How Syrians are rediscovering their country, one campsite at a time. For decades, travel was tightly controlled, and much of the country remained off-limits. Now, a rising community is exploring what was once forbidden, one campsite at a time.
Pines stretch toward the horizon, a mountain rises through morning mist, and a lake glints in the first light. Scenes like these prompt Syrians to pause mid-scroll on Instagram and ask: “What country is this?” The answer is often Syria—a nation many have forgotten.
Khaled Nwilati, now 55, has spent his life bridging that gap. Born in Damascus, he joined his father on scouting trips at age three. By his early twenties, he had founded Me the Syrian, an outdoor group that has since introduced thousands to Syria’s wilderness. During Bashar al-Assad’s rule, permission to explore remote areas was a requirement. Today, it represents rediscovery.
The organization, also known as the Syrian Exploration and Documentation Society, records natural environments, wildlife, and historical sites—from the Roman ruins of Masiqa in Deraa to the volcanic caves of Sweida. With 76,500 Instagram followers, they share what many Syrians have never seen: their own country.
A Lake Reborn After War
In September 2026, a reporter accompanied Me the Syrian for three days at Lake Mashqita, a reservoir near Latakia created by the Tishreen Dam in 1995. The lake’s seven islands, some accessible only by boat, were once out of reach for most Syrians. Today, they serve as a gathering spot for campers, photographers, and first-time adventurers.
A small white boat approaches the shore, Syrian flags fluttering in the wind. At the helm is Atef Saqer, 51, who has ferried visitors across the lake for 22 years. Beside him sits his nine-year-old nephew, Mohamed. On weekends, 200 to 300 people arrive; on quieter days, just 20. Most travelers come from nearby towns, but also from Damascus and Aleppo, drawn by the chance to sleep under the stars in a place they’ve never explored.
Saqer recalls the war years differently. “People in Syria are surrounded by nature, but many do not camp. Nobody told them about this … Of course I wouldn’t do it by myself. I would be scared of everything.” – Taim, first-time camper from Aleppo
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The lake is changing. After Assad’s fall in December 2024, the area fell silent for months. Now, boats move freely again, and the islands, sometimes visible only at certain water levels, draw campers back to a Syria they thought they’d lost.
A Culture Still Taking Shape
At the campsite, 50 tents dot a grassy hillside. At the center, young women in red Me The Syrian T-shirts sit beside a tent. They are managing logistics and security. “Camping culture, it’s not really common,” one says. “It’s a bit scary in Syria to go alone. It’s kind of unsafe. It gives a bit of security.”
Under the stars, Nwilati recounts the lake’s history. Before 1995, this was just a river. Now, shifting water levels create new islands and trails. “The lake is very big, so every time we come, we visit a different island,” Nwilati says.
Games like searching for a hidden scarf in the dark earn nicknames like “Crow” for those who find it. Around the fire, participants roast marshmallows, make tea, or eat pasta from boxes. For many, it’s their first time camping, seeing the islands, and sleeping under the stars.
For some, the trip means more than adventure. “But here? This is home. I belong here.”
The next morning, the group explores the lake’s forested areas. The trail steepens into dense pines, and the forest drowns out the noise of conflict. Under the trees, the weight of loss feels lighter. For a moment, Syria is just a lake, a fire, and shared marshmallows, and the quiet pride of knowing this land remains theirs.