PALMYRA, Syria—Not long after the Islamic State arrived, 15-year-old Abd al-Hamid al-Ali realized he had to escape.

It was 2015, the zenith of Syria’s ruinous civil war. Palmyra, a modern town built beside the ruins of one of antiquity’s most storied cities, lies in the country’s central desert region. Before the war, it thrived on a steady stream of tourists and the oasis of date palms that gave the classical city its name. But its strategic location—situated at the crossroads between routes to Iraq, Damascus, and the Mediterranean—was coveted by both Palmyra’s ancient leaders and the rival factions of the modern conflict.

That May, the Islamic State seized Palmyra and, without hesitation, began its rule with mass executions, looting, and razing ancient monuments. All that was done in the name of Islam “was a cover for their heinous crimes … against people who worked with the Syrian government,” Ali told me. “Not a single one of them was spared.”

It took five months and several failed escape attempts before Ali and his family finally smuggled themselves out of the town and fled west to Homs, joining more than 7 million internally displaced Syrians (and 6 million others who fled abroad) in one of the worst refugee crises of the century.

When Ali returned in 2020—three years after the Islamic State was finally expelled from Palmyra—the prewar population of around 100,000 had dwindled to no more than 1,500 civilians.

Foreign occupation made Ali’s home almost unrecognizable—a bleak garrison town, carved up into militarized zones. Armed gangs, Russian soldiers, and pro-Iranian militias now occupied Syrians’ homes and set up headquarters in the luxury hotels that once regaled tourists visiting the ancient ruins. Formerly vibrant neighborhoods were filled with checkpoints, assault rifles, and leather boots. Deep bomb craters and broken cypress trees lined the streets Ali played in as a child.

It was a time of “humiliation,” Ali said. Residents were insulted, their homes and property stolen with impunity. Food and resources were used up until living conditions became “almost impossible.” No one dared talk back at the foreign soldiers; those who did sometimes disappeared without notice. The few remaining locals retreated into their own private worlds to survive, and the formerly bustling town fell quiet.  

Then, in December 2024, Bashar al-Assad’s regime was abruptly toppled, ending 54 years of brutal dictatorship. Assad’s departure triggered a political realignment in the Middle East and granted a long-delayed vindication of the 2011 popular uprisings that initiated the civil war in the first place. With it came something many Syrians never thought they would see in their lifetimes: the chance to go home. More than 2 million Syrians have since moved back to their places of origin, including some 10,000 returning Palmyrans.

People pass through an impromptu market in the town center on May 14, with the medieval fortress of Qalat ibn Maan in the background.

Though they found freedom, many discovered there was not much of a home to return to, with dire living conditions and no public services available. Returning residents have also had to contend with the epidemic of landmines and unexploded ordnance, which have killed and injured hundreds since December.

I met Ali, now 25, sheltering from the rain under an awning in Palmyra’s war-buffeted market, amid the din of construction work, two-stroke motorbikes, and hawkers shouting their wares—potatoes, mostly, and green bottles of gasoline smuggled from Lebanon.

Even as the country continues to be plagued by waves of sectarian violence, Ali is finally witnessing his town slowly coming back to life. Yet many Syrians continue to bet on their settled lives abroad rather than face the uncertainty of moving back home. As with the rest of the country, they will be needed in Palmyra if the town, its ruins, and its fabled palms are to flourish once more.

The Roman-era colonnade with the medieval fortress, Qalat ibn Maan, in the background on May 14.

Through it all, the ancient ruins stood sentry as new civilizations came and went like sandstorms. But during the civil war, antiquities took on a new political salience and were specifically targeted by the Islamic State for their association with pre-Islamic gods.

Shortly after their arrival, Islamic State militants rounded up regime soldiers and officials, summarily executing them in a public display in the ancient Roman theater. Palmyra’s renowned director of antiquities, Khaled al-Asaad, was publicly beheaded after he refused to divulge the locations of ancient artifacts he had removed from the local museum and hidden for safekeeping. His beloved ruins, to which he dedicated most of his life, would not be spared either. Most were demolished by the Islamic State or suffered collateral damage from Russian and Iranian bombardment.

I surveyed the damage with Mohammed Fares, a local heritage expert. Fares was one of the many displaced residents who returned to Palmyra after Assad’s ouster. Today, he works with the nonprofit Heritage for Peace, helping to survey the 2,000-year-old city for restoration.

A tourist takes a photo at the destroyed Temple of Bel in Palmyra on May 14. Alex Martin Astley photos for Foreign Policy

He showed me the remains of the Temple of Bel, where the chief deity of the Palmyrene pantheon was worshipped, among others. Considered one of the most important religious buildings of its time, it was almost obliterated by Islamic State fighters who rigged explosives to the central shrine in August 2015. All that is left standing today, besides the perimeter wall, is the shrine’s doorway, intricately carved with grapevines.

Fares became nostalgic as we wandered around the crumpled columns where the temple once stood. “They used to hold some of the most important concerts here. Nancy Ajram performed here, Najwa Karam,” he said, referring to Arabic pop royalty.

Nearby, the bounding arches built by Roman Emperor Septimius Severus now lie in a heap of masonry. They once served as the grandiose entrance to the Great Colonnade, a triumphant declaration of Roman authority built to awe. The tetrapylon, the theater, the tombs—focal points of civic and cultural life in antiquity—were all laid to waste. Even the imposing 13th-century fortress, Qalat ibn Maan (also known as Tadmur Castle), was damaged; its medieval ramparts were never designed to repel fighter jets and artillery shells.

The ancient monuments will take years, perhaps decades, to restore, Fares said. Reassembling them will be a painstaking puzzle, complicated by the looting of stones and artifacts that took place during the war and the surge of metal detectorists who arrived after Assad’s fall in search of treasure.

Local children, recently returned to Palmyra, play next to a Syrian army vehicle on May 14.

Along with its heritage, Palmyra also lost a vital part of its economy: tourists. Before the war, some 4,000 visitors would flock to the ruins every day during the high season, according to Fares. When I was there in May, there were only a handful of intrepid tourists—hardly enough to support the local population whose livelihoods had been put on pause for 14 years.

One such tourist, Maitha, who is half Syrian, had traveled there with some colleagues from the United Arab Emirates and Kuwait. She smiled for a photo on the ruined mound of the Temple of Bel, a rare cheerful souvenir from the otherwise desolate site. But after years of watching the tragedy of civil war unfold from afar, her visit felt bittersweet.

“I have mixed feelings,” she said. “I went to Jobar, my mother’s hometown, and saw the destruction. It’s sad to see. But I’m also happy, because I’m here, and it won’t be the last time I come.”

A local boy points at graffiti on May 14. Left by pro-Iranian militias, it reads: “Rejoice, O Zaynab, for you have heroes [fighting for you].” Zaynab refers to the sister of Hussein, both of whom are important religious figures for Shiite Muslims.

Though around 80 percent of the town’s buildings were damaged or heavily destroyed by the war, rebuilding these should be quicker than repairing the ancient sites.

However, with almost no support from the state or NGOs—many of which remain grounded by security risks, bureaucratic hurdles, and lack of funds­—recently returned Palmyrans are taking reconstruction into their own hands.

When I met Khaled Saleh, he was busy patching up bullet and shrapnel holes in his home. “It’s not finished yet,” he said with an eager smile, “but I will stay here until I die.”

He fled to Turkey with his family a decade ago and returned to Palmyra with his four children in April. It was the first time his children had stepped foot in their homeland. “We’ve been exhausted by displacement. We’ll suffer a little, but we must be patient. This is our country,” Khaled said.

Laborers rebuild the house of Qutaiba Hassan, a Palmyra resident, on May 14.

A few blocks away, Qutaiba Hassan surveyed a team of construction workers building his new house. He had also spent several years in Turkey, mostly driving freight trucks to make a living.

“This is my hometown,” Hassan said. “I was displaced a lot, from tent to tent, house to house, city to city.” He knows that his town will never be the same as it was when he last saw it. But like most of his neighbors, Hassan wants to move on from the past, so his new house will be different from the one destroyed by the war. “Of course, new, but not like before,” he added. “Everything has changed.”

Just as the palm oasis is being brought back to life by those returning home, Fares believes the ancient city will one day be restored to its former splendor. For him, it’s a matter of common responsibility. “Heritage belongs to all humanity. It’s not mine, not yours, not anyone’s,” he said.

But it will only be possible if the people of Palmyra also come back. Without a full return of the population, there won’t be the local workforce and expertise needed to put the modern or ancient cities back together. And for that, residents will need funding and support from their new government, some guarantee of a future.

If any lesson can be taken from the brutality Palmyra has suffered, from the Roman massacres to the Syrian civil war, it’s that without its people, a city is not a city—the stones are just stones.

Rubble surrounds the site that used to be the Temple of Bel, which was destroyed by the Islamic State, on May 14.