by Hummam Sheikh Ali

DAMASCUS, Dec. 19 (Xinhua) -- Having spent nearly 14 years reporting on the Syrian conflict, I thought I had become accustomed to the erratic nature of war, until the event on Nov. 27 delivered a stark reminder that normalcy in Syria remains as elusive as ever.

That morning, a militant alliance led by the Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) group launched a massive offensive in Aleppo's northern countryside. At first, it appeared to be just another flare-up in the long and bitter conflict -- one of many I had covered over the years.

However, by the evening of Nov. 29, it became clear that this was no ordinary military operation. The militant alliance stormed the city of Aleppo, retaking not only their former strongholds but also areas they had never held before. In a flash, the frontlines extended hundreds of kilometers southward, as if the conflict had rewound to its early years.

The unfolding events stirred a sense of déjà vu. In 2013 and 2014, during the first two years of the civil war, I ventured to the frontlines, carefully navigating through shattered glass and twisted rebar. I witnessed neighborhoods reduced to ruins, inhaled the acrid stench of charred metal, blood, and dust, and saw homes obliterated.

Over time, I learned to distinguish different calibers of weapons by their sound alone. These experiences left deep scars, robbing me of calm and planting seeds of fear -- a dread that the horrors of the past might return.

The advance of the HTS and its allies in late November took most people by surprise. After a brief pause following the fall of Aleppo, the militant group pushed southward, capturing territory with astonishing speed. Government strongholds fell one after another -- first Hama, then Homs -- and within days, they were at the gates of Damascus.

When rumors swirled that the militant group was closer than anyone dared to imagine -- I was out with friends in Damascus, trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy. But inside, I was a wreck. My thoughts raced to my parents, my home, and the familiar streets and shops. Government assurances of "solid fortifications" around the capital did little to soothe my unease.

In the early morning hours of Dec. 8, the quietness of the city was rattled by the sound of gunfire. Within hours, Damascus was awash with rumors, looting, and mayhem. Despite the mounting anxiety that gripped me, I pressed on as a reporter. Peering out of my window, I saw armed men I didn't recognize, abandoned military trucks, and discarded rifles and uniforms all over the streets. Confusion reigned.

My body rebelled -- I woke the next day unable to swallow and was driven to the hospital. Outside, the streets seemed surreal, scattered with bullet casings, and guarded by nervous armed men. Yet, inside the hospital, doctors chatted over sweets, and even asked me to take their pictures, as if clinging to any strand of routine amid the turmoil.

Within days, surprisingly, Damascus began to recover its rhythm. Markets reopened, people ventured out, and normality -- if that's what we could call it -- took on a new shape.

Hospitals regained their steady hum, and essential goods returned to shelves, albeit at higher prices. Fuel and bread, once rationed, became available again, though more expensive. We remain in a state of flux, caught between the relief of a fragile calm and apprehension about what tomorrow might bring.

People are trying to find their footing in this altered landscape -- stepping over bullet casings, breathing in the crisp December air, and striving to regain a sense of normalcy. The memory of fear lingers, but so does a stubborn determination to adapt and move forward.

In Syria, stability perpetually teeters on a razor's edge. We press on, not because we've conquered fears, but because we have no other choice.

However, amid the fragile calm, the roar of Israeli fighter jets targeting military sites across the country serves as a constant reminder that peace remains an elusive dream. ■