The first tree Ahmed Abu Mariam planted was for his daughter. The soil was dry that year, cracked from war and the weight of grief, but he dug deep anyway, not just for roots, but for hope. “I asked God to help me plant more,” he said. “Not one or two. Millions.” The silence of the hills above Latakia, once carpeted with dense forests of cedar and aromatic bay laurel, today is louder than the wind. Birds that once called this place home are often gone. Fires have scorched the undergro...
