Alawites are living through a soft war in Damascus

After much hesitation, and under the pressures of my own business – which is unrelated to journalism – I began my journey in search of a new opportunity. I didn’t have to wait long before a commercial company that had advertised a need for a public relations employee reached out to me. I successfully passed the initial interview with the HR department, and, as usual, I was scheduled to meet with the manager.

The meeting began in a formal, professional tone, which gradually gave way to a friendly atmosphere after we reached an agreeable framework for the job. We were just about to sign the contract.

To belong to a particular sect means that your 54th great-grandfather, thirteen centuries ago, chose to side with someone – against his brother or against another rival – in a power struggle over a throne or position of power, nothing more.

The company manager noted that I was pronouncing the interdentals carefully – even though I was speaking in a neutral dialect close to the Damascene accent. I told him I was a journalist, but when I pronounced the Arabic letter qaf a certain way, he couldn’t help himself, hitting me with a question that Syrians are used to hearing only indirectly – usually framed more subtly as, ‘Where are you from?’ 

This time, however, the manager aimed both (metaphorical) barrels at me directly and asked: “What’s your sect? Are you Alawite?”

Silence fell. I felt a deeply “national” kind of humiliation – one I hadn’t experienced since I was imprisoned in the notorious Palestine Branch prison.

I stood up in protest at the question and told him that I wasn’t Alawite, but rather from another minority. That’s when I realized he lumps the entire “adas” group into a single category. “Adas,” which is the Arabic word for ‘lentils,’ is a kind of code word used in some Syrian cities to refer to the three minority sects: Alawite, Druze, and Ismaili.

The manager said it would be “better for business” if the employee were a native of Damascus. I politely responded, “Well, for my sake, it would be better if the employer were ‘Syrian.’” Then I left the company, filled with sadness – not over the job, of course, but for the country and what it has come to.

On my way back home, one question kept circling in my mind: What does it mean to belong to a particular sect?

The manager said it would be “better for business” if the employee were a native of Damascus. I politely responded, “Well, for my sake, it would be better if the employer were ‘Syrian.’” Then I left the company, filled with sadness – not over the job, of course, but for the country and what it has come to.

I came up with many answers, but the most truthful one was this: to belong to a particular sect means that your 54th great-grandfather, thirteen centuries ago, chose to side with someone – against his brother or against another rival – in a power struggle over a throne or position of power, nothing more. And upon that choice, entire histories, narratives, victimization, and injustices were built, and continue to be built to this day.

A soft war

The internal situation in Syria became increasingly tense after the fall of the regime, the dissolution of the army, and a wave of layoffs that particularly targeted members of the Alawite sect in many state institutions. Gradually, signs of a soft demographic war began to emerge – one that targets minorities in Damascus, especially the Alawites. 

It started with hostile, gloating looks toward them, supported by ongoing incitement campaigns waged on Facebook. The manifestations of this war include calls to dismiss Alawite employees from the private sector, either directly by employers or through unjustified provocations by some of their colleagues. Then, matters escalated to a different kind of mobilization calling for their total “expulsion” from the capital.

We are, of course, talking about actual cases that have been observed firsthand, and it is their increasing prevalence and frequency that warrants writing about them. We don’t believe we need to state the obvious: this is not a generalization, nor does this narrative suggest that all Syrians have turned into human monsters. But the phenomenon does exist — and to a considerable degree – and it’s one that may very much continue to grow.

The restaurant owner emphasized that no job applications should be accepted from “the Germans.” Rami laughed, thinking the man thought actual German nationals might apply for jobs in Syria. “By ‘the Germans,’ I mean the Alawites, and I don’t want you to accept job applications from any other minorities either.”

Beware of “the Germans”

Chef Rami, 42, a restaurant manager in the Damascus countryside, was dismissed from his job after the events in Jaramana, due to sectarian reasons. Rami is Druze. 

During his search for a new job, he decided to avoid speaking in his native dialect and to hide his “sectarian affiliation.” The tragic irony is that Rami is, in fact, an atheist – but his name, as he described it, is a “carrier of certain sects” in Syria. His place of birth and civil registration on his ID was Aleppo (due to his father’s work transfer years ago), which helped him land a new job quickly, as he was appointed food services manager for a chain of restaurants being opened in Damascus.

He agreed on the basics of the job with the restaurant owner, who had recently returned from Turkey. During the meeting, the owner emphasized one major condition: no job applications should be accepted from “the Germans.”

Rami laughed, thinking it was just a “manager’s joke” he should play along with. But when he saw the manager’s serious expression, he assumed the man was still drunk on victory and thought actual German nationals might apply for jobs. 

But then the owner clarified: “By ‘the Germans,’ I mean the Alawites. I also don’t want you to accept job applications from any other minorities either.”

The term “the Germans” is an old Syrian local nickname for Alawites, originally attributed to them because of their support for the Axis powers during World War II (1939–1945) and their collaboration with the Vichy government forces allied with the Germans (1940–1941) in Syria. The term “the Germans” became a kind of socially “polite” euphemism when referring to Alawites. May that kind of politeness now rest in peace.

Rami says he understands the game now. He certainly doesn’t think that way himself, which is why he’s started encouraging hotel staff he knew from his previous jobs to apply for positions with them. But he always makes sure to advise them not to speak in their regional or provincial dialects and to be careful not to reveal their hometowns. As for the women, he tells them to wear the hijab “in the local Sunni style” and speak in neutral, standardized Syrian dialect with their coworkers.

Through this approach, Rami is determined, in his role as catering manager, to build a professional team based purely on merit and professional standards, as he puts it, rather than on tribal norms brought back to life from the depths of the Middle Ages.

The term “the Germans” is an old Syrian local nickname for Alawites, originally attributed to them because of their support for the Axis powers during World War II (1939–1945) and their collaboration with the Vichy government forces allied with the Germans (1940–1941) in Syria. The term “the Germans” became a kind of socially “polite” euphemism when referring to Alawites – may that kind of politeness now rest in peace.

At that Damascus café where I usually sit waiting for electricity to charge my laptop and write these journalistic reports, it so happened that I was working on a draft of this very piece when I got up to use the bathroom. I remember hearing a woman on the phone near the cleaning supplies room. I didn’t pay much attention – it seemed perfectly ordinary. 

When I exited, I found the woman was waiting for me, and after I told her “May God give you strength, sister” in greeting, she quietly and politely asked me not to tell anyone I’d heard her. Honestly, I didn’t understand what she meant at first. I asked her what was wrong. She said she had been speaking to her daughter and had gotten emotional and forgotten to hide her accent. She explained that the café owner thinks she’s Sunni, not Alawite, and if he discovers the truth, he’ll fire her from her relatively new job cleaning the bathrooms.

I tried to reassure her, jokingly saying, “No worries at all. Minorities should stick together,” and I asked for her phone number so we could continue the conversation. Later, in a phone call, she told me that her husband, in his fifties, had been in the military. After the regime fell, he was left without work. All his attempts to find something else had failed, since he didn’t have another trade. So she was forced to take this job to cover even a small part of their household expenses, especially since their two daughters are studying at Damascus University.

“After we were evicted from the house we’d been living in, which was part of military housing, we moved temporarily into my brother’s home,” shared Ghada, 45. “We’re seriously considering relocating to our village in rural Hama, but we’re waiting for the security situation to stabilize in the Alawite villages, because the killings haven’t stopped yet.”

The woman quietly asked me not to tell anyone I’d heard her speak. I didn’t understand what she meant, but then she said she had been speaking to her daughter on the phone and had forgotten to hide her accent. She explained that the café owner thinks she’s Sunni, not Alawite, and if he finds out the truth, he’ll fire her from her relatively new job cleaning the bathrooms.

Echoes from the other side

I walked through the Damascene neighborhoods, thinking of a polite way to ask shop owners, tradespeople, and factory managers the question: If an Alawite employee came to you for a job, would you hire him?

I hesitated. No matter how the question is worded, its content goes against every standard of decency, ethics, citizenship, and everything we were raised to value as Syrians.

But in the end, I saw no choice but to ask it plainly, in its simplest form – bluntly, without embellishment or euphemism, just like the scenes and behaviors we’re witnessing today.

As my bad luck would have it, my first encounter was with the owner of a cotton clothing shop in the Medhat Basha Souq.

I saw no choice but to ask plainly, “If an Alawite employee came to you for a job, would you hire him?” In its simplest form – bluntly, without embellishment or euphemism, just like the scenes and behaviors we’re witnessing today.

After greeting and exchanging pleasantries, I introduced myself and asked the 70-something-year-old man my question. I won’t write down his exact words, but he ended his scolding with a disapproving question: “Don’t you have any shame?”

‘This land is large enough for all of us, and human beings are inherently good – especially in the Levant. What we’re seeing and hearing now is nothing but a storm in a teacup; one that will pass, as others have before it. That’s the course of history, and we have no choice but to accept it,” said the Hajj. 

