Each evening, as the sun slips behind the hills of As-Sweida, my father heads to the rooftop with a kettle, a handful of herbs, and whatever scraps of flammable matter he’s managed to gather.

The gas ran out long ago; another casualty of the silence that followed the unrest. But his love for tea is unwavering, almost sacred. No matter the weight of scarcity, he lights a fire and calls us, his family, to surround him for his daily ritual.