Easter Sunday 2019 in Damascus is a day that has stayed with me—both for its beauty and the terrible news from Sri Lanka: 253 people had been killed in coordinated attacks on three churches. The terrorists were linked to ISIS, a group that had only recently been defeated in Syria. As I entered the Maronite Church that morning, I couldn’t shake off the thought that something similar could happen here. But that uneasy feeling gave way as the service went on. The singing was beautiful and the mood relaxed. Later, I wandered through the streets of Old Damascus, where Easter celebrations were in full swing. Marching bands filled the streets, and Christian families, all dressed up, were waving and photographing their children in uniform. There was a sense of normalcy that felt almost unreal. The war had only ended a year earlier, although the fighting had never reached Damascus. The Armenian band stood out; their armbands were a reminder of the Armenian Genocide. It was a cold April day—no more than 7°C—but many of the girls wore short skirts and sleeveless blouses. I couldn’t keep up with the local “dress code” and wore pajamas under my jeans just to stay warm. Security was tight. Armed soldiers were everywhere. I couldn’t tell whether this was routine or a reaction to the attacks in Sri Lanka that very morning. I discovered a small restaurant in a back alley. Inside, the Armenian community was partying hard—food, arak, singing, dancing, and shishas. I was served enough food for four people, along with arak. Then something really funny happened: a small girl approached me, smiled, and said “nastrovje.” In the afternoon, I traveled north to Maaloula and Sednaya, two historic Christian towns. In one church, a woman sang in Aramaic—the language of Christ. Maaloula was a savae place for Christian for 2000 years until 2013 when al-Nusra attacked the town. I met two nuns who had been kidnapped in 2013 by Al-Nusra militants and held in Lebanon for three months before In the monastery, damage from the war was still visible—faces of saints in ancient mosaics destroyed. The town suffered immensely, houses were burned down, the inhabitants fled, only April 2014 the town was freed from Al-Nusra. Before the war began in 2011, around 1.5 million Christians—about 10% of Syria’s population—lived in the country, from Greek Catholic to Armenian Orthodox and everything in between. Estimates suggest that number may have dropped to as few as 300,000. More than 120 churches and Christian sites were destroyed during the conflict, even more mosques. But the main reason many Christian families have left Syria is not persecution, but deteriorating living conditions: lack of employment and education opportunities and rising living costs. When I returned in 2023, the atmosphere felt different—less raw. The outfits were flashier, and rabbit costumes had become a trend. 2026, Christian communities were attacked in Syria—something unheard of before in recent history.