A photographer who joined a Syrian hiking group in September 2026 found themselves on an island in Lake Mashqita, where 50 tents lined the shoreline beneath a rolling hill. The scene resembled a campsite in the French countryside—except in Syria, such gatherings remain unusual. For many Syrians, the environments they’re rediscovering aren’t just terrain; they represent a lost part of their identity.
Rediscovering Syria’s Forbidden Lands
Khaled Nwilati, 55, has spent decades introducing Syrians to their own country’s forests and mountains through his group, Me the Syrian. The organization documents Syria’s environments—from Roman ruins in Deraa to volcanic caves in Sweida—while teaching members to explore areas once restricted. Under Bashar al-Assad’s rule, permission to travel was frequently required, but Nwilati’s community transformed registration into an act of reclaiming land. With 76,500 Instagram followers, the group’s efforts now extend beyond survival to celebration.
On the lake’s shore, 51-year-old Atef Saqer has ferried campers for 22 years. His nephew, Mohamed, 9, sits beside him as the boat approaches. Saqer recalls the lake during the war: locals initially visited, then foreigners returned after 2018, but disappeared again when Assad’s government collapsed in December 2024. This shift left Syria’s natural spaces in a state of uncertainty, both a sanctuary and a reminder of what was lost.
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Taim, a first-time camper from Aleppo, says, “Nobody told them about this … Of course I wouldn’t do it by myself. I would be scared of everything.” His caution reflects a broader reality: Syria’s nature isn’t just physically remote but psychologically inaccessible for many. Even those raised near forests or mountains often lack the knowledge or confidence to explore them independently.
She joined after assisting with tree-planting efforts following Syria’s 2025 wildfires. Now, she and others manage logistics, security, and documentation. “Camping culture, it’s not really common,” Khalifa explains. “It’s a bit scary in Syria to go alone.” The group’s structured approach, organized trips, shared equipment, and guided exploration, provides the safety net missing in a country where trust is scarce.
Nature’s Hidden Secrets and New Discoveries
The lake’s islands shift with seasonal water levels. Some appear only at certain times of year, while others vanish entirely. Nwilati points toward the horizon, where the reservoir’s branching waterways create the illusion of seven separate lakes. “The lake is very big, so every time we come, we visit a different island,” Nwilati says. “There are also new people who come with us, so we want to show it to them.” This mission goes beyond scenery. In 2017, the group spotted a Syrian deer on Deer Island, a species not previously recorded in the country. They reported the discovery to authorities, contributing to Syria’s rediscovered biodiversity.
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Among the campers is Samer Akkad, 47, who became the first Syrian to climb Everest in 2019. A mountain tattoo marks his leg. His participation highlights a contradiction: for some, the land serves as both a playground and a form of protest. By exploring it, they reject the narrative that Syria consists only of ruins and war.
At night, Nwilati hides a scarf in the mountains and challenges participants to find it. Forty minutes later, a young man returns, earning the nickname Crow, a mark of recognition within the group. These activities turn exploration into a shared ritual that supports belonging. For 19-year-old Adnan Hanouneh, a dentistry student from Latakia, this is his first trip with Me the Syrian. He cites New Zealand singer Lorde: “We live in cities you will never see on the screen.” In Syria, he notes, the screen only shows war. Here, the screen is the sky.
On Deer Island, the group’s 2017 discovery of a Syrian deer, al-yajmur al-Suri, added to Syria’s rediscovered biodiversity. The species had not been previously documented in the country, and the group shared their findings with authorities. The island’s dense pine forests demand hiking boots rather than sandals, and the trail steepens as the group ventures deeper. For 16-year-old Taim from Aleppo, this is his first time sleeping under the stars. His hesitation stems from the unfamiliarity of the experience. “Nobody told them about this,” he says, reflecting a sentiment shared by others. Syria’s nature remains psychologically out of reach for those who’ve never been guided through it.
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War’s Shadow and the Healing Power of Home
Among the campers are students like 19-year-old Yamen from Damascus, who stays awake until 4 a.m. talking with friends. The phrase resonates among the group: “I saw Syria differently.” For a generation raised with parts of their country inaccessible, the experience is transformative. The next planned trip, a hike to Samra village, the real-life setting of the beloved Syrian comedy Daiʿat Dayaʿa, symbolizes the gradual unfolding of a map long obscured by conflict. Yet the core remains Syrian: people rediscovering their own country, one island at a time.
The group’s organized trips, shared equipment, and guided exploration address both practical and psychological barriers to outdoor adventure. Volunteers like 21-year-old Sandi Khalifa and 18-year-old Joman Jakob contribute beyond logistics. “It’s a bit scary in Syria to go alone.” The group’s presence provides the security missing in a country where trust is fragile.
Under a pink sky at night, Nwilati’s games, such as hiding a scarf in the mountains, transform exploration into a shared ritual. Such moments build belonging, countering the isolation imposed by years of war.