In the hush of a great library, a nation casts a curious ballot
The National Library in Damascus — once the Assad National Library, its marble facade a familiar silhouette against the old city skyline — felt like a living, breathing archive of a past that the country is still arguing over.
On a late afternoon in the capital, local committee members wound through its corridors, some carrying the dust of their towns on their shoes, others with the nervous polish of newcomers to public life. The air smelled of old paper, strong coffee and the faint metallic tang of ballots. A woman in a headscarf paused beneath a high arched window and laughed nervously to a friend. “We grew up with elections on television,” she said. “Now we have them in person and they feel like a rehearsal.”
What happened — in plain terms
In a process that critics call deeply flawed, local committee members across much of government-held Syria cast ballots to populate a transitional assembly meant to steer the country until a permanent constitution and full elections are held.
The numbers are stark and instructive: some 6,000 people took part in the selection; more than 1,500 candidates stood for office, but only around 14 percent were women; the assembly will have 210 seats, with a renewable 30-month mandate. Of those seats, the interim leader, Ahmed al-Sharaa, will directly appoint 70. Another two-thirds will be selected by the local committees — themselves appointed by an electoral commission formed on Mr. Sharaa’s watch. Thirty-two seats remain empty for now, representing the Kurdish northeast and southern Sweida province, regions outside Damascus’s immediate control.
The official line
From the steps of the National Library, Mr. Sharaa acknowledged the imperfections of the process. “It is true that the electoral process is incomplete,” he told those gathered, “but it is a moderate process appropriate for our current circumstances.” He reiterated a key justification given by the authorities: direct nationwide elections are impracticable while millions of Syrians lack documentation, with large numbers displaced internally or living as refugees abroad.
Hala al-Qudsi, 36, a member of Damascus’s electoral committee who is herself a candidate, framed the moment differently. “The next parliament faces enormous responsibilities — signing deals, ratifying accords, shaping foreign policy,” she said. “This is not a trivial handover; it will lead Syria into a new phase.” Her voice carried the urgency of someone balancing hope with caution.
Voices from the cafés and the neighborhoods
Outside, in a shaded café near Bab Touma, men played backgammon and sipped sweet tea. Louay al-Arfi, 77, a retired civil servant with a lifetime of ballots behind him, watched the proceedings with a wary loyalty. “I support the authorities and I will defend them,” he said. “But these aren’t real elections. It’s a necessity now, perhaps. But we want direct elections after — real choice, not appointments by a few men in offices.”
In Sweida, the Druze-majority province that endured sectarian bloodshed over the summer, many are watching from the sidelines. Burhan Azzam, a 48-year-old activist, called the process a hollowing out of political life. “They have ended political life in many ways,” he said. “How can you call it democratic when basic rules of participation are not respected?”
In the Kurdish northeast, the absence of representation is palpable. “Elections could have been a new political start,” said Nishan Ismail, a schoolteacher from the region. “But the marginalisation of whole communities shows that standards of political participation are not being upheld.” Negotiations to integrate Kurdish civil and military structures into a central framework have stalled, and for many Kurds the empty seats are proof of a process that skips parts of the country.
Critics: a process engineered for control
Human rights groups and exile organizations have been blunt. A coalition of more than a dozen groups warned that the selection mechanism allows Mr. Sharaa to “effectively shape a parliamentary majority composed of individuals he selected or ensured loyalty from.” “You can call the process what you like,” Bassam Alahmad, executive director of Syrians for Truth and Justice, told me over a brittle phone connection from abroad, “but not elections.”
There is also concern about representation. Ethnic and religious minorities — Kurds, Druze, Christians, and others — feel squeezed out. The first Jewish candidate since the 1940s, Syrian-American Henry Hamra, has stood for a seat, a symbolic nod toward pluralism, but critics say tokenism is not the same as power-sharing.
Who gets to decide?
At the heart of the dispute is a simple, stubborn question: in a transition from conflict to something like stability, who writes the rules? The interim constitution announced in March gives the incoming parliament legislative authority until a permanent constitution is adopted. But when the people who designed the selection system also pick its selectors, legitimacy becomes a matter of perspective.
“In transitions after civil wars, the temptation is always to prioritise order over inclusion,” explained Leila Mansour, a scholar of transitional governance. “What that often produces is a government that can pass laws and sign agreements — but not a government that many people feel represents them.”
Local color and a larger lesson
Walk through the old city and you notice the small signs of normalcy: vendors polishing copper trays, children chasing pigeons beneath the Umayyad Mosque, an old woman threading beads at a window. These details are reminders that state structures — however imperfect — sit atop lives people continue to live. But political processes that leave whole communities out risk translating peace into simmering grievance.
So what do we make of this moment? Is it a pragmatic pause — a staged compromise until the day when millions can finally vote freely — or the first step toward a managed, limited pluralism? The answer depends on whether the interim authorities can deliver not just stability, but trustworthy institutions that make people feel seen.
Questions for readers — and leaders
As you read this from wherever you are — a Mediterranean café, a commuter train, a quiet living room — ask yourself: when nations rebuild after conflict, should speed be prized over inclusiveness? Or does legitimacy require waiting, however painfully, until more voices can be heard?
Syria’s story is not just an isolated drama; it is a case study in the global challenge of rebuilding institutions after prolonged violence. The choices made now — who sits in those 210 seats, how the empty ones are filled, whether sceptics are invited in or shut out — will echo for years. For the people queuing at the National Library, and for millions watching from exile and displacement, those echoes are not abstractions. They are a question of identity, safety and hope.
For now, the counting is underway. The hall is lit with the low buzz of lamps and anxious conversation. Outside, Damascus keeps breathing, waiting to see whether this new parliament will be a step toward genuine pluralism — or simply another roof under which the old politics restate themselves in new terms.
