I have been living in Morocco for some time now. I read; I write; I drink green tea, and every morning, I visit Jean Genet’s grave. I turn my back to the prison wall and gaze at the ocean, reciting passages from Selamlik at his tomb. Then, I step into his house and jot down my thoughts in his garden. I will miss the peace of Morocco, far from the Levant’s awakening.
“Genet wrote about Syria and Palestine!” says Naima, the cemetery caretaker, as she turns the key in the gate’s lock, leading me towards the grave of Jean Genet (1910–1986).
I am in the city of Larache, Morocco, fulfilling a vow I made to myself years ago: To visit this graveyard and read an excerpt from my novel, Selamlik, in Jean Genet’s presence. Some Western critics have drawn parallels between my writing and his, seeing in my work echoes of his cryptic explorations of love, homelands, and prisons. The most difficult kind of writing, I believe, lies in expressing the language of love for borders encompassing a place where you no longer belong.
It is January 1, 2025—a sunny day, warm as a summer afternoon in Northern Europe. I stand behind Naima who is wrapped in a thick wool dress, a wool hijab, and wool socks. She welcomes me and leads me into the cemetery.
A mother dog greets us with protective barking, her six puppies playing behind her. Holding a copy of one of my books, I follow Naima along a narrow, winding path lined with white graves of Spanish soldiers—a moving reminder of Spain’s modern occupation of Northern Morocco.
Naima knows little about Genet beyond the fact that he wrote about the Middle East, spent his final years in Larache, “adopted” a young Moroccan man, and lived with him until his death. He requested to be buried on this hill overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.
Naima congratulates me on the fall of the dictator Assad and promises to open Genet’s house for me after I finish my visit to the cemetery. Then she leaves me alone.
“Syria is free now and your grave guardian congratulates me,” I whisper to Genet’s grave—first in Arabic, then again in French: “La Syrie est libérée.” I did not expect my visit to morph from a personal tribute into an overwhelming sense of victory—the triumph of revolution, the fall of Bashar al-Assad’s regime.
In 2011, the dream of a free Syria was a collective vision that captivated most Syrians. It was perhaps a dream too vast for us to grasp, too heavy for us to bear. Non-violence wasn’t just a choice; it was our only means to garner the world’s empathy and send a message: “We did not ignite the fire; we were trying to extinguish it.”
But what does “free Syria” mean today?
Standing at Jean Genet’s grave, the Atlantic Ocean before me and the prison of Larache behind me, I grapple with questions: Does Assad’s fall equate to Syria’s freedom? Or is freedom something deeper than the absence of a tyrant? Is it the absence of fear? Or the ability to dream unshackled? From Genet’s book, Prisoner of Love, I read:
“To fight for liberty is to want something undefined, something more than the end of oppression.”
The term “New Syria,” increasingly echoed in media and conversations, raises more questions than it answers. Are we truly witnessing a new Syria, or is it just a symbolic name for a political shift? This reminds me of “The White Protest” in Damascus—a demonstration largely comprised of LGBTQ+ Syrians in spring of 2012. This took place in a neighborhood where the community often gathered, a place mentioned in Selamlik: Sibki Park and Shalaan Avenue, streets lined with modern shops and restaurants.
We chanted “Freedom!” raising our hands to the sky as though reaching for a vision of the future. But I remember how my friends were brutally arrested, their white shirts stained with blood. And another line from Genet’s Prisoner of Love comes to mind: “Blood is always present in revolutions, but it is never enough to guarantee change.”
Back then, demands included constitutional amendments, the abolition of unjust death penalties, and the granting of citizenship to children of Syrian mothers married to non-Syrians—at least to those with Palestinian fathers. There were calls to decriminalize homosexuality, with those condemned by Article 520 of the Syrian Penal Code by up to three years in prison.
Reality was unkind. The “Free Syria” we envisioned was a mirage, and every attempt to realize it was met with violence and repression. Now, with the regime’s fall, have we moved closer to that dream?
The wall separating the Larache cemetery from the prison reminds me of the dichotomy that ruled our lives in Syria. Every moment of hope was countered by a moment of fear; every attempt at life, counterbalanced by an instance of death. Even here, I feel trapped between past and future, between the freedom we have always sought and the prison that still haunts our consciousness.
Jean Genet wrote about Syria, but the Syria he knew was under French colonial rule. That colonial legacy lingered, manifesting in Article 520, which criminalized same-sex relationships. Genet’s Syria fought for freedom from an external colonizer. The Syria I carry within me fought for freedom from an internal oppressor.
As I left the cemetery with Naima, I recalled the Moroccans’ prayers that Assad’s fall would benefit Syria. Their words carried hope but also reminded me of the weight of responsibility. I wonder, can we, as a generation that lived through the revolution, build a New Syria? Can we redefine the concept of a homeland free from oppression and fear?
The New Syria isn’t just a political state; it is a human, cultural, and social condition. It is an attempt to regenerate the Syrian soul, shattered over decades.
As I gaze at the Atlantic Ocean, I think of Syrians who crossed the waters to escape the war. How many Syrians now live across other seas, dreaming of a New Syria to which they might one day return, even if only on a fleeting visit? Migration was an unavoidable choice for many, yet it also marked the beginning of a redefinition of our identity. Syrians today are scattered across the globe, carrying their language and culture like their mothers carried vases of flowers.
Syria is not just a geographical entity but an emotional state, lived by Syrians everywhere.
I leave the cemetery, placing a bouquet of wildflowers and a copy of my novel, Selamlik, on Genet’s grave. The mother dog is quiet now, nursing her puppies.
Naima invites me for a cup of Moroccan tea and a short rest at Genet’s house, which is just one block away from the cemetery. The house is empty except for his library. I sit on the stairs next to his bookshelf, packed with French books about the Middle East, North Africa, and Islam, and write lines for this article.
As it turned out, my visit to Jean Genet’s grave wasn’t just to pay respects to a beloved writer and my inspiration. It was an opportunity for me as a proud Syrian to reflect on our past, present, and future.
A free Syria—or a New Syria—isn’t just a slogan; it’s a long journey requiring courage, patience, and faith. As we, a generation that lived through the revolution, carry this immense responsibility, we must write our own story, telling the world what it means to reclaim a homeland, to fall, to rise, and to keep dreaming.
Genet reminds us: “Words are weapons, but only if they reach the ears of the powerful.”
I am gay, Syrian, a writer. It is my duty to write what I feel about my country. This is what Genet did and this is what readers remember. A battle has been won but there is more to do!
Khaled Alesmael is a Syrian award-winning writer living and working in London. His debut novel, Selamlik, is now available in English (World Edition, 2024).
