“I am the sole survivor of my family”

The Syrian coast, home to the majority of Syria's Alawite population, was transformed into a killing field over three days in early March. The sectarian violence was the worst seen since the fall of the Assad regime. According to the Syrian Observatory for Human Rights, a UK-based organisation monitoring the Syrian conflict, approximately 1,639 Alawite civilians were killed. However, the new authorities have not yet issued an official and accurate death toll. 

It followed attacks by fighters allied with the ousted Assad regime against security forces associated with the new government, resulting in dozens of security personnel deaths. In response, the government sent reinforcements, including jihadist factions, to the area. The situation spiralled out of control, resulting in the mass killing of Alawite civilians. The killings came amid a torrent of misinformation, bias and inflammatory rhetoric on social media. The debate over what led to the massacres is unclear amid mutual accusations and recriminations.  

Qantara spoke to four survivors from different areas of the Syrian coast. Some names have been changed to ensure their safety. Those interviewed were keen to air their experiences and reveal what happened.  

“We spent hours weeping over their bodies”

My name is Lynn (pseudonym) and I’m 21 years old. I lost my mother at a young age, and I was raised by my maternal grandmother in an apartment building where our small family lived, in the Al-Murooj neighborhood of Baniyas, in the coastal region of Tartus. My grandmother and I lived on the first floor, and my maternal uncle’s family of four lived on the second floor. Most of the people living in the neighbourhood are Alawite, in addition to some Sunnis displaced from Aleppo, with whom we maintain good relations.   

On the evening of Thursday, March 6, the first day of the massacre, we heard security raids were set to begin in our city. These were ostensibly to collect weapons and search for wanted individuals, particularly those involved in the former regime. We gathered at my grandmother’s house, except for my uncle, who stayed on the second floor to open the door for the security forces conducting the searches. 

We turned off the lights, shut the windows, and sat in silence, terrified, as we observed suspicious movements in the street facing our house. By dawn the next day, news spread that a military convoy had arrived in the city. Within hours, the masked gunmen stormed our home. They spoke in a Syrian dialect and hurled sectarian insults at us.

They ordered us to kneel, but my uncle’s wife, due to her health condition, was unable to comply. They insulted her and threatened to kill her. When my uncle tried to help her, they demanded that he open his home for inspection. Moments later, we heard gunfire — he had been executed. He was a civil engineer with no connection to the former regime’s military. 

The gunmen then returned to our house and killed my uncle’s sons, two young men aged 17 and 18, before leaving. We spent hours weeping over their bodies, while my uncle’s lifeless body remained upstairs. Then, another group of gunmen entered — this time with uncovered faces. They spoke in formal Arabic and did not appear to be Arab. They looted our homes, took our money and everything they could carry. When my grandmother cursed them and called them terrorists, they said that they “don’t kill women”, and then they left. 

An hour later, there was a violent pounding on the door. My uncle’s wife and I hurried to hide inside old cardboard boxes for household appliances, but my grandmother refused to hide, despite our desperate attempts to convince her. 

She went to open the door, and they shot her. They searched the house but did not enter the room where we were hiding. I heard one of them, speaking in a Syrian accent, say, "Looks like they all died." Despite my panic, I stifled my sobs and gestured to my uncle’s wife—who was on the verge of breaking down—to remain silent. 

About an hour later, our neighbours from Aleppo came and hid us in their home. Days passed after the massacre, and we remained in hiding with them. All of our neighbours, friends, and their families were killed. I have no one left, except an uncle, who lives in Germany and who is trying to help me emigrate. 

“I saw my father lying in a pool of his own blood”

My name is Lara (pseudonym) and I’m 22 years old, the eldest daughter of my family. I live with my parents and siblings in the Al-Qusour neighbourhood of Baniyas—the area that bore the brunt of the massacre. On the first day, sounds of explosions and gunfire echoed around everywhere, so we stayed inside, terrified. Communications were cut off, so we had no idea what was happening outside. Through the windows, we saw armed men filling the neighbourhood, and we heard gunfire inside our building. 

We thought we were safe because our family had no connections whatsoever to the military establishment, but that evening, a general mobilisation was announced through the mosques. Calls for “jihad against the Alawites” spread throughout the neighbourhood, along with chants of “Allahu Akbar” and sectarian insults. 

At dawn on Friday, March 7th, armed men stormed our neighbours’ house, shooting at the door lock. Screams and wails erupted. We knew that someone had been killed. 

I was trembling with fear — I had never felt such terror before. Their voices made me shudder, but my father’s calmness helped ease my panic. 

Soon after, they banged violently on our door. My father tried to reassure us. “They will search the house, and they won’t find any weapons, so they will leave,” he said. He opened the door with a smile, as though he weren't afraid. One of the gunmen immediately asked: "Are you Sunni or Alawite?" My father answered, "Alawite." The gunman cursed him and demanded his ID, then pointed the weapon at his head and led him outside. 

We waited for him for hours, but we couldn’t bear to remain idle any longer, so my mother and I went to search for him. When we reached the second floor, we found him lying in a pool of his own blood on the stairs — they had shot him in the head, chest, and wrist. 

As we wept over his body, a group of foreign fighters appeared and threatened to kill us if we didn’t return to our home. My mother and I carried his body inside and remained by his side for an entire day. Paradoxically, and despite the horror, lying next to my murdered father’s body made me feel safe. 

“Hiding in the wilderness without water or food”

I am Mohammad, 35 years old, and I work as a lumberjack. On Friday morning, vehicles equipped with loudspeakers arrived in our village of Al-Mukhtariya, located in the countryside of Latakia. They blared with Islamic jihadist chants while carrying dozens of armed men. Some had their long beards and hair out, while others were fully masked with head coverings. 

As soon as they stopped, they began firing indiscriminately throughout the village before storming homes and killing unarmed residents who did not resist in any way. There was no conflict. The one-sided gunfire was followed by screams from every house. 

I was at home, where I live with my 80-year-old mother and my sisters. When the attack began, it seemed that the only way to survive was to flee to the nearby woods. One by one, other families started arriving—mostly women and terrified children. They were barely able to contain themselves, knowing that the massacres had already reaped the lives of hundreds of our fellow villagers, that among the victims were our relatives and neighbours, that whole families had been exterminated.    

We remained in the wilderness for two days, without water, food, or any means of contacting the outside world. There were wild animals around us and we were not safe for long. Soon after, the gunmen pursued us into the forest, firing indiscriminately in our direction and killing even more people. 

“I felt helpless”

My name is Nabil (pseudonym) and I am 45 years old. I am the sole survivor of my family, who perished in the massacre of the village of Al-Sanawbar in the countryside of Jableh, Latakia province. The gunmen entered Al-Sanawbar, that small village, from three sides. The fourth side, the only possible exit, was towards the sea to the west. When the attack began, my family had only one thought: survival. 

We decided to flee toward a shrine of a revered religious figure, thinking that sheltering behind it might protect us. I ran with my family, but halfway there, we found them waiting for us, and they opened fire. My father fell first. Then my brother, and then my other brother, and then his son, followed by my wife, and then my son. 

I couldn't save anyone, and there was no time for grief—they all perished in mere moments. I kept running until I found a small water channel near the shrine. I submerged myself, raising my head every few minutes to breathe. I stayed there for hours. 

When the gunfire died down, I returned to where my family had been slaughtered. I found them on the ground lying side by side, and I couldn’t do anything. I felt helpless. And that helplessness and survivor’s guilt will accompany me till the day I die. 

This article is an edited translation of the Arabic original. Translation by Basyma Saad.