In Syria’s mountains, climbers are pitching new lines to a freer future

This story is originally published in Huck 83: Life Is a Journey – The 20^th Anniversary Issue. Order your copy now.

Syria has always been a land of extremes: sun-scorched deserts, fertile valleys, and jagged mountains that rise like sentinels above cities scarred by decades of war. Yet for most Syrians, these landscapes have long existed at a distance – seen from bus windows, remembered in fragments, or erased altogether by fear, checkpoints, and survival. For nearly 15 years, the cliffs were silent. Guidebooks gathered dust. The mountains waited.

Until now.

After the fall of Bashar al-Assad in December 2024, three siblings returned to Damascus with a dream that bordered on the improbable: to bring rock climbing – an almost unknown sport in Syria – back to life. The Tasabehji siblings: Moaz, 31, Zahira, 28, and Yassen, 32, had spent 15 years in Canada, building lives far from home, climbing in Squamish and Toronto, learning a sport rooted in patience, trust, and calculated risk. Syria, for a long time, felt closed – emotionally, politically, logistically.

“We felt that Syria was a strategic decision where we could make a bigger difference,” Yassen says. ​“The fall of Assad was the condition for us. After December, Pandora’s box was open.”

• Read next: Despite volatility, Syrian artists are painting brighter futures through the haze

For the siblings, returning wasn’t about nostalgia. It was about timing. Syria, they felt, was starved of experiences. ​“Young people here don’t have options,” Yassen continues. ​“Especially girls. There are no real exits. You go for shisha – that’s it. There’s nothing much.”

Climbing, they believed, could be an exit. Not an escape, but an opening.

Zahira started climbing seriously about six years ago. What began as a sport slowly rewired her sense of self. ​“I found how it changed how I felt about myself as a woman,” she says. ​“I felt strong. I felt confident. It wasn’t just about the sport – it was about how it made me feel.”

When she visited Syria in April 2025, the contrast was stark. ​“I saw how women here don’t have that kind of outlet. To feel strong. To feel capable. A lot of times, you’re told you should do this and shouldn’t do that. And I thought – what if we could provide this? Especially for women like myself?”

That question became a blueprint. ​“Climbing changed my life as a woman,” Zahira tells me as she watches a young girl inch her way up a limestone slab at Lake Zarzar, 30 minutes outside Damascus. ​“Here, women don’t usually get to take up space. To be strong. To feel capable. I want that to change.”

• Read next: Inside the shadowed, stomach-churning world of night climbing

Moaz, clipped into a belay nearby, nods. ​“Climbing isn’t just a sport,” he adds. ​“It’s a space where Syrians – men and women, Christians and Muslims, displaced and returning – can meet on equal footing. For a country this divided, that’s revolutionary.”

Their ambition goes further. ​“It’s a project to basically bring Syria onto the map when it comes to rock climbing,” Moaz says. ​“We want gyms. We want outdoor development. We want Syria to be a place where people say: ​‘I want to climb there. I want to see what that’s like.’”

On Saturday, November 22, the air at Lake Zarzar is crisp, carrying the chill of cold stone. Moaz arrives early, stopping on the way to pick up vegan manaish – za’atar-dusted flatbreads to power him through the long day ahead. By 7:30am, he’s at the crag, unloading ropes, checking anchors, inspecting routes. The work is meticulous. Every knot matters.

At 8am, a minibus pulls up with 11 participants – the maximum the team allows, limited by gear and a strict commitment to safety. The group is mixed: men and women, children and parents, first-timers and the quietly curious.

• Read next: The blind climber scaling new heights

Zahira steps down first, smiling, taking over orientation with calm authority. Yassen handles logistics and photography, documenting the day while keeping a sharp eye on the group. Each sibling moves with practiced clarity; their roles are distinct, rehearsed, trusted.

“Our goal,” Zahira tells the group, ​“is for you to feel comfortable – and to want to do it again.” The diversity of the group is intentional.

Hiba Jneed, a friend, jumps in to teach the figure-eight knot, turning safety into storytelling. ​“It’s like a snowman,” she says. ​“You wrap the scarf around his neck, then stick a carrot in his face.” Laughter ripples through the group as ropes slide through hands, tension easing.

From the outset, the team emphasises respect for nature. The cliffs are not a backdrop but a responsibility. Leave nothing. Take nothing. The mountain isn’t conquered – it’s borrowed.

