The Future of Suwayda Students Between Political Contestation and an Uncertain Future
In a corner of a school courtyard that was turned into a shelter last year, a student from Suwayda sits with an open book and notebook in front of him, unsure whether what he memorized still remains in his mind or has faded under the weight of fear and turmoil. He tries to convince himself that the exam is near and that he must focus, yet questions keep pressing on him: Will he even be allowed to sit for it? Will his results be recognized? Will there be a seat waiting for him in a university lecture hall?
Anxiety is no longer tied to the difficulty of exam questions, but to the existence of the exam itself, and whether the coming days will pass safely or turn, as they did last year, into moments of fear and displacement. As the 2025–2026 secondary school examinations approach, thousands of students in Suwayda live with this tension every day, caught between preparation whose value they no longer know and a future suspended by unanswered questions.
What began as an ordinary exam morning saw thousands of secondary school students in Suwayda seated before their papers, writing answers for the first subject while looking ahead to the remaining exam days. Only days later, their lives were transformed entirely: gunfire, explosions, homes looted and burned, and bodies lying in the streets. The massacres of Black July last year left them no time to complete their dreams; exams stopped, and new chapters of fear, displacement, and survival began.
Exams Without Official Recognition
More than 6,000 students suddenly found themselves witnesses to violent events that claimed the lives of many civilians and left others wounded. As violence spread, more than 180,000 people were displaced from western and northern rural Suwayda, under the shadow of a suffocating siege whose effects continue today.
For these students, the exam itself was no longer the greatest challenge. What followed was a complete disruption of their educational path, while securing basic needs became a daily priority.
Months passed, bringing promises that the results of the 2025 exams—later held independently within Suwayda in an attempt to preserve hope and continue toward the future—would be recognized. Many students held onto those promises as a final hope, only to discover they would be required to retake the exams and sit again for the 2026 session. Some lost motivation; others still hold on to the opportunity.
Today, the number of registered students has exceeded 13,500, according to the Directorate of Education, which announced its readiness to organize the exams but provided no decisive answers to essential questions: Who will supervise the exams? Will ministry representatives enter? Under what conditions?
A Crisis of Trust
On the ground, the debate appears less technical and more connected to a deep crisis of trust. The idea of Ministry of Education representatives entering alongside security forces is rejected by many families, who still carry memories of last year’s events. Meanwhile, the ministry insists on full oversight of the process, opening disputes that extend beyond exam locations to every detail—from printing papers to grading them.
Caught in this reality, families move within a narrow space between two difficult choices. One mother, trying to organize her options, says:
“Either we wait for an unclear solution inside Suwayda, or I send my son to Damascus to take the exams.”
The second option means renting accommodation and covering a full month of expenses—costs beyond her means—along with fears about the road and what her son may face outside the city. She now searches for other students to share housing and living costs.
What Happens After Success?
For students, the questions do not stop at exam day:
“And if we succeed, then what?”
This question echoes among them. Last year’s university experiences, and the tensions that pushed many Suwayda students to leave universities, still cast shadows over their dreams and decisions. Success, for many, no longer guarantees a clear future.
One displaced student from western rural Suwayda recounts quietly:
“I left my books on the table when we fled. Later, I saw footage showing the house had burned—and my books were in the fire. Since then, I stopped thinking about exams. I just want to get out of here.”
His story is not an exception. It mirrors the experiences of many who lost homes and stability, making education secondary to the need for safety and security.
In the background, political conflict continues shaping this reality. The government and local authorities exchange accusations, speaking of deliberate obstruction or the use of education as leverage. Administrative decisions—such as appointing a new education director—have become additional points of tension after he was prevented from assuming office, revealing the depth of division surrounding the management of this file.
Amid these disputes, education remains suspended, shaped less by clear timelines than by ongoing divisions and conflicts. Students stand in the middle, trying to hold onto what remains of opportunity while watching their future take shape beyond their control.
As exams approach, more than 13,500 families in Suwayda cannot afford endless waiting or multiple options. Between the painful memories of July and the uncertainty surrounding educational decisions, parents hope only to cross this phase with the least possible loss and restore their children’s natural right to education.
In a city once presented in 2008 as free of illiteracy, education is no longer merely a path toward improved living conditions or social status. For many, it has become an attempt to preserve what remains of the future.
And while political and administrative conflicts continue around this issue, the heaviest question remains unanswered:
Will these students receive a real opportunity to continue their education, or will their future remain hostage to instability and division?
