarily returned from neighboring countries since December 2024, alongside over 1.9 million internally displaced people (IDPs) who have gone back to their areas of origin. Many more have expressed a desire to return.”

Samir Azzawi, 54, first traveled to Syria one year ago, “as soon as the borders opened.” His Syrian father left the country years prior, and Azzawi, now based in Switzerland, was raised in East Berlin. On this, his second trip, he is accompanied by his daughter, Julia Schott, 23, who is visiting Syria for the first time.

“We heard about the important history of this café, but really we came for the tea and coffee,” Schott says with warmth, seated at a table littered with half-drunk cups, traditional small glass vessels for Syrian tea. “I think this place represents community.”

“People are tired of war. My hope is for rest and rebuilding of the country,” adds Azzawi.

Schott also contributes an international perspective: “I had no idea it would be so safe here.” She continues, as her father nods in ascent, “the people here are so nice.” These words are said from a perspective of support, appreciation, and respect for Syrian culture. They also reflect how international media frames conflict in the Arab World. 

Schott’s encounters mirror a reality articulated by Damascenes themselves: their society is multifaceted and cannot be understood solely through the lens of war. By foregrounding everyday life and human connection, her experience challenges the limited, conflict-driven narratives that define this country in global media.

With his dark eyes and receding hair, Kozorosh adds an intimate take, from the perspective of his personal and familial management of al-Rawda: “This café is my story of life.” It is both a symbol of Damascus and a character unto itself.

As the night grinds on, al-Rawda’s volume increases – more music, more talking, more conviviality. This space may be connected to ongoing political realities, but it also rises above its specific time. It is a place of social dynamics, civic awareness, and cultural touchpoints. Al-Rawda welcomes you for coffee, tea and discussion. The doors open at 7am.