She was nearly out of her depth and, suddenly afraid, started to turn back. Her husband, who was beside her in the water, pointed out that her manto would cling to her when she emerged. It was such a ridiculous bit of fussing that she forgot about her fear and laughed. “What, should I wait for everyone to leave before getting out?”

The coast is home to the bulk of Syria’s Alawites, a minority group from which Bashar al-Assad and most of his security forces were drawn. Though many Sunnis lived there too, the area became a stronghold for Assad and his Alawite fighters during the civil war, and was protected by a network of checkpoints. People from the predominantly Sunni towns and cities that had risen up against the regime risked being stopped at them. Many of those detained were taken away, tortured and killed. Coming from Daraa, as al-Haj Ali did, was particularly dangerous, because the uprising had started there. “Anybody with a Daraa ID card was under suspicion,” she said.

On December 8th 2024 Assad fled the country, and Ahmed al-Sharaa, the leader of the most powerful Islamist rebel group, assumed control. Regime checkpoints were abandoned. The soldiers who manned them melted away, leaving their uniforms discarded on the roadside. On the M4 motorway leading to the coast only the pockmarks left by shells suggest that it was recently a heavily guarded front line.

I met al-Haj Ali the day after her first plunge. She was sitting on a concrete wall overlooking the beach in the city of Tartus, together with her sister Khoula, who was also visiting for the first time. Children splashed at the water’s edge, while adults swam farther out. It was late afternoon, and the heat was becoming less fierce. Vendors had arranged plastic chairs and tables into neat rows on the sand outside their kiosks. Young men ferried cold drinks and shisha pipes to customers up and down the beach. On the corniche the fairy lights strung round corn-on-the-cob stalls glowed in the gathering dusk. Khoula surveyed the scene contentedly. “I’m really happy to be here,” she said.

A little farther up the coast I met another post-war holidaymaker, 56-year-old Rawaa al-Rajab. She was from the central city of Homs, the heart of the uprising. The regime pummelled it over the course of several years, reducing her neighbourhood to rubble. Eventually rebels surrendered the city and al-Rajab, along with thousands of others, was put on a bus to northern Syria, where opposition forces still maintained control.

Throughout the war al-Rajab was separated from her brother, Khaled. He had been working in a factory on the coast when the uprising started, and decided to stay there. It was risky for people in rebel-held areas to phone people in regime strongholds – you never knew if Assad’s security forces were listening – so al-Rajab barely even spoke to her brother. “In all those years I heard my brother’s voice just twice,” she said. “He called me once when my other brother died, and once when my husband died.”

When she heard the regime had finally fallen the first thing she did was to call Khaled. Two days later al-Rajab was on the M4 driving towards him. “It felt like flying,” she said. When I saw her she was sitting on a plastic chair wedged into the black sand of Wadi Qandil beach: hijab on, shoes off and a cigarette in hand. Khaled was by her side.

Al-Rajab was in her element, a matriarch holding court with four generations of her family gathered around the fold-up table they’d brought with them. It was piled with packets of potato crisps and fruit in tupperware containers. She poured me some cardamom-laced coffee in a small ceramic cup, and we chatted.

Before the war, al-Rajab had written tourist guides to the country, extolling the virtues of its archaeological sites and ancient souks. She knew that persuading foreign visitors to return would take a long time, but was unimpressed with the start made by the new tourism ministry. A few weeks earlier it had issued a statement that appeared to ban women from wearing bikinis or swimming costumes on public beaches (officials later claimed it had been a recommendation, not an order). “I’m against that,” said al-Rajab. “Wear a bikini if you want. Every human is free and your religion is only between you and Allah.”

What people needed now, she said, was security. “I have a big family and none of them wants revenge for the blood they lost, we just want peace for all Syrians. And when my son is out of the house I don’t want to be worrying about whether he’s going to come back.”

I asked her what her losses had been and her hand drifted to her heart. Al-Rajab used to have another brother, she told me, who was arrested in 2012. She believes a female relative reported him to the intelligence services for working with the opposition. When rebels opened up Sednaya, the Assad regime’s notorious prison, she was able to confirm what she had long suspected: he had died in its labyrinth of torture chambers.

Her family has intermarried with Alawites, and it is this branch which is now feeling vulnerable. In March this year supporters of the old regime in the coastal areas attempted an uprising against al-Sharaa, which sparked brutal reprisals. Over three days, forces aligned with the new government killed more than a thousand Alawite civilians. Many young Alawites have been kidnapped or murdered since. Among those affected is the relative who al-Rajab believes betrayed her brother. Her son has been missing for some time. She feels sorry for the woman, in spite of everything.

Looking out over the bustling beach, al-Rajab reflected on the juncture the country is at. “Syria is heaven,” she said. “But it needs pure hands to build it again.” When I asked her whether al-Sharaa’s hands were clean enough, she equivocated. “The new government isn’t bad, and we need to have hope. One hand doesn’t clap on its own; it must be the people and the government working together.”

At the southern end of Wadi Qandil is a row of wooden chalets. On Friday nights these are full of young people up from Damascus for the weekend, and the sounds of a beach bar that pumps out music until 3am.

The DJ was playing an eclectic mix when I visited – songs from the Syrian revolution, modern and traditional Lebanese artists, a Palestinian resistance anthem and the theme tune from “Friends”. The Damascene clientele, who were dancing and drinking beer, would probably have been free to visit the coast during the war, but were clearly relishing the opportunity to express themselves more freely now that Assad has gone.

They had other concerns though. After the recommendations on beach attire were circulated, the owner of one of the chalets had a meeting with an official from the new government. “I told him, ‘If you force people to dress a certain way you’re damaging Syria’s reputation,’” he said. “Syria will never be ruled religiously, it’s impossible.”

He was less worried about al-Sharaa’s forces than conservative vigilantes. He and some fellow chalet-owners have pooled cash to hire a security guard. So far, the only incident has been a raid by the new security forces, who said they came looking for a man they considered fulul, a newly popular word in Syria that refers to Assad loyalists. According to the chalet-owner the security forces beat everyone at the scene to try to extract information about the fulul. He says if he’d had any he would have volunteered it the need for violence. “I don’t want the headache.”

Thirty kilometres down the coast in the city of Latakia, a group of suntanned teenage boys were gathered on the rocks beneath the seafront promenade. They ran to the water and pushed and pulled each other in, then clambered out to do it again and again. One of them, Mustafa, was 15 but looked younger. He told me he’d just finished his last exam, and was looking forward to a long summer of swimming and football.

Regime-affiliated gangs known as shabiha used to rule Latakia. They were violent and untouchable, and their turf extended to the waterfront. Mustafa said you needed the patronage of one of these men even to take part in local sports; they leaned on the coaches who selected the teams.

Now the shabiha have slunk away, and their networks of influence have collapsed. “There is no wasta anymore,” said Mustafa, using the Arabic word for the practice of working connections. “Anybody can play football.”

On the promenade above Mustafa, three men in the black uniforms of Syria’s new police force were smoking shisha. They had fought in the rebellion, spending the last years of the war in the north-western province of Idlib. When Assad fell they were redeployed to Damascus, and had decided to come to the beach on their day off. “We’re happy to be here,” said one of them, a handsome 30-year-old called Sultan Nasser. “We haven’t come here since 2011, so it’s kind of strange.”

Nasser was originally from Ghouta, one of the Damascus suburbs where resistance to the regime was particularly active. He joined the armed rebels in 2011 after his brother-in-law was shot dead at a peaceful protest. Having spent most of his adult life at war, he was ready to start thinking about other things: setting up a home, looking after a family.

The seaside wasn’t all that relaxing for him. He was conscious that people there didn’t like the new security forces. There are estimated to be as many as 10,000 insurgents loyal to the old regime hiding out in the coastal areas. Even in Damascus he’d felt resentment when he searched people’s cars at checkpoints.

“Sometimes we hear them say that ‘It’s the same as the Assad days’,” he said indignantly. “People aren’t thankful, they’re not grateful to the people who won them their freedom.”

Sitting beside him was a younger fighter, Mohammed Tahhan, a 19-year-old who grew up in rebel-held Idlib and then joined the military arm of Hayat Tahrir al-Sham, al-Sharaa’s group. He had turned away from my translator and me when we first approached, uncomfortable speaking to two young women. But he slowly warmed up, and eventually insisted on buying us two wilted roses from a child street-hawker. Until he entered Damascus with his triumphant colleagues in December 2024, Tahhan had never seen the capital, let alone the sea. “It felt like coming home,” he said. “All of Syria feels like home now.”

Not long after we spoke al-Sharaa sent his security forces into the heartland of another religious minority. Suwayda, a region in southern Syria, is mostly populated by members of the Druze sect, whom Sunni fundamentalists see as heretics. Druze leaders were no fans of Assad but worried about being ruled by a hardline Islamist government. Al-Sharaa’s troops ostensibly came to keep the peace after armed clashes between Druze men and local Sunni tribes, but many saw their deployment as an attempt to project power on a region that had not yet submitted to the transitional government’s rule. Violence increased, and men wearing the uniforms of the new authorities were seen participating in massacres of Druze civilians. Then Israel intervened on behalf of the Druze, bombing the ministry of defence in Damascus. Challenges to al-Sharaa’s authority are rising throughout the country, and next year’s beach season may be less peaceful.

Heidi Pett is a journalist in Damascus

PHOTOGRAPHS GABRIEL FERNEINI