Born into chaos

In the garishly lit courtyard of the centuries-old Qasr Nassan Palace in Damascus, beats boom through the night. Shadows dance to the rhythm of strobe-like flashing lights. The party is powered by a generator that keeps breaking down. But people just carry on, power cuts are part of the show here. 

Welcome to the renaissance of Syrian nightlife; raves are back in our country, albeit in secret for now. So far, there are hardly any official permits or public advertising, there are no bouncers or security checks in front of the club. The party locations are constantly changing. Sometimes it's a villa in Saidnaja, a small town near Damascus, sometimes a historic building in the centre of the capital. The only things that are always there are the music and the message “Syria lives!”. 

Not so long ago, people didn't even have the faintest memory of what nightlife used to be like. There was only war, displacement and daily hardship. Curfews and checkpoints instead of invitations and guest lists. Entire cities were reduced to ruins, millions of people fled, and a party or even a cultural revival was hardly conceivable. But now that the civil war is officially over, a generation born into chaos is discovering what it means to live. A new creative energy is pulsating in Damascus and Aleppo. It has something experimental and improvised about it – and is rooted in a culture of resistance. But despite this spirit of optimism, the new party movement has so far remained underground. The fear of attacks has not disappeared. Many artists and event organisers operate in a grey area where one misstep could mean the cancellation of an event, the end of a career or even worse. Some fear surveillance and possible sanctions by official authorities, others fear retaliation by extremists. One thing is clear to everyone: safety is an illusion.

“The Syrian party scene is not reckless. On the contrary, the events are carefully staged acts of survival”

Millions of Syrians are suffering under the ongoing economic crisis and the psychological trauma of years of war. And they still have to live in fear of violent acts like those seen in recent months: in June this year, 25 people died in a suicide bombing at the Mar Elias Church in Damascus. It was the first attack of its kind in years. It shattered the fragile sense of normalisation. But it also generated defiance. “We didn't let Bashar al-Assad stop us,” says Yamen Mekdad, co-founder of the creative collective Rock Paper Scissors from Damascus. “So this won't stop us either. But we are cautious.” The Syrian party scene is not reckless. On the contrary. The events are carefully staged acts of survival.

Rock Paper Scissors is a young music and production collective. It was founded by three friends, Yamen, Mustafa and Jude. The name of the collective reflects their self-image: they want to be flexible, playful, nostalgic, yet resistant. What began as an idea of a music and sound geek and a graphic designer is now one of the most ambitious cultural platforms in post-war Syria. Rock Paper Scissors' mission sounds simple: to make music possible. That means live performances, fair pay for artists and safe spaces in a city whose infrastructure has collapsed. The trio believes that even fleeting moments of joy can have a transformative effect on a traumatised society. “We try to create opportunities for musicians to rehearse, perform and earn money without having to leave Syria,” says Yamen. “At the moment, there are hardly any functioning venues. You open up a space and first have to refurbish it from the ground up.”

Their events often take place in unusual locations, like the Qasr Nassan Palace in Damascus mentioned earlier, which is an architectural gem that was turned from an elegant residence into an improvised concert hall for the occasion. Entering the building with its artistically painted but faded tiles, octagonal fountain and courtyard full of orange blossoms, one has the impression of stepping into another world. Here, Rock Paper Scissors organised a show with Lynn Adeb and Tanjaret Daght, who combine elements of traditional Arabic music with pop, indie, electro and metal. The audience was diverse: artists and students, returnees from Europe, but also members of long-established families from Damascus. “We donated the proceeds to people who were tortured in Saidnaja prison, or to their families,” says Yamen. “The message was clear: even in times of absolute darkness, something meaningful can emerge.”

“It was a collective feeling of relief. We had survived another year, we were still there”

But staging an event like this in Syria today is a logistical and emotional undertaking. Complications abound, ranging from where to borrow equipment to how to get the loudspeakers to the venue. Even obtaining fuel for the generator is a challenge. “We inform the security authorities in advance. We search the guests. We avoid provocations,” explains Yamen. “And yet you always feel the burden of responsibility.” But, they keep going, because the alternative would be to remain silent.

The musical renaissance that seems to be sweeping Syria is also being driven by a group of innovative DJs who see sound as therapy. Not just for themselves, but for a society that has forgotten how to let loose. One of these DJs is Maher Khudhuer, born and raised in Damascus, better known by his stage name Green. In his music, you can feel the wounded soul of the city and the scars of its history. “I combine classical oriental elements with electronic beats,” says Maher. “I want to give a voice to a generation that has emerged from war and still believes in a better future.”

This hope, fragile as it may be, also seems to drive the members of the Kaseta collective, a Damascus-based label and event platform that Maher founded with friends, including the DJ duo Boshoco from Aleppo. Together, they have created something special: a grassroots community of fans and artists who share a vision for the sound of post-war Syria. It's not just about entertainment, but about rethinking the country's cultural identity. Maher and Boshoco DJed together at several pop-up parties in Damascus, including an electrifying set on New Year's Day that many describe as a key moment for the scene. ”People were dancing in pure joy,“ Maher recalls. “It was a collective feeling of redemption. We had survived another year, we were still here.” For Maher, too, this evening was more than just a party. It was proof that art still has a place in Syria, not as a form of escapism, but as an act of perseverance. “We don't have many venues, but people come in droves,” he says.  These nights are also deeply significant for Boshoco. The fact that they have become one of Syria's most successful acts is not down to grand advertising campaigns, but to perseverance and the fact that they have created their own unique sound beyond the mainstream. Known for their mix of Arabic scales and rhythms with deep house and techno, their style is as hybrid as the country itself: between the Levant and the wider world, melancholy and euphoria. “We try to create a language that you can feel,” says one of Boshoco's DJs after a performance. “Even if you don't know the genre, you can feel the emotion.”

“Open up the country. Let people in. Let creative minds breathe”

Few stories reflect the conflict between rootedness and global aspirations as much as that of Safi Joukhaji, also known as SJ14. Aged just 25, he is one of Syria's most influential electronic music producers. “My family realised early on that I had rhythm in my blood,” he says. “They gave me a darbuka” – an Arabic drum – “and that was it. I was hooked.” Growing up in Aleppo during the war, Safi learned early on that passion alone is not enough. He needed perseverance. He studied classical guitar and music theory at the Sabah Fakhri Institute; and today he incorporates this knowledge into his electronic music. He acquired his technical expertise without a mentor, teaching himself through online courses and YouTube videos. Even when the harshest sanctions were in force, when no payment services were working and software licences were unavailable, he found ways to work. Initially, he was only able to present tracks produced with outdated technology on international forums, but eventually he landed with labels such as Exx-Underground and Area Verde. His EP “Reflection” is being released by a major European label. “It's about looking inward,” he says. “About what we've lost and what we still hold on to.” 

Although his sights are set on international shows, Safi also wants to continue his career in Syria. With the CRKT collective, he regularly performs at events that combine electronic, indie, and acoustic music on one stage. ”We need a real ecosystem,” he says. “Tourism. Venues. Production companies. And above all, trust in our artists.”

His appeal to politicians and investors is: “Open up the country. Let people in. Let the creative people breathe. If you give us space, we'll give you something beautiful.”

Not everyone in Syria's creative scene is so hopeful. For organizers like Adexe from the CRKT collective, the challenges are immense. “Nightlife is not a priority in this country,” he says. “People often can't afford even the most basic foodstuffs. You can't ignore that when planning a party.” CRKT emerged during the final years of the war as a loose network of DJs, designers, and event organizers. Today, they are a driving force behind the Syrian underground scene. But even they have to fight. ”We've had events where the power went out in the middle of a set," says Adexe, smiling wearily. Despite some sensational events, open-air techno raves, and crossover events featuring electronic and traditional Arabic music, economic conditions remain difficult. “Even when the shows are sold out, it's hard to cover costs,” he says. “Everything is expensive, whether it's gas, technology, permits, or rent.” Even deeper than the economic worries are the fears of the people: “The psychological problems that have been increasingly evident for around ten years are immense,” says Adexe. “It may sound paradoxical, but people are now less afraid of bombs than they are of feeling happy – and then losing that feeling again.”

“Even in the worst years, people danced. Now they just want to finally do it without fear”

The new Syrian nightlife is neither a return to the state-orchestrated glamour of the pre-war years nor a continuation of the war years. It is something new: fragmented, intimate, fragile, and extremely vibrant. No one here is concerned with perfection; everyone is focused on the intensity of the experience. “The escape from everyday life that music provides is more necessary than ever,” says Maher. “Even in the worst years, people danced. Now they just want to do it without fear.” The lifting of US sanctions, new investments from the Gulf states, and plans for cultural tourism have raised hopes. But no one is hoping for miracles. “We don't need foreign companies to impose festivals on us,” says Safi. “We need our own spaces. We have to shape the process ourselves.” It's an opinion shared by many here: culture must grow from within, with the help of those who stayed, those who returned, and all those who never stopped dreaming.

It is now late at night in the palace in the old town. The last beat has faded away, but the crowd lingers in the candlelight. A girl laughs, someone passes around a cigarette, a young man lies on the mosaic tiles and gazes up at the starry sky through the skylight window with its broken pane. It's not just a party, it's the reconquest of the city, night after night. “We've experienced almost everything,” says Maher over a cup of tea after his set. “But this? This belongs to us now.” For the young creatives who are driving Syria's cultural renaissance, music is not an accessory. It is identity. Resistance. Memory. In a country scarred by war, it means almost everything.