“This land has seen different invaders, peoples, and shapes and colors of all types come and go, but the blessed Levant has remained, throughout all of this, a haven and refuge for those who love. As for us, we are the Levantine Muslims, and Levantine Islam is a tolerant, moderate, constructive Islam – one that has no place for extremism or destructive ideologies, no matter how hard others may try. 

“And the Sunnis of Syria (if we may generalize by referring to them as a single bloc) are innocent of these actions and those who are committing them today. 

Look into the faces of the killers and you’ll see they are uncivilized people, unconnected and unrelated to any civilization, harboring strange and diverse beliefs that bear no resemblance to ours.” 

“We’re seriously considering relocating to our village in rural Hama, but we’re waiting for the security situation to stabilize in the Alawite villages, because the killings haven’t stopped yet.”

It took me some time before I got up and continued my walk through the industrial district, past Karaj al-Sitt, and into a large metal workshop. There I met Abu Suleiman, the owner, my second encounter. 

I asked him the same question, and his response was: “To be honest, no, I wouldn’t hire them. And I have my reasons.”

“For decades, our minds have associated the coastal accent here with the power of the security services – bribes, extortion, humiliation, informant reports, and fear,” he explained. 

“Frankly, I still haven’t been able to come to terms with it and accept hearing that accent in my workplace or feel like I’m talking to a regular citizen. I know this thinking may be irrational and inconsistent with the principles of citizenship, but it’s a deeply rooted psychological feeling that I can’t get past. 

“I also believe that the presence of ‘minorities’ in Damascus today is under threat. Military operations are still ongoing in their villages and towns, and all options are on the table. A worker may need to return to his family at any moment. That’s not to mention that the economic situation across the country is in utter collapse. 

“We’re operating at a quarter of our capacity, barely able to pay salaries or meet our basic needs. In general, we speak today with detachment, but we do not support the crimes being committed against innocent people. 

“And the truth is, we’re pained to see ourselves reaching a level of thought and behavior we have always thought ourselves to be far removed from.”

“This land has seen different invaders, peoples, and shapes and colors of all types come and go, but the blessed Levant has remained, throughout all of this, a haven and refuge for those who love. As for us, we are the Levantine Muslims, and Levantine Islam is a tolerant, moderate, constructive Islam – one that has no place for extremism or destructive ideologies, no matter how hard others may try.”

Waves of disappointment, confusion, and fear

That is exactly what Alawite survivors across Syria are feeling: a sense of disappointment and betrayal by a regime that deceived them and exploited their blood for decades, without caring about the animosity it built around them with the rest of the Syrian people – only to then leave them as vulnerable prey to factions still classified as “terrorist” to this day.

There is also a sense of betrayal and disappointment in fellow citizens of the homeland, many of whose minarets echoed with calls for what they claimed is “jihad” against them, and a sense of betrayal in some angry civilian neighbors who jumped on the wave of the “victory of the revolution,” placing themselves at the service of the so-called “undisciplined factions,” as the Damascus government described them. 

These individuals helped commit crimes and provided these factions with a quasi-legitimate cover by justifying their actions on social media. They even waged their own form of ‘jihad’ online by responding with the laughing emoji to news of massacres and images of innocent civilian victims, relying on a heap of logical fallacies to defend them.

There is also a sense of disappointment by the “state” that betrayed them. They surrendered their weapons willingly, seeking nothing but safety and a dignified life – only to be collectively punished for the crimes of the former regime.

The rest of the Syrians fear the weakening economy, the country’s political future, and so on. As for the Alawite, his fears remain confined to his own safety, his life, and that of his children.

Fear now seems like a conjoined twin to the Syrian people – inseparable and inescapable. It has become a defining feature of people’s lives in this part of the world, as if it were our mother tongue.

The Assad regime ruled by it for decades – decades in which political life was frozen and civil society was excluded, using violence instead of politics and ignoring the concerns of the people. It oppressed everyone without exception, based on absolute loyalty to the regime rather than any sectarian identity. The result was a buildup of political, intellectual, and emotional tension that all Syrians are now paying for with a new kind of fear.

The rest of the Syrians fear the weakening economy, the country’s political future, and so on; as for the Alawite, his fears remain confined to his own safety, his life, and that of his children.

Fear now seems like a conjoined twin to the Syrian people – inseparable and inescapable. It has become a defining feature of people’s lives in this part of the world, as if it were our mother tongue.

Everyone is afraid today – except those who have beards and guns. Nothing scares them – not even their Caliph.

** The personal views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author’s and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Raseef22