Can We Really Save Our Ruins? How to Protect Culture When Bombs Are Falling

When I first stood in the shadow of Palmyra’s ancient columns as a child, I didn’t yet understand what they meant. They were grand, yes, timeless in a way only ruins can be. But I didn’t grasp that one day they would stand not just as relics of the past, but as targets. As symbols too dangerous to be left untouched. Years later, when ISIS desecrated Palmyra, I felt that loss like a personal wound. It wasn’t just stone that fell. It was memory, dignity, identity.

That’s the question we must ask today: Can we really protect heritage sites in active conflict zones? And if we can’t protect the walls, can we at least safeguard what they represent?

The destruction of culture during war isn’t accidental. It’s intentional. And in Syria, we’ve witnessed how deeply those scars cut. But with the right strategies, partnerships, and urgency, protection is possible.

Why Cultural Sites Become Targets in the First Place

Cultural heritage is more than architecture. It holds the memory of civilizations, the faith of people, and the rituals that bind generations. And that’s exactly why it’s attacked.

In conflict zones, from Aleppo’s Old City to Mosul’s libraries, armed groups have destroyed heritage sites not out of ignorance, but as deliberate acts of erasure. To conquer a people fully, you don’t just displace their bodies, you sever their memory.

That’s why protective strategies for heritage sites in active conflict zones matter. Not just to historians or archaeologists, but to families, to communities, to the soul of a nation trying to survive.

Documentation Is the First Line of Defense

Before we talk about fences or armed guards, we must talk about documentation. Many Syrian sites that were lost had never been properly catalogued. Floor plans, inscriptions, and oral traditions were scattered or nonexistent.

Today, initiatives like the Syrian Heritage Archive Project and CyArk use 3D scanning, drone footage, and photogrammetry to digitally preserve endangered sites. These tools can’t stop missiles, but they can preserve knowledge that will be essential for future restoration.

When I wrote Palmyre pour toujours, it was, in part, an act of documentation. A literary record of what we risk losing forever. Words, after all, can be blueprints too.

Community-Based Protection- The Power of Local Guardians

In the chaos of war, it’s often local residents, not international institutions, who step in first. I’ve heard stories of Syrians hiding manuscripts in underground cellars, of imams covering mosaics with tarpaulin, of children learning stories about ancient buildings their parents once visited.

These community-led efforts are often invisible to the global eye, but they are heroic. When formal protections fail, people become the walls. That’s why any real protective strategies for heritage sites in active conflict zones must start with local communities.

Training and empowering locals, through conservation workshops, emergency response kits, and cultural literacy programs, is more effective than waiting for foreign aid that may never arrive.

International Conventions Help, but Only If They’re Enforced

You may have heard of the Hague Convention or UNESCO’s Blue Shield initiative. These treaties outline how cultural property should be protected during armed conflict. But in reality, their enforcement is weak.

In Syria, countless UNESCO World Heritage sites have been damaged or obliterated despite being listed. When the stakes are political or military, ruins rarely rank high.

Still, these frameworks are not useless. They provide legal avenues for post-war restitution and hold some symbolic power. What’s needed is stronger enforcement mechanisms and real-time monitoring.

We must pressure global institutions to treat protective strategies for heritage sites in active conflict zones with the same seriousness as humanitarian relief. After all, isn’t culture a form of humanity too?

Technology and Innovation- Turning Satellites into Safeguards

Technology can’t prevent bombs, but it can track damage and guide response. Satellites now allow us to detect changes in landscapes. AI can flag shifts that may indicate looting or illegal construction. Mobile apps can crowdsource local reports in real time.

One day, maybe we’ll have drone-delivered protection kits. Maybe sensors will alert communities when heritage zones are at risk. This isn’t science fiction. It’s where innovation meets preservation.

But for these tools to matter, we must invest in them. Not as novelties, but as necessities. Because protective strategies for heritage sites in active conflict zones can no longer rely on luck or post-war grief. They must be proactive, not reactive.

Literature and Media- Preserving What the Eye Can’t See

Sometimes, a statue can be rebuilt. But the way a grandmother described its shadow at dusk? That detail, if lost, is irreplaceable.

That’s where literature comes in. Stories, memoirs, novels, they store the emotional architecture of a place. My own writing is often an attempt to reconstruct what war has dismantled. To keep a city alive, even when its walls have fallen.

That’s why I believe every artist, writer, and filmmaker documenting Syria is part of the preservation effort. They are cultural architects, building memory when stone cannot.

Looking Ahead: A Call for Long-Term Cultural Protection Plans

Once the dust settles, nations rush to rebuild bridges and water systems. But cultural sites? They’re often left to decay.

What we need are long-term protection strategies that survive political turnover. This includes:

• Heritage zones incorporated into ceasefire agreements
• Cultural advisors in reconstruction councils
• Emergency funding for salvage operations
• Curriculum in refugee education that includes cultural history

Because if we rebuild Syria’s streets but forget her soul, what have we really saved?

Conclusion

I don’t believe ruins must be left in ruins. I believe they can be reborn, not only in stone, but in memory, in books, in the imagination of a child painting her grandfather’s mosque.

The work of cultural protection is slow, fragile, and often underfunded. But it is sacred work. It tells the world: “We were here. We still are.”

Protective strategies for heritage sites in active conflict zones are not just about ancient stones. They’re about the living breath of a people who refuse to be erased. And that, I believe, is a legacy worth preserving.