THE exhausted-looking man stood on the Lebanese side of the Masnaa border crossing and turned his back on Syria as he scanned cars parked along the hilly road that marks the most direct route from Beirut to the Syrian capital of Damascus.
He had left his home in Damascus with his family because they are Shia and feared the Sunni Islamists who had toppled former president Bashar al-Assad.
"It is chaos," the man said, speaking on condition of anonymity for fear of retaliation.
"It was not safe for us, the streets are filled with children carrying weapons."
Although international attention has mostly focused on the millions of Syrian refugees who might return to their home country now that more than 50 years of brutal Assad family rule is over, not everyone feels welcome in the new Syria.
Thousands of mainly Shia Muslims have fled to Lebanon since rebel forces ousted Assad on Dec 8, according to a senior Lebanese security official.
This despite the fact that Hayat Tahrir al-Sham — the Sunni Islamist group which has emerged as the dominant rebel force — has promised protection to minority faiths.
Syria's nearly 14-year civil war became sectarian as Assad, from the minority Alawite faith, mobilised regional Shia allies, including Lebanese, Iraqi, and Iranian forces, to help him fight mostly Sunni rebels.
But while thousands in Syria are delighted by the fall of Assad — with people thronging the streets, dancing and chanting after Friday prayers last week — others are more reticent and wonder what the future holds.
Shias make up around a tenth of the population, which stood at 23 million before the war began.
Some of them fled Damascus after receiving threats, both in person and on social media.
Other Syrians at the Masnaa crossing said they were leaving due to the dire state of the economy and services after years of war.
Gross domestic product more than halved between 2010 and 2020, according to the World Bank.
Today, as well as hundreds of thousands of lives taken by the war, around 12 million people have been displaced and 16.7 million need help just to survive.
Schools and hospitals have been destroyed and the land scarred by both conflict and climate change.
Majed Mazinco, who was waiting for transport at the border, said he was going back to his home in the countryside outside Damascus for the first time in 15 years.
But the 31-year-old labourer was also worried about economic conditions. He had saved US$200 to fund his return, but was not sure how long that would last if he could not find a job.
"I don't care much for Bashar or anyone else," he said.
"I just want to live and sleep in peace. I do not want any problems."
If he does not find a job before his money is spent, he plans to go back to Lebanon.
Nineteen-year-old Syrian Hasan Nawas, born in Lebanon, had long dreamt of praying in the famed Umayyad Mosque in Damascus. Now, he finally has a chance to do so, he said.
He planned to join his parents and siblings in the capital, and with one dream conquered, his sights would be set on another.
"I am going to open a furniture shop in Damascus," he said, before running to the taxi that would take him home, all thoughts of his lost luggage evaporating in his excitement.
But heading the other way was Sahar Assad, 23, a Syrian mother of two who has already seen much upheaval.
Assad left Syria during its civil war, but then fled her new home in Beirut's southern suburbs seven months ago to escape the Israel-Hizbollah war and returned to Damascus.
With the conflict in Lebanon winding down, she said it was time to get her children, who were sitting next to her, back into school.
"There are no schools there," she said, pointing to Syria.
She is also worried about her husband, who stayed in Beirut despite the bombs rather than risk being conscripted into Assad's army. They have no immediate plans to return full-time to Syria.
"For now, we wait (to see) what happens."
*The writer is from Reuters
*The views expressed in this article are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect those of the New Straits Times