After the fall of Bashar al-Assad’s regime nearly two years ago, a photograph of a person raising a rainbow flag in Damascus’s Umayyad Square circulated widely online. The image sparked heated debate over the future of Syria’s LGBTQ+ community and whether its members would be able to appear openly and safely, and live their lives without persecution, violence or discrimination.

This visibility had long been a demand championed by Syrian activists in exile, who had campaigned and written against the legal and physical violence faced by LGBTQ+ people in Syria, hoping that the post-Assad moment would open the door to a safer and more just future.

But that visibility did not last long.

On the ground, caution and secrecy soon returned to the lives of many. When she visited Syria with her partner, Madiha had to change the way she behaved and return to what she describes as the old “rules of caution.” In Damascus, Munir deletes his phone records every day before leaving home, afraid that any digital trace could reveal his sexual orientation or private life. Both had believed this fear would disappear with the fall of the former regime. Instead, it returned with different faces and from different sources.

Between the institutionalized security dictatorship built by Assad and an emerging authority with an ideological background, activist and transgender woman Layla Qadsi sums up the situation this way: “There is no real value in comparing the two, because both created an unsafe environment filled with risks.”

This investigation examines the survival strategies and forms of concealment adopted by Syrians from the LGBTQ+ community, including gay men and women, bisexual people, transgender people and others with diverse sexual orientations, gender identities and expressions.

Their identities and geographic circumstances differ, and their experiences intersect in different ways. Yet fear remains the common denominator — and the force that compels the most vulnerable to redefine their understanding of politics, safety and citizenship, and even of life and death.

In a country torn apart by war and fragmented among multiple de facto authorities, the hardest question facing LGBTQ+ Syrians has become: “Who is going to hurt me less?” rather than having the luxury of asking who should govern them or what kind of state they want.

Over several months of reporting, we interviewed 17 Syrian LGBTQ+ people living both inside Syria and in exile. The interviews were conducted confidentially, and the identities of most participants have been withheld for their safety. All non-public names used in this investigation are pseudonyms.

The investigation also draws on testimony from legal experts and reports by human rights organizations, including Hurras Equality Movement and Syrians for Truth and Justice, as well as communication with Seen, an organization working on issues affecting Syrian gay men.

We also conducted a limited survey of 206 Syrians outside the LGBTQ+ community who experienced the Syrian war either inside or outside the country. The sample is not representative of Syrian public opinion as a whole and is skewed toward people who are more accepting of, or more engaged with, the subject. Its findings are therefore used as an indicator to help identify broader trends and contextualize some of the testimonies.

Fear of Assad’s Return

Despite a circular issued by the Ministry of Justice concerning a review of Syria’s legal and legislative framework in line with the constitutional declaration, laws inherited from the former regime remain in force, or remain potentially applicable, in practice. This continues to raise concerns among LGBTQ+ people.

Article 520 of the Syrian Penal Code, associated with broad formulations concerning “public morality,” has traditionally been one of the legal tools used to prosecute same-sex relationships. According to lawyer Ihab Abd, it provides for imprisonment of up to three years for “any sexual intercourse contrary to nature.”

The legal framework also extends to Articles 507, 517 and 518.

Article 507, which provides penalties for “any man who disguises himself in women’s clothing,” has been used against some transgender people and others whose gender expression does not conform to prevailing social norms. The Cybercrime Law has also been used to prosecute people on charges including operating websites “aimed at corrupting morals.”

The danger posed by these provisions lies in their vague wording, which allows them to be interpreted and enforced according to the priorities of security authorities or prevailing social and moral pressures. Rather than targeting a clearly defined act, such provisions enable the surveillance and policing of private life, bodies and gender expressions considered non-conforming.

But inherited violence is not limited to vague legal provisions or direct attacks on LGBTQ+ bodies. It also extends into public discourse.

During the final years of the former regime, the government waged an ideological campaign against what it called “modern liberalism,” accompanied by incitement against LGBTQ+ people and, in some cases, arrests and persecution.

In Syria today, an increasingly hardline religious and social discourse is visible in the streets and across social media, alongside the celebration of specific forms of normative masculinity and its outward manifestations. This has raised fears that campaigns similar to those of the past could emerge, albeit under different slogans or with different ideological justifications.

Several testimonies indicate that simply deviating from the prevailing model of “standard masculinity” can be enough to trigger scrutiny or questioning. People have described being stopped at checkpoints and questioned about their clothes, appearance, mannerisms or sexual orientation.

The body becomes vulnerable to harassment and humiliation because it looks different and fails to perform the “tough masculinity” expected of it.

In this context, a body is not subjected to violence because of something it has done, but because its appearance or gender expression does not conform to the socially expected model of masculinity. Clothing, tone of voice, manner of movement and even social relationships can become potential grounds for suspicion.

This was how the architecture of fear was built in Syria under Assad: vague legal provisions, a security mindset on the ground, and complex intersections between sectarian affiliation, sex, gender and social class that made liberation from surveillance exceedingly difficult.

When we asked participants whether this structure had changed, Munir, a 25-year-old IT engineer, told Daraj: “Article 520 has not gone anywhere. Only the people enforcing it have changed. Under Assad, repression was arbitrary and tied to corruption, and sometimes you could circumvent it or negotiate with those enforcing it. Today, repression is wrapped in religious and moral rhetoric. In my view, that is more dangerous because it leaves no room for exceptions.”

Mazen, a 28-year-old doctor, fears that these laws could be supplemented by more hardline religious provisions or interpretations, rather than being repealed or amended in accordance with the rights to privacy, equality and non-discrimination.

Gender Hierarchies: “Masculinity” Within the LGBTQ+ Community and the Disappearance of Queer Women

While a number of gay men faced direct repression at checkpoints and in detention centers under Assad, and some attempted to conceal themselves behind conventional displays of masculinity, queer women and transgender people experienced different forms of concealment and enforced invisibility.

Madiha, a pharmacy graduate living outside Syria, explains that she faces discrimination first as a woman in a patriarchal society governed by strict systems of family and social guardianship, and then as a queer woman in a society that rejects difference.

“Within closed LGBTQ+ circles themselves, gay men have automatic male privileges, such as greater freedom of movement, relatively greater financial independence and the ability to create private spaces,” Madiha says. “Many queer women do not have these basic tools for survival.”

Madiha uses the term “domestic swallowing” to describe what some queer women experience: invisible confinement inside the home, intense family surveillance, restrictions on movement and independence, and threats of violence or death in the name of “honor.”

She points out that the absence of queer women and transgender people from some lists of detainees does not necessarily mean they are less exposed to repression. It may instead reflect a different and more silent form of abuse, centered on domestic isolation, family surveillance, forced marriage and domestic violence rather than official detention. This makes such violations harder to document.

This concealment did not begin with the fall of the former regime, but continued and became more visible. Munir believes the absence of queer women from the public sphere is not accidental, but the result of multiple layers of marginalization.

Their experiences are often reduced to the framework of “family honor” or “domestic violence,” erasing the queer dimension from the story itself. Social restrictions and economic dependence on the family also limit their ability to move and live independently, while many LGBTQ+ spaces have historically prioritized the experiences and concerns of gay men.

Majid, a 30-year-old engineer living abroad, believes patriarchal thinking can also extend into LGBTQ+ spaces themselves, where narratives centered on men sometimes overshadow the experiences of women and transgender people.

“In a patriarchal society, women are always the weakest link,” says Salem, a community activist.

The statement