In the dimly lit corridors of the presidential palace in Damascus, a surreal scene unfolded. Hours after President Bashar al-Assad fled the capital, a small group of Syria’s top officials gathered in a discreet room deep within the palace. The air was thick with tension, the distant hum of protests and the occasional crackle of celebratory gunfire seeping through the fortified walls.
General Hadi, the once-formidable head of internal security, was hunched over a table, hurriedly pulling on a tattered civilian jacket. His ceremonial uniform lay discarded in a heap nearby. “Make sure you burn that,” he barked to an aide, who nodded before stuffing the garments into a garbage bag. Around him, other officials shed their military insignias and donned civilian disguises—faded suits, oversized shirts, and worn-out shoes hastily gathered from the palace’s storerooms.
The palace staff, those who hadn’t already fled, were frantically at work. In one office, two secretaries wielded electric drills, methodically boring through the hard drives of computers. Shards of plastic and metal scattered across the floor as they erased years of sensitive information. In another room, an accountant sat amid a chaos of receipts and ledgers, futilely trying to settle the regime’s many debts.
The creditors had already started knocking. A visibly enraged restaurant owner stormed into the main hall, waving a bill for an extravagant banquet held just weeks earlier. “Who’s paying for this?” he demanded, glaring at the few remaining staff members. No one had an answer.
Nearby, a nightclub owner cornered an exhausted aide. “Three months ago, the severance payments to the officials’ mistresses were processed. Three months!And yet here I am, unpaid for the wine and cigars!” The aide muttered an apology, but the nightclub owner wasn’t listening.
Back in the inner sanctum, General Hadi addressed the remaining officials. “We can’t stay here. We’ll leave as ordinary citizens, blend into the chaos outside.” His voice was firm, but his face betrayed the fear beneath. He glanced at his watch. “We move in ten minutes. Anyone who’s not ready is on their own.”
The group scattered, grabbing small bundles of cash and personal belongings. One by one, they slipped out of the palace through a little-known service exit. As the last official disappeared into the streets of Damascus, the once-mighty seat of power was left to the creditors, the drills, and the ever-approaching tide of history.
By sunrise, the palace was a hollow shell, its opulent halls echoing with the sounds of the past.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms.
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