Fares al-Dhahabi
While watching the important interview conducted by journalist and novelist Ibrahim al-Jabin with researcher and historian Dr. Ahmad al-Ibish on the programme Testimony for History, broadcast on Syria TV, a historical detail caught my attention and deserved further reflection and investigation. Al-Ibish discussed the entry of French forces into Damascus in 1920 and pointed out that the general who entered the city following the Battle of Maysalun was Mariano Goybet, contrary to the widely circulated account that associates the entry into Damascus with General Henri Gouraud.
This information aroused my curiosity and prompted me to revisit several historical sources, particularly since the image of Gouraud standing beside the mausoleum of Saladin, along with the phrase attributed to him, “We have returned, Saladin,” has occupied a prominent place in Syrian and Arab collective memory.
The significance of what Dr. al-Ibish raised lies in the fact that historical narratives may preserve the name of the highest political and military commander while overlooking the officers who carried out operations on the ground. Over time, events that took place on different days become intertwined and are transformed into a single scene repeated in books, articles and everyday conversations. This appears to be what happened with the French entry into Damascus in the summer of 1920.
To return to the facts, we must begin with the Battle of Maysalun on 24 July 1920, when the Syrian army, led by Minister of War Yusuf al-Azma, confronted French forces advancing towards the capital. The military balance clearly favoured the French, who possessed heavy artillery, modern equipment and well-trained units. The battle ended with al-Azma’s death and the withdrawal of Syrian forces, opening the way for the French army to enter Damascus the following day.
General Mariano Goybet was commander of the Third Division of the French Army of the Levant and led the forces that advanced through Maysalun towards Damascus. On 25 July, his units entered the city, marking the beginning of a new chapter in Syria’s history following the collapse of Faisal’s rule. Gouraud, meanwhile, held the position of French High Commissioner and supreme commander of French forces in the Levant, overseeing military operations and political decisions from his headquarters in Aley, Lebanon.
A telegram sent by Gouraud from Aley on 26 July 1920 provides important evidence of the sequence of events. In it, he informed the French authorities that the troops had entered Damascus the previous afternoon and noted that the new government had appeared before General Goybet, who addressed its members on his behalf. This telegram is particularly significant because it was sent by Gouraud himself and clarifies the respective positions of the two men during those decisive days.
The minutes of the French Senate session held on 28 July 1920 further confirm these details, stating that the French forces advancing towards Damascus were under Goybet’s command. At the time, the French government presented the military operation as part of its political justification for intervening in Syria. These justifications reflected the position and colonial interests of the victorious power and must therefore be examined within their historical context.
However, investigating Gouraud’s personal entry into Damascus leads us to another date: 7 August 1920, approximately two weeks after the capital had been occupied. Here, contemporary press coverage becomes particularly important, especially the Damascus newspaper Al-Asima, which published a detailed report on the French general’s visit in its 9 August issue.
Researcher and historian Amr al-Mallah revisited this document in a study examining the widely circulated accounts of Gouraud’s reception in Damascus. According to the newspaper, Gouraud arrived on Saturday, 7 August, at the Hijaz Railway Station by train from Aley. An official reception ceremony was held in the presence of members of the government headed by Alaa al-Din al-Droubi. After arriving, he mounted his horse and proceeded in a procession to al-Muhajireen Palace, which he had chosen as his residence.
These details reveal that Gouraud’s visit took place under political circumstances different from those surrounding the entry of French troops following Maysalun. The new authorities were attempting to consolidate their presence, while the French administration sought to organise its relations with local institutions. That evening, an official banquet was held, attended by Syrian and French officials. During the event, Gouraud delivered a speech addressing the military and political developments that had preceded the fall of Faisal’s rule.
The newspaper Al-Asima preserved the text of this speech in its 12 August 1920 issue. Gouraud spoke about his military decisions and his relationship with Prince Faisal, offering his interpretation of the events that had culminated in French intervention. His speech constitutes an important document for understanding French colonial discourse and the way in which the occupation was presented as a project intended to organise the country and manage its future.
The following day, Sunday, 8 August, Gouraud visited several religious landmarks in Damascus, including the Capuchin Fathers’ monastery in Bab Touma and the Umayyad Mosque. He also visited the site of Saladin’s mausoleum. He left the capital on the morning of Monday, 9 August, heading back to Aley.
This brings us to the story most deeply embedded in popular memory: the phrase allegedly addressed by Gouraud to Saladin at his tomb. The story gained considerable prominence because it encapsulates, in just a few words, the imagined connection between the ancient Crusades and the modern French colonial project. Many have used it to symbolise the continuation of a historical conflict between East and West.
However, British historian James Barr revisited the origins of this account and discovered that the earliest source he could trace attributing the phrase to Gouraud was the book Two Years in the Levant, published in 1952 by French diplomat Gabriel Puaux, more than three decades after the events themselves.
Barr also revisited articles by French journalist Myriam Harry, who had followed the entry of French forces into Damascus and Gouraud’s subsequent visit. In her report, published in the magazine L’Illustration on 11 September 1920, she described Gouraud’s arrival in the vicinity of Saladin’s mausoleum and mentioned that he preferred to sit outside beneath a lemon tree. She had previously visited the mausoleum on another occasion. This contemporary account raises serious questions about the scene that later became firmly established in the public imagination.
Barr suggests that the phrase may originally have been associated with Goybet, who arrived in Damascus before Gouraud. However, he leaves the matter open because there is no direct evidence establishing who actually uttered it. Accordingly, the phrase should be treated as a historical account requiring verification, regardless of how famous it has become or how closely it aligns with the political perceptions formed about that period.
Another story, concerning some Damascenes allegedly pulling Gouraud’s carriage through the city’s streets, was also examined by Amr al-Mallah, who revisited the photographs and press reports accompanying the visit. The documents show that Gouraud arrived by train and then proceeded on horseback, while the story of the carriage being pulled through the streets still requires a reliable contemporary source to establish that it actually happened.
After reviewing this evidence, I believe that the point raised by Dr. Ahmad al-Ibish opens an important door to reassessing that historical period. Goybet was the commander who entered Damascus with the French forces on 25 July, whereas Gouraud visited the city later, on 7 August. Distinguishing between these two events allows for a more accurate understanding of the military and political sequence of events and gives each figure his proper place in the historical record.
Gouraud’s responsibility for the French campaign and its consequences remains clear through his leadership position and military orders, regardless of the date of his personal arrival in the city. Meanwhile, Goybet’s name deserves greater recognition in studies addressing the Battle of Maysalun and the early days of the occupation.
Perhaps the deeper significance of this issue goes beyond correcting a name or identifying a date on the calendar. It concerns the way we write our history and the distance between collective memory and documentary evidence. Collective memory may preserve a powerful image for many years, only for an old newspaper report or a forgotten military document to emerge and rearrange its details.
For this reason, I found Dr. Ahmad al-Ibish’s testimony, and the interview made possible by Ibrahim al-Jabin, an opportunity to revisit what appears to be a simple question: Who entered Damascus in 1920? My research led me to a broader question concerning what we know about that period and the sources upon which our understanding has been built.
Syrian history, with all its conflicts, transformations and painful experiences, deserves such careful reassessments. Every new document and every testimony that encourages us to question what we have long taken for granted offers an opportunity to move closer to the facts that shaped the country’s destiny.
