As morning light spreads across the Mediterranean, Tartus awakens slowly, its quiet streets carrying the weight of struggle and resilience. Near the shoreline, a small wooden kiosk stands as a peaceful refuge — a place where visitors can pause, read, and find calm amid chaos. This humble space, known as Wisdom Seller, was created by 32-year-old Mohamed Zaher, whose experiences of war inspired him to rekindle the joy of reading in a country where books have become rare. For Zaher, turning the pages of a book became a pathway to healing and renewal.
In a country where decades of conflict have shattered infrastructure, silenced public life, and turned once-thriving cultural institutions into ruins, the kiosk stands as a fragile but potent symbol: what if literature could help heal a wounded nation?
A Quiet Revolution Under Open Skies
Zaher launched the kiosk in November 2021. From day one, he framed it as more than a bookshop. The walls are lined with some 2,000 volumes, both inside and out, and on a small sign he invites passersby: read at least 15 pages, pick a book, and enjoy a free cup of coffee.
For 12-year-old Amr Ali, one of the kiosk’s youngest regulars, the space became more than a reading spot — it became rhythm. “I’m not here for the coffee,” he says, “but for the pleasure of reading.” Others, like Ghada Aizouqi, had drifted away from the habits of their youth.
The rising cost of books, the collapse of bookstores, and the dwindling printing industry left many disconnected. Ghada explains that the tactile comfort of a printed book had grown remote — until the kiosk reawakened a habit of reading.
A young visitor, Ali Shaqra, discovered that the kiosk offered far more than shelves of books—it created a sense of belonging. It was here that he first met his future wife, their shared love of reading bringing them together. For him, the kiosk became a place of learning, connection, and genuine community spirit.
But Kafkaesque realities shadow every page. Syria’s economy is ravaged; the Syrian pound has lost nearly 99 % of its value, and inflation has soared into triple digits. The cost of paper and printing has soared by 500 % in recent years. Many bookstores and publishing houses — once pillars of Syria’s cultural life — have folded.
Zaher tries to keep the kiosk afloat through small donations — he needs roughly US $200 a month for supplies, coffee, and maintenance. Readers are encouraged to leave books behind if they take one — a modest, organic circulation system. Around 20,000 visitors have stopped by since its inception.
Echoes From The Underground Libraries Of War
Wisdom Seller’s open-air charm recalls older, hushed acts of literary resistance. During the Syrian war, besieged towns nurtured clandestine libraries beneath rubble.
In Daraya, for example, students and residents salvaged thousands of books from bombed homes and stored them underground. Between 2012 and 2016, the library sheltered an estimated 14,000 volumes — a refuge of books amid siege and starvation. The library was eventually discovered, looted, and dismantled, but its memory lingers.
Journalists chronicling rebel librarians in Syria describe how, amid ceasefires, fighters swapped books, held book exchanges, and built miniature libraries even on the frontlines. One militant told reporters, “Reading is a diversion, it keeps us alive. Reading reminds us that we’re human.” In Daraya, fighters carried books into foxholes and during quiet lulls read together.
That lineage—books in defiance, literature in resistance—forms the deeper soil from which the kiosk grows.
A Shifting Cultural Landscape
Zaher’s kiosk sits in Tartus, a coastal city spared much of the direct violence of Syria’s conflict, but still vulnerable to economic collapse. Around him, Syria’s publishing world fights for survival. In recent years, many publishers shut down, and the few that remain rely on foreign exhibitions and diaspora networks.
But beyond collapse, there’s stirrings of revival. In the post-Assad era, previously banned books are resurfacing in Damascus storefronts. Following regime collapse, shelves once under strict censorship are now opening to political and controversial works. A renewed reading boom has begun to ripple through the capital.
In Damascus, cafés like Rawda — once tightly watched — are now informal salons for returning intellectuals and writers, where ideas, memory, and culture are tentatively reassembled. In that same climate, kiosks, pop-up libraries, and itinerant booksellers are slowly reclaiming public space for literature.
Beyond Transactions: Restoring Spirit
Standing in a corridor of books with a cup of coffee in one hand, Zaher doesn’t treat readers as customers — but as companions. “We’re not selling,” he says. “We’re offering space.” Every disposition toward community transforms a simple transaction into a human connection.
There is no grand architecture here — no vaulted ceilings, no marble halls. But inside those battered pages, in the exchange of words, the kiosk carries an alchemy: memory meets imagination, grief meets possibility.
One small boy leans forward, turning the next page. An older woman gestures to a quote on the wall. Strangers greet each other by name. The space ripples outward, beyond the kiosk, into something more.
In a society fractured by displacement, surveillance, censorship, and war, Wisdom Seller is an act of reclamation. It insists: stories still matter. Minds still yearn. Hope is not just remembered — reactivated.
Into The Next Chapter
When asked what he would tell someone who thinks books are a luxury in a battered country, Zaher paused. Then he said: “When everything is destroyed—houses, roads, trust—the one thing that remains is your mind. And that you must feed.”
So he feeds it one book at a time, one reader at a time, one moment of quiet reflection in a country that has forgotten what peace feels like.
Because in the long night, literature is more than solace — it is a compass back toward ourselves.
Sources:
PBS
Al Fanar Media
Positive News
