Op-Ed: How the legacy of Syria’s prisons is becoming a battle for memory 

Syria bears a heavy legacy of institutional violence, embodied by the security branches and prisons spread across the country that for many years were the stage of the most horrific crimes against detainees.

Saydnaya Prison (the “human slaughterhouse”), Branch 235 (Palestine Branch), Branch 215, Branch 227: These were more than buildings where bodies worn down by torture were confined. They were dungeons of erasure, the erasure of existence itself. They are places where the echoes of the tortured accumulate in the cells, alongside the memories of those who did not emerge alive. The walls themselves are a silent archive of loss.

With the collapse of these authoritarian structures following the fall of the Assad regime last December, these spaces were not so much liberated from their past as drawn into a new cycle of repurposing—giving rise to a new phenomenon that raises profound questions of memory, justice and humanity. 

These spaces, tied to death, became locations for filming and content creation—and sometimes volunteer “beautification” projects or launch sites for events with a celebratory nature. Alongside that, repeated statements have been made about the possibility of repurposing them as government service centers—a proposal to reproduce the place outside its original context. 

How can spaces saturated with violence be recast? Is it even possible to speak of the future of these prisons without addressing the legacy of crimes committed there? Any attempt to alter the meaning of these spaces without reckoning with the past raises problems that go beyond the architectural or functional dimension. 

If collective memory plays a role in grounding identity and resisting forgetting, then turning prisons into “neutral” visual scenes or service facilities without addressing their legacy is not only a functional transformation, but a reengineering of consciousness—one that reproduces the past in the present, albeit with a polished facade. 

The memory of these places does not belong to their survivors alone, but extends to Syrian society as a whole, including those who did not have this experience or see it up close. They are a piece of collective memory, documenting the history of violence and violations. 

Erasing or repurposing these sites without addressing or acknowledging their legacy not only erases the suffering of those who passed through them, but reproduces forgetting on a wider scale, threatening to erase the truth and deprive the victims of justice. This memory does not belong solely to the victims—it is a community matter that affects everyone. Its absence creates a void in the collective consciousness.

Prison as a backdrop: Exploiting horror in the age of spectacle and curation

Over the past few months, we began to see content creators flocking to abandoned prisons, cameras in hand, to turn death cells into intriguing visual scenes. Some provide investigative content that reveals the details of what happened in these places, which is undoubtedly important. But much of what is produced is confined to the realm of visual excitement and spectacle, mimicking the “horror aesthetic” and the desire to use the place to attract views, not to restore collective memory or interrogate the past. 

We see some content creators speaking in hushed tones in the prison corridors, play-acting awe before walls laden with the traces of those held within them. It is as though the place has lost its identity, becoming decor for dramatic content with no sensitivity—beyond the superficial scene—to its history or the memory it represents, the depth of the tragedy. 

In such a context, the danger is magnified when some of these pieces slip towards reshaping the narrative based on superficial or erroneous perceptions. This is the case of some content on Saydnaya, in which an aspect of the narrative was reworked in a way that departs from the truth. The truth was even attacked when spoken, and images of unverified horror were used to reinforce distorted perceptions. 

When some unproven accounts—such as the killing of detainees with a metal press—were refuted, this was not viewed as a necessary correction, part of the responsibility to be accurate, but as an attempt to whitewash the crimes. This reflects how documented information can become a threat when it does not fit the prevailing narrative in which sensational stories are preferred over documented facts. 

Here, a tendency to subordinate detainee narratives to a logic of curation and promote the most brutal and sensational stories has become evident. Those who did not endure unprecedented torture are not seen as worthy of attention, as though the pain itself is no longer enough unless it comes with extraordinary tales of horror. Tragedy becomes a competitive market for the cruelest narratives, marginalizing other experiences—of no lesser suffering—that do not fit the required standards of sensationalism. 

This approach not only distorts the full picture of the violations, but reproduces an unjust narrative, making some victims more “worthy” of attention than others based on the degree of violence to which they were subjected. Some prisons have started to receive more attention than others, not necessarily for being more brutal but due to the horror of the place being used in public discourse, producing a disparity in how the tragedy is represented and documented. 

Some justify this as a way to evoke sympathy for the victims or draw attention to the crimes committed. But these methods raise a deep ethical issue that goes beyond the nature of the content itself to the very structure of reception: Can awareness be achieved by exploiting horror, or does this become an unconscious normalization of the tragedies of the past?

Turning prisons into scenes for consumption cannot be separated from the mechanisms of reshaping collective memory in a way that empties such a site of its oppressive history and presents it as a neutral space that can be tamed and repurposed in the service of the visual “spectacle.”

Read more: Cells, interrogation rooms, inscriptions: The need to protect evidence in Assad’s prisons

Forced beautification: Erasing history in the name of art

Alongside the wave of visual content, a volunteer initiative emerged seeking to rehabilitate these prisons, “turn them into positive places.” We have seen projects to paint the walls, to paint murals in death cells, in a symbolic attempt to bring life back to these places. 

These attempts raise fundamental problems. These prisons are not merely buildings that can be beautified or repurposed, gradually replaced with a new version of reality that is more acceptable and less disturbing. They are witnesses to tragedies that should not be effaced by a new coat of paint. 

The idea of transforming sites of oppression into “hopeful” spaces without any serious, real documentation process, or without preserving the collective memory of what happened inside them, is clearly dangerous. It is nothing more than a new form of unintended denial. Instead of these prisons remaining as witnesses to atrocities, traces of them are gradually, unconsciously erased, potentially obscuring the crimes committed there.

History is not confronted through beautification, but through recognition. The place is not merely a static space, but part of the system of power that produced it and of a broader narrative that must be preserved from distortion or disappearance. 

From prisons to service centers: Between necessity and the reproduction of forgetting, what should be done? 

Political sociology puts forward the concept of “memory of place” as a component of collective identity. In this understanding, buildings cannot be separated from their historical roles. A space that was once a center of violence cannot be treated as a mere architectural structure to be repurposed. 

Can a building that was a symbol of oppression become a place that provides services to citizens without emptying it of its memory? Around the world, strategies for dealing with sites of oppression have been an essential part of transitional justice projects. These sites are historical witnesses to atrocities committed within them that must not be erased.

In some countries, the sites of violations have not been treated as places closed off from their past. Instead, they have been made into educational spaces that host guided tours and tell visitors the full story. These sites allow visitors to understand the historical context and the crimes that took place there with the aim of raising awareness and preventing atrocities from being repeated. In this way, the very place becomes a tool of collective memory, a weapon against forgetting, not just a site for visual exploitation or consumption.

The Auschwitz concentration camp in Poland became a museum commemorating the victims of the Holocaust. Tuol Sleng in Cambodia became a center for documenting the crimes of the Khmer Rouge. South Africa’s Robben Island is another example, used to detain political opponents—including Nelson Mandela—during the Apartheid regime. With the fall of Apartheid, the history of this place was not forgotten; instead, it became a World Heritage Site and museum chronicling the detainees’ suffering and struggle. These places were not viewed as spaces that could be removed or concealed, but as part of the responsibility of historical recognition. 

If converting prisons and detention centers into service centers is unavoidable due to their large number, clear controls must be put in place to preserve memory, take documentation into account and prevent these spaces from being recycled in a bureaucratic context that erases their original meaning. The place should not be reduced to just another “administrative center,” but remain a witness to the crimes committed within it. 

This could look like dedicating sections within these buildings to documentary exhibition, preserving testimonies of survivors and providing a clear record of the atrocities. The place would remain a witness to what happened, rather than becoming a mere government office that ignores what it was in its recent history. 

Transforming sites of oppression into spaces with new functions—without acknowledging their past—reproduces the same mechanisms upon which oppressive power was built: reshaping reality according to a new narrative, one where violence is not directly erased but reabsorbed, its history deconstructed within comfortable administrative patterns, moving it from being part of collective memory to a mere architectural element to be put to use.

Dealing with sites of oppression is not just an administrative or technical decision. It is a political and ethical position, linked to the responsibility of recognition. Ignoring crimes or neutralizing the sites where they occurred does not eliminate their impact, but reshapes it in more dangerous ways. Forgetting becomes a tool for the continuation of injustice, taking the place of a moment of confrontation and correction. 

Between documentation and exploitation: The need for an ethical discussion

Documenting the history of these prisons is a historical and ethical imperative, especially as some voices seek to deny or distort what happened there. However, there is a vast difference between responsible documentation and exploitation. 

One preserves the true story of the victims, and is not limited to a simple recording of facts. It carries within it a commitment to the victims, restoring consideration of their experiences through honest narratives that confront forgetting, denial and distortion. 

The other uses these places as a visual backdrop for content or celebration solely aimed at attracting attention. It empties them of their meaning and turns them into mere scenes for consumption, with no regard for the sanctity of these sites or the heavy history they hold. 

We need a real ethical debate on how to approach these spaces, not only from the perspective of memory, but also from the angle of justice and fairness. Should they remain as they are, witnesses to what happened, without cosmetic interventions, exhibitionist uses or repurposing that strips them of their meaning? Or are there ways they can be turned into documentary museums that reflect the reality of the experience detainees went through, as many communities that have faced the legacy of organized violence have done? 

Mere symbolic documentation is not enough. There must be a clear commitment to ethical controls that determine how these spaces are dealt with. They should not become tourist attractions that are exploited to arouse curiosity, or theaters for creating content that empties them of their true meaning. A clear code of conduct should be established to govern how these places are filmed, prohibiting them from being treated as showy backdrops and imposing a framework that considers the dignity of victims and provides conditions to ensure the production of responsible content that serves documentation and justice, rather than transient visual consumption. 

The answer to these questions lies not only in the choice between documenting and ignoring, but in rethinking the meaning of collective memory itself, and how we can do justice to the past without making it an item for passing consumption. 

Do we have the ability to reproduce a memory that respects the victims and does justice to the truth? Or will these prisons become sterilized spaces, emptied of their original narratives, where the past is equated with the present and documentation becomes another scene of denial? 

A heavy legacy

The way we choose to deal with these prisons reflects how we view the past and prepare for the future. Are we capable of recognizing the crimes that were committed and working to ensure they are not repeated? Or are we rushing—consciously or unconsciously—towards erasing their traces through superficial beautification or visual exploitation that turns the tragedy into a mere backdrop? 

This issue requires a multidimensional approach that goes beyond the surface. It is not enough to document what happened. It must be complemented by legal and institutional efforts to ensure accountability for those responsible for these crimes, so that memory does not become a symbolic process disconnected from actual justice. 

Preserving these prisons as witnesses to history is an integral part of the path towards justice, as proven by the experiences of countries that have faced similar legacies. Negotiating the legacy of prisons and security branches that witnessed atrocities is not just a matter of urban planning, media or immediate decisions, but rather a collective moral responsibility. 

How do we tell our history? How do we preserve the memory of those who suffered within these walls? These questions should remain at the heart of any decision regarding the fate of these prisons, so that injustice is not reproduced, not even indirectly. 

Memory is not a luxury; it is the last bulwark against repeating the past. It is the space that determines whether we seek justice for the victims or recycle their tragedies into more palatable—but no less dangerous—forms.

This article was originally published in Arabic and translated into English by Mateo Nelson.