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Manaf Tlass... When the Stance Is More Conveying Than the Image
By Politician and Writer: Ahmed Mansour
Manaf Tlass has not sought a certificate of innocence from anyone, nor has he tried to polish his image. The man who voluntarily left power when being close to it was a gain, does not need to justify himself before those who do not understand the meaning of moral defection. His declared، his national project, and his firm stance against dependence and corruption are sufficient to define who he is.
In a world governed by images and where facts are often reduced to fleeting moments, recently a set of old photos surfaced showing the former Syrian regime’s President Bashar al-Assad along with some close associates and others still loyal to him. Among them is Brigadier Engineer and defected Manaf Tlass, in a trip that dates back more than 28 years, before the outbreak of the Syrian revolution. As is usual in a space filled with tension and division, these photos turned into material for insult, interpretation, and doubt about intentions, ignoring the fact that a stance is not measured by what was captured more than twenty years ago, but by what the person formulated through action when the moment of testing came.
Manaf Tlass was part of a system he grew up within, aware of its details, strengths, and weaknesses. However, he was also among the first to realize that this system had reached a stage of moral and political erosion that made its remaining a burden on both the state and society. When the spark of the Syrian revolution ignited, he did not hesitate to take a clear, unmistakable : allegiance to society, not to authority; to the Syrian person, not to the ruling structure that had completely lost its compass.
The defection announced by Tlass was not just a military step, but an ethical and political reflecting a conscious rejection of a system built on fear, favoritism, and corruption. He did not bargain, nor did he retreat from his stance, nor seek a foothold in an opposition mired in internal conflicts and external dependencies. Instead, he chose a more arduous path: silent work to craft a cohesive national vision for Syria after the war—a state founded on justice, citizenship, and the rule of law.
Tlass chose to be where he should be: at an equal distance from the oppressed society and legitimate demands, close to the people, and far from narrow agendas. When the opposition scene deteriorated into a space of posturing and conflicting loyalties, he turned to serious work to formulate a national vision that would save what remains of Syrian aspirations. Along with a group of officers, politicians, thinkers, media figures, and activists, he worked on outlining a project aimed at stopping the Syrian bloodshed and building a new Syria beyond Assad and his extinct gang, the opposition, and their narrow interests.
While many sank into the maze of slogans and positions, Tlass remained steadfast in his principled stance, believing that change is not made from abroad nor imposed from the top of political tables, but built on a collective awareness capable of overcoming hatred and bearing responsibility for the future. From this perspective, his path can only be understood in its broader context: a man who adhered to values rather than positions, and to a national project rather than an alternative authority.
The moral judgment of individuals based on photos taken years before the revolution is political and intellectual naivety and denial of history. The true value of a person is measured by their when principles clash with interests, not by their situation in a time when there was no real choice. Syrian experience has proven that only a few had the courage for moral and ideological defection from a system based on fear, and Manaf Tlass was among those few who chose their over their self-interest.
Today, amidst the rubble of destruction and the dispersion of narratives, fairness becomes a national and moral duty. The man who refused to become part of the machine of repression and also refused to become a tool in the hands of a fragmented opposition deserves to be viewed through the lens of rather than superficial image. In the end, men are not measured by who they were, but by what they chose to be when silence became betrayal.
Manaf Tlass chose to stand with a nation seeking its salvation, not with a regime that has lost its legitimacy nor with an opposition that has lost its compass. He chose to stand on the side of principle, where no voice is louder than conscience. Only then does the stance become more conveying than the image, the memory purer than distortion, and history fairer than what those hurriedly reading it might think.
