Fear lingers in an ancient community

It is Sunday morning and cold inside the old church as Father Fadi al-Barkil turns away from the congregation, goes to the altar and raises his arms. In a deep, sonorous voice, he begins to pray. His gold-embroidered cope shimmers in the morning light that filters through a window into the apse.

After a few verses, Barkil turns to the wooden benches where a few dozen men, women and children sit in their winter jackets. This is a community that goes back to the early days of Christianity. Prayers have been said in the small stone church on the edge of the Monastery of Saints Sergius and Bacchus since the 4th century—originally in Aramaic, the language of Christ, and now in Arabic.

Here, too, the civil war has left its scars: the ancient icons that once adorned the altar have disappeared, and old paintings have been replaced by cheap imitations.

The monastery is located on the edge of a gorge which slices through the Qalamun mountain range. The church looms over the small town of Maaloula, a picturesque spot wedged into the side of the mountain. Located just an hour's drive from the capital Damascus, Maaloula is the home of one of Syria's oldest Christian communities. Aramaic is still spoken in some parts of everyday life. 

During the civil war, the front line between the rebels and Assad's troops stretched along the mountain range, leaving Maaloula unprotected in no man's land. In 2013, the jihadist Nusra Front used this to their advantage and invaded the town, looting the churches, shooting several residents and abducting twelve nuns. Only after several months was the regime able to push back the rebels; the nuns were released in a prisoner exchange.

Yesterday's rebels are today's government

The trauma is deeply ingrained in the collective memory of the local population. Fear resurfaced when the rebels, led by the Islamist Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), ousted the Assad regime in December 2024 and proclaimed a transitional government. HTS evolved from the Nusra Front, and is still classified as a terrorist group by the United States. 

After the sermon, a group gathers in the monastery's common room to chat, and a heated debate over whether Christianity has a future in the new Syria breaks out. A woman pulls out her mobile phone and points to a social media post about how members of a church in Homs were reportedly arrested for ringing the bell. 

Barkil tries to reassure her: "We will find a way to live together in peace," he says. The priest feels responsible for his community and for the approximately 250 Christian families in Maaloula. He wants to prevent them from fleeing Syria, as so many Christians have done since the outbreak of the civil war.

Before 2011, around 1.5 million Syrians were Christian. According to a report by the Christian NGO, Aid to the Church in Need, only a fifth of them have remained in the country: fear of jihadist groups in the ranks of the rebels was too great. Now, the remaining Christians are looking nervously at the new rulers. 

"We want to stay, this is our country. But we are afraid that one day we will be forced to leave Syria," says Tamar Serkis, a kindergarten teacher who lives in Maaloula with her husband and three children.

Positive signals from the new regime

In conversation with Qantara, Barkil is confident that these concerns won't materialise. "The people of Maaloula fear that Hayat Tahrir al-Sham is just the Nusra Front with a new name, " he says. "But that's not true."

According to the priest, the new government is trying to protect the Christians and allay their fears. The dreaded Suleiman Shah Brigade, which was stationed in the city after the rebels' advance on Damascus, has been withdrawn from Maaloula, he points out. That radical militia, which has close ties to Turkey, is accused of serious human rights violations in northern Syria.

Instead, men from the surrounding area are to be found at the checkpoints leading into the city. But according to local residents, what was probably intended as a confidence-building measure has backfired. 

The majority Christian town of Maaloula is surrounded by Muslim villages. Since 2013, relations between the town and the countryside have been strained; the residents of Maaloula suspect that some of their Muslim neighbours support the Nusra Front.

The Assad regime had banned the suspected collaborators from the area, but they returned after the regime's fall. According to the Christian community in Maaloula, it is precisely these men who are now being deployed as security forces by the new government.

"The same people who helped the terrorists back then, have turned themselves into the police. We can't trust them, they ransacked the churches," Serkis complains.

Mistrust runs deep

Saint George's Church lies in the centre of Maaloula. This church is larger than the one on the hill, its pews sufficient for several hundred worshippers. Here too, the interior is spartan; only a few wooden panels remain at the entrance, the faces painted on them defaced by marauding jihadists. In the courtyard, a statue depicts Saint George on horseback, thrusting a lance into a slain dragon.

Father Jalal Ghazal sits on a chair nearby and talks about the days after the fall of Assad, when Muslims in the city fired assault rifles into the air to celebrate the dictator's demise. 

"The Christian residents grew afraid," the 59-year-old says slowly. "Many families fled to Damascus, but they returned just a week later." When exiled Muslim residents also returned to the area, conflicts sprang up between Christian and Muslim families, reports Ghazal.

One of the Muslim returnees, Abdelsalam Diab, attempted to steal the harvest of Ghassam Zekhem, a Christian. Zekhem shot Diab, and the incident threatened to trigger a family feud which could easily have escalated into a bloody conflict between the Christian and Muslim communities.

Recognising this, the government in Damascus sent an envoy to Maaloula to mediate between the two families. The intervention did not go as hoped: "At the meeting, Diab's brother stood up and shouted that he would kill the Christians who were responsible for the death of Abdelsalam," says Ghazal. This outburst worries the priest, who knows the delicate power balance in the area. "The Diab family is now manning the checkpoints."

Reason for hope?

Barkil confirms his colleague's account. Like the new government, he is committed to dialogue and compromise: it was he who convinced Zekhem to hand himself over to the authorities after the attack. He also initiated talks between local Christians and Muslims after the fall of Assad and he remains convinced that peaceful coexistence is possible. 

There are experts who share his optimism. According to Gregory Waters of the Atlantic Council, an American think tank, HTS has long maintained good relations with the Christian minority, who live in rebel-held areas without discrimination. The offensive that brought down Assad was accompanied by intensive efforts to bring Christian leaders on board.

The rebels' hatred is largely directed at the Alawites, a Muslim minority to which the Assad clan also belonged. Since Alawites occupied the most important posts in the old regime and provided a large part of the infamous security services, the Alawite population fears exclusion from political participation. 

"For the other minorities, there are positive indications that they will be included in post-Assad Syria," writes Waters. One such indicator is the cabinet appointed at the end of March. Transitional president and HTS leader, Ahmed al-Sharaa, appointed ministers from many of Syria's minority groups, including a Christian woman and an Alawite.

Nevertheless, there is impatience in Maaloula when it comes to political participation. "We cannot feel safe until there is a parliament that represents the entire Syrian people in all their diversity," emphasises Serkis. 

This article is an edited translation of the German original. Translation by Louise East.