The death sentence against Bashar Al Assad is a bittersweet pill for Syrians to swallow

On Tuesday, a court in Syria handed down death sentences to former president Bashar Al Assad, his brother Maher Al Assad and security official Atif Najib, along with six other former regime officials, on charges of murder and torture. For many Syrians, it was a landmark moment. The ruling, which was handed down in absentia for the Assad brothers, marks a symbolic acknowledgment of decades of repression, torture and mass killing. Yet despite the news being welcomed by most Syrians, the ruling also felt heavy and loaded. An old quote attributed to the American writer Lois McMaster Bujold came to mind: “The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is a duty of the living to do so for them.” The word that has stayed with me this week is “duty”. A duty to justice bears down heavily in Syria. During a visit to the country of my mother last year, it seemed to me to be one of the most pressing matters on people’s minds. While in Damascus, I attended a conference themed “The Path to Justice”, where the question many in the audience asked was: “How quickly can we expect justice?” This was hardly surprising. In a nation where so many have suffered personal, tragic losses for more than 15 years, the duty of justice doesn’t sit only with the judges or prosecutors, but with the living relatives and friends of those who have been denied it for so many years. We tend to think of justice as a destination. A verdict that, when delivered, will mean it is served. The guilty are named, and the case is closed. This week was a useful reminder of how much messier it can be or feel. Several questions came to mind on Tuesday. Is this the right form of justice ? Who gets to decide what accountability looks like? Is a death sentence a fair result? And does it all even matter after hundreds of thousands have died, after millions have been displaced, after families have spent years searching for loved ones who will never come home? Can it ever be enough? Following the announcement, a Syrian colleague and I considered letting out a “zalghouta”, the traditional ululation used to celebrate joyous occasions. It’s how many Syrians across the country reacted to the ruling. Instead, we thought about all the children, women and men who never lived to see this day. The prisoners tortured in Sednaya. The parents who died not knowing where their children were buried. The families who are still waiting to identify the remains of loved ones from the mass graves, among the many atrocities and injustices committed with the purpose of keeping the Assad regime in power. No court ruling can return those lives. No sentence can restore stolen childhoods or erase decades of fear. That is why justice itself can often feel unjust. Its purpose is not to undo the past, of course; that is impossible. Its purpose is to acknowledge it. What we often overlook when pursuing justice is how prepared we should be for just how unsatisfying it can be when it’s delivered. I’ve also had to remind myself this week that justice is often a means to establish a public record that “these crimes happened” and that “these people were responsible”. Perhaps that is the true duty of justice.