Banknote is not merely neutral paper as it may appear on the surface, nor is it simply an exchange tool whose value is measured solely by what it can buy in the market. Rather, at one of its deepest levels, it is a silent discourse of the state—a complex message directed inward before outward. Through it, the state declares how it sees itself, how it understands its history, and what image it wishes to settle in the consciousness of its citizens. Therefore, examining any new currency should not be limited to the aesthetics of design or the modernity of printing, but must go beyond that to question the symbol, its connotations, and what it invokes or overlooks from memory, humanity, and history.
Nevertheless, the most crucial meaning must be affirmed above all: we pray to God that the value of this currency in the Syrian economy, in people's daily lives, and in its purchasing power will be better than its artistic and symbolic value. Recent and distant history have taught us that currencies are not saved by design, embellishment does not repair an economy, and the true test of any currency lies in its tangible impact on livelihood, not its visual image. However, this realistic understanding does not negate our right to critically examine the symbol, because the symbol—even in moments of economic collapse—remains an active element in shaping public consciousness.
What is striking in the design of the new currency is its almost complete reliance on general natural symbols: plants, fruits, crops. These are beautiful symbols in themselves; they do not provoke anyone, do not embarrass any discourse, do not open confrontational questions, and could be currency for several countries sharing these natural commonalities. Yet this “aesthetic neutrality” raises a deeper question: Is it an intentional simplification to reassure everyone, a lack of mature symbolic vision, or a conscious or unconscious tendency to neutralize civilizational meaning in one of the most important symbols of sovereignty?
For nature, when separated from humanity, becomes a silent landscape. Olives, wheat, cotton, and mulberries, despite their presence in Syrian land, are not exclusively Syrian symbols, nor do they form a civilizational centrality specific to Syria; they are widespread across many geographies, and some did not historically originate in Syria. At this point, the question becomes legitimate: On what basis is the Syrian symbol being diminished in the currency, transformed from a central civilizational symbol into a general natural sign that says little about the humans who made history on this land?
The paradox is that the problem is not in choosing nature, but in the absence of humanity. The Syrian human is absent here—not as an image, but as a historical actor. It is as if the currency says: this is fertile land, but it does not say who planted it, who wove its fabric, who plowed it, or who transformed its raw materials into civilization. Whereas history—as Ibn Khaldun teaches us—is not merely material development, but accumulated human action, produced by hands, minds, and values together.
The symbol could have moved beyond plants to something deeper without being confrontational or ideological. For example, the weaver of brocade—the world's oldest and most expensive fabric made from mulberry—could have been invoked, not as luxurious cloth, but as the memory of a human industry deeply rooted in history, which carried Syria’s name to palaces worldwide. The Syrian farmer could have appeared, not abstract wheat, holding the first sickle in history, bearing witness to the civilization of agriculture and Syria’s human role within it. All the symbols used could have connected hand with labor, human with land, history with daily life, without the need for direct slogans or speeches.
Previously, Syrian currency linked its symbols to antiquities—and despite any observations about this—it clearly said: here is civilization. Today, a further step could have been taken: from stone to human, from silent artifact to living action, from frozen past to moving history. For civilizations are not built by ruins alone, but by the people who built them, protected them, passed them on, and then paid the price for their survival.
This is not a biased reading, nor a final judgment, but a quiet attempt to raise necessary questions about the meaning of symbols in a civilizationally troubled time. Currency, ultimately, is a mirror. And if it reflects excessive neutrality, fear of meaning, or a simplification that empties the symbol of its human essence, then it is our right to question—not to be accused.
Yes, the utmost priority is for the currency to regain its economic value and become a tool of stability, not an additional burden on people. But in parallel, it is no less important to restore its symbolic value as a carrier of identity, not merely colored paper. For Syria is not only a natural landscape, nor a silent land, but a dense human experience. And when humanity is absent from the currency, the question remains open: What image do we wish to fix in consciousness, and what history do we choose to tell in silence?
Ayman Qassem Al-Rifai
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