Armed with bags of fireworks and only a basic understanding of how to use them, Muhammad Sheeb guided a group of fellow revelers to arrange pyrotechnics along a darkened street, eagerly awaiting the wedding convoy.
“They’re coming!” he shouted as a procession of vehicles arrived, led by the bride and groom’s white SUV, beautifully adorned with red roses. The sky above Binnish, a town in northwestern Syria, burst into vibrant explosions of color, while well-wishers enthusiastically waved flares and sparklers.
Syrian weddings are famously boisterous affairs. Music blares, drum beats are thunderous, and women’s ululations fill the air. The wedding procession itself is a lively convoy of honking vehicles weaving through the streets.
For generations, celebratory gunfire has traditionally marked these festivities – a practice that, despite its joyful intent, has regrettably led to occasional injuries or even fatalities from falling bullets.
This tradition of firing weapons into the air wasn’t limited to weddings; it was also a common expression of happiness for milestones like the birth of a child, a graduation, or the return of exiles. Even somber occasions, such as funerals, were sometimes marked this way.
However, the new government, established by the rebels after they overthrew the former Assad dictatorship in December, is actively working to change this practice. Their aim is to enhance security and curb the proliferation of weapons across the region.
This tradition, which might trace its origins to ancient celebrations of military victories, is not unique to Syria.
While it was technically illegal under the previous Assad regime, enforcement was lax, often bypassed by payments to the police. The problem significantly escalated during the nearly 14-year civil war, as an abundance of weapons of all calibers became readily available.
Sometimes, the celebrations took a dangerously extreme turn.
Muhammad Dandar, head of information for a police district in the provincial capital, recounted a wedding in Aleppo Province in 2014 where an attendee shockingly fired a rocket-propelled grenade. In the same year, he witnessed another wedding where a celebrant threw a hand grenade.
Many Syrians are now embracing this shift, viewing it as a much-needed crackdown on a hazardous custom. After years of relentless conflict, there’s a strong desire for guns to remain silent, even during moments of joy.
Now, if a weapon is discharged at a wedding, authorities can confiscate it and issue a $100 fine. Should the gun not be surrendered, a male relative of the groom – perhaps his father or an uncle – can be detained until the firearm is produced.
“We don’t take the groom,” Mr. Dandar noted, acknowledging a degree of leniency.
He recounted a recent incident where a young girl at a wedding was struck in the leg by a stray bullet fired into the air. The shooter was promptly arrested.
Fireworks, once prohibited under the Assad regime due to safety concerns, are now more readily available. Even in the hands of novices, they typically present a far safer alternative to live ammunition.
“This is my first time using fireworks,” admitted Mr. Sheeb, 30, as he handled some flares. “We used to fire rifles into the air, filling the sky with bullets, and almost every time, a few people would get injured,” he explained.
“These don’t injure anyone,” he confidently stated, gesturing toward a box of fireworks, “unless we’ve set them up incorrectly.”
In a small shop on an Aleppo street, Ahmad Zubaeda was busy stacking shelves with fireworks recently. He anticipated they would all be sold out by the end of the week.
Beyond selling fireworks, he also organizes pyrotechnic displays. This past summer, his schedule was almost fully booked every night, he mentioned.
At a wedding this summer in Ariha, a town in northwestern Idlib Province, the groom’s father made a clear request for anyone possessing a gun to put it away.
“The visual spectacle of fireworks is far superior to simply shooting into the air,” he remarked. “We’ve truly transitioned from a period of gunfire to a time of joyous celebrations.”
Safa Jahjah and her fiancé, Yahya Ziwani, issued a similar plea before their August wedding in Binnish.
“We absolutely did not want any shooting,” Ms. Jahjah stated, “because we are just emerging from 14 years of war.”
However, altering ingrained traditions is no easy feat.
As Ms. Jahjah prepared inside her home, the celebrations were already in full swing outside. Men congratulated the groom, danced spiritedly, and enjoyed sweets. The rhythmic drumming echoed throughout the neighborhood.
To accompany the couple’s wedding convoy, friends set off fireworks, illuminating the sky with dazzling colors.
Nevertheless, a few guests disregarded the couple’s wishes. One young man discharged a rifle into the air, and another fired several shots from a handgun.
Inside their flower-adorned vehicle, Ms. Jahjah and Mr. Ziwani nervously worried about the rules being broken.
The groom’s cousin, Mustafa Ziwani, who was orchestrating the wedding festivities, appeared unfazed.
“We’re not afraid,” he declared with a slightly wild grin. “Here in Binnish, we’re men!”
Not long after, at the reception hall, the police made an appearance. The groom’s brothers managed to negotiate, and no one from the party was detained.
The following day, when the groom was supposed to embark on his honeymoon, he was instead required to report to the police station. He was fined $100 and instructed to surrender a rifle. However, Mr. Ziwani, a 25-year-old farmer, did not own such a weapon.
“I had to buy one for $500,” he recounted, “and hand it over.”