Mustaf Niddam, 56, has never climbed before. Today, he’s here with his daughter Kinda, 23, and her cousin Myriam, also 23. Myriam admits she’s terrified of heights. ​“But the team knows exactly what they’re doing,” she says. ​“That comforted me.”

• Read next: The climber who conquered El Capitan without a rope

Kinda was hooked by one of the siblings’ outdoor climbing videos she came across on Instagram. ​“We were deprived of Syria’s mountains,” she explains. ​“Climbing breaks sectarian and social barriers. That’s why my family is also here today.” The youngest participant, Sahar Aloush, is 11 years old – a girl in bright orange pants and a short-sleeved black T‑shirt. She has never climbed before. She barely knows what it is. But now, she’s gliding up slabs with a natural confidence that surprises everyone, including herself. She’s impatiently waiting on the delivery of climbing shoes her aunt in France is sending her. Among the group is a young Salvadorian climber visiting Syria for the first time. ​“I didn’t even think about safety,” he says. ​“I trust the team. They’re serious and competent.”

Every rope is double-checked. Every belay is supervised. Trust here is earned through repetition. These outdoor sessions are just one layer of a broader ecosystem. The siblings run three interconnected initiatives: restoring an accessible relationship with the mountains and rebuilding an outdoor climbing culture grounded in safety, local knowledge, and collective care, then there’s the Syrian Association for Climbing, a nonprofit, focuses on training instructors, standardising safety, and dismantling stigma – especially around women. Outdoor trips introduce beginners to top-rope climbing in locations verified as safe by locals. 

And finally Jabalna – ​“Our Mountain” in Arabic – the very first bouldering gym in Syria, which they opened in Damascus on January 8. Self-funded. Mostly self-built. Engineered largely by Moaz’s own hands.

• Read next: In a razed Damascus refugee camp, one martial arts club holds its stance

Jabalna isn’t just a gym. It’s a political statement.

On opening day, the siblings introduced a simple idea: a jar by the counter, filled with small balls. Each ball represents half the price of entry. Anyone who can afford it can buy a ball. Anyone who can’t can take one. No questions. No shame. ​“It was obvious to us,” Yaseen says. “ We don’t want to turn this into a classist, elitist sport.”

Accessibility, for them, isn’t charity. It’s design. ​“Joy is the main force we’re trying to harness,” Yassen says. ​“Joy is what we’re trying to bring into this country – and rock climbing is the vehicle.” 

The challenges are relentless. Equipment must be imported, often taking months due to sanctions. Checkpoints don’t recognise harnesses, drills or carabiners. Guidebooks are decades out of date. Funding is fragile – they paid three years’ rent upfront for the gym. And then there’s perception. ​“A funny challenge,” Yassen says, ​“is that we look young. People don’t take us seriously. In Syria, money talks. Once they realise we’re coming from outside, there’s respect. Before that, not so much.”

Still, they persist.

Women-only hours. Flexible clothing policies. Patient instruction. Everything is calibrated to remove friction, to invite people in rather than test them. ​“This isn’t about scaling walls,” Zahira says, watching a group of women cheer each other on. ​“It’s about confidence. About reminding ourselves that we can.” Moaz sees climbing as a social glue. ​“Imagine if Syrians had more spaces built on trust and cooperation,” he says. ​“That’s what climbing teaches.”

• Read next: The rise of France’s rollerskiing scene, as its snowfall thins

Their vision stretches beyond Damascus. A national climbing federation. Updated guidebooks. Route preservation. A Syrian team competing internationally. Partnerships with organisations like Climaid, working with refugees. ​“The path is uncertain,” Yassen admits. ​“But every bolt, every training session, every hesitant first climb – it’s rebuilding a culture that was almost erased.”

As the sun dips over Lake Zarzar, Sahar reaches the top of her route. She grins, breathless. Below her, generations clap. In a country long defined by loss, climbing offers something quietly radical: shared joy.

“This is our country,” Zahira says. ​“Syria is an incredible country, but Syrians have never truly enjoyed it. We deserve to be amazed again. Climbing lets us do that – and it brings us together after everything we’ve been through.”

Syria’s mountains are rising again. Not just in altitude, but in spirit.

Bushra Alzoubi is a Syrian freelance journalist based in Paris. Follow her on Instagram.

Buy your copy of Huck 83 here.

Enjoyed this article? Follow Huck on Instagram for more from the cutting edge of sport, music and counterculture.

Support stories like this by becoming a member of Club Huck.