Renee Davis is a journalist based in Lebanon who has reported for L'Orient Today and other outlets.
In Syria, where nearly 14 years of civil war silenced countless voices, Ronak Ahmad has been resilient. An artist based in Damascus, she has garnered international recognition for her nude sculptures, which explore themes of vulnerability and strength. Yet her art, which faced threats for years under President Bashar al-Assad's authoritarian regime, now must contend with the new rule of Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), the Islamist group that led the lightning offensive that abruptly toppled Assad last month.
"My ability to create my sculptures was already extremely limited under the Assad regime, but now I fear under HTS, I won't be able to create at all," she said in an interview in Damascus. For Ronak, art is more than a profession: It is a lifeline, a means of processing trauma, and a form of resistance. "As artists, especially women, we have no idea what the future will hold" in Syria, she said.
Ronak's sculptures, often bold depictions of the female form, directly confront the conservatism of Syrian society. Under the Assad regime, she faced significant obstacles, from censorship to financial struggles. She fears now, despite Syria's liberation from Assad's brutal rule, that HTS has introduced a new and more dangerous element, with its roots as an al-Qaida offshoot. Under the group's jihadist ideology, her art could be considered not just taboo but blasphemous—and a direct challenge to its authority.
Art is a way to process the trauma we've endured and to imagine a better future. It's also a way to defy those who want to erase our voices.
- Ronak Ahmad
"Whatever happens, we keep on going," Ronak said with determination. This view is evident in her sculptures, which often center on the human head, to symbolize the sanctity of thought. "Through all the troubles we went through, what I cared about was to keep my thoughts and the way of thinking that I have intact, to not let anything affect me," she said.
Ronak's journey as a female artist in Syria has been fraught for years. "In Syria, being a woman and an artist is already a challenge," she insisted. "But when you add the element of creating nude sculptures, the pressure intensifies. It's not just society but the authorities and now extremist groups like HTS that want to silence us."
Her decision to focus on nude sculptures, in her words, stems from a desire to explore themes of vulnerability, strength and humanity. "My work is not about provocation for its own sake," Ronak said. "It's about expressing the universal human experience. The body is a canvas of emotion, struggle and triumph."

Despite the cultural taboo in Syria surrounding nudity, Ronak has found solace in her art, which she describes as both cathartic and empowering. "Art is a way to process the trauma we've endured and to imagine a better future," she said. "It's also a way to defy those who want to erase our voices."
Ronak's work extends beyond her personal expression. She has also been deeply involved in using art as a form of therapy for others. "Ex-prisoners, people with disabilities or those who were affected by the war can learn arts like drawing, painting or sculpting," she explained. "It gives them a goal, a reason to live."
Her workshop in Damascus has become a sanctuary for individuals seeking healing through creativity. "I either train kids, learn from them or teach them," she said. "We work on sculpting bronze, pouring and other techniques. It's about growing the idea of art in this place and showing that it can be a form of healing."
Art is resistance. It's a way to say that we're still here, that we won't be silenced.
- Ronak Ahmad
For her, the act of creating is intertwined with the act of surviving. "Life slows work down because of financial problems or family issues," she admitted. "But even if we lose a lot, we keep going. Art is a way to keep our thoughts and identity alive."
"In my art, I try to put everything that happened in my life," she added. "The troubles we've been through, the resilience we've shown—it's all there. But now, with HTS, it feels like even that small freedom is slipping away." The struggle for cultural preservation in the new Syria taking shape after Assad's fall is not just about protecting individual artists, but about safeguarding the identity and history of a nation. "Art is resistance," Ronak said. "It's a way to say that we're still here, that we won't be silenced."

Despite the uncertainty in Syria today, Ronak remains hopeful. "We have many sculptures, but life is life," she said. "Sometimes you have to work other jobs to make ends meet. But the work itself, the act of creating, is what keeps us going." Her vision for the future includes a world where Syrian artists can create without fear, where art is celebrated rather than condemned. "I've contacted friends abroad," she said. "I told them, 'We need you. Come back and help us rebuild.'"
Other artists in Syria, including musicians, are similarly wary of Syria's new Islamist rulers and the fate of artistic freedom in the country. As one Syrian musician, Wajd Khair, told the BBC recently, "We have to be more bold." He wouldn't keep a low profile anymore, like he had throughout the brutal years of the civil war. "We have to be heard. We have to let all the people know that we are here. We exist."
It is a sentiment echoed by Ronak. "Art is how we process our pain and imagine a better future," she said. "No matter what happens, we'll keep creating. That's something no one can take away from us."