Imagine this: a Syrian family returns home after years in exile. They step off the bus, hearts full of hope, ready to rebuild their lives. What greets them isn’t welcome. It’s a broken clinic, a shuttered school, and a street filled with silence instead of support. No one was ready. No one expected them, not really. And so, the burden falls on their shoulders.
Again. This isn’t just a story about Syria. It’s about us, about how the world responds to crisis. Or rather, how it doesn’t, until it’s too late. We wait for the flood before building the dam. We wait for the collapse before we brace the walls. We wait, and people pay the price.
By late 2024, nearly a considerable number of Syrians had returned home. The numbers were sort of known so far. The signs were clear. UNHCR, NRC, and others had warned that returns were likely and that the conditions for safe reintegration weren’t there. Infrastructure was crumbling. Services were stretched. Legal protections were patchy at best. Yet, despite the chorus of caution, action lagged behind.
Reports showed that less than half of returnees had access to clean water. Schools were full. Clinics were scarce. Job opportunities were a dream, not a reality. Still, families returned, driven by hope, by necessity, by the pull of home. What they found, instead of welcome, was a vacuum.
We call it a “safe and dignified return,” but what does that mean if people are coming back to ruins? The truth is, we knew. And still, we chose to wait.
Contrast that with parts of Europe. In 2025, the EU launched a campaign urging every household to stock up on essentials for at least 72 hours. Not because danger was at the door, but because it might be tomorrow. Sweden hands out readiness brochures to every home. Finland trains its youth in civil preparedness. Germany runs citywide drills. In Luxembourg, people have kits, but still ask for more support. There, preparedness isn’t panic, it’s culture.
Japan runs community-wide earthquake drills. Singapore’s crisis communication is fast, digital, and clear. These aren’t rich-country luxuries. They’re reflections of a mindset that sees care in anticipation. They build trust before trust is needed.
What if Syria had been met with the same foresight shown in other crises?
What if, instead of waiting for people to return, we prepared for their arrival with empathy and intent?
The war tore through the foundation of Syria’s education system. Over a decade, classrooms were emptied not just of students but of teachers and hope. More than 7.4 million Syrians were displaced within the country. Another 5.6 million sought refuge beyond its borders.
Education became an afterthought in a world trying simply to survive. According to UNHCR, more than 7,000 schools were destroyed or severely damaged. Many others became shelters for families who had nowhere else to go. Millions of children were cut off from their learning, their futures suspended in limbo.
Yet, amid the rubble, something happened. Schools reopened. Universities resumed classes. Teachers returned, often unpaid. Students showed up with tattered books and quiet determination. It was a display of resilience, stubborn, defiant, inspiring.
Resilience should not be mistaken for readiness. This return to learning could have been supported with a real plan. If governments and aid agencies had stepped in early, they could have rebuilt safer schools, trained trauma-informed educators, and guaranteed school placements before the children returned. Communities abroad, whose voices echo with the question, “Will my child have a classroom to go to?”, could have helped shape that vision.
Instead of watching families walk back into uncertainty, deep-rooted analysis could have been put in motion before the first step home. That readiness should start with meaningful assessments, deep listening, in-depth interviews, and data-driven surveys that show us what returning communities actually need. It’s time to observe, to map out priorities, and to co-create development-focused proposals grounded in reality. From this groundwork, in Damascus and Rif Dimashq, Homs and Aleppo, we can craft evidence-based policy briefs that do more than report problems, they offer solutions. They can guide international actors on how to act effectively and proactively.
Let’s move from assumptions to action, from reaction to readiness.
Preparedness is not a document. It’s not a donor pledge. It’s a sign that we care deeply, urgently, quietly. It means we show up before we’re asked. We listen before people raise their hands. We act not because the crisis has come, but because we know it will.
A return doesn’t have to be a risk. It can be a new beginning. Only if we meet people halfway, before they arrive. Only if the system isn’t playing catch-up but is already in motion. Because real care isn’t reactive. It’s ready.
We’ve seen the consequences of waiting. We’ve lived them, through pandemics, through disasters, through displacement. It’s time to change the story. Let’s not meet the next wave of returnees with silence and confusion. Let’s greet them with tailored development-based systems, with solutions, with open doors.
Let’s not wait. Let’s be ready. For their sake, and ours.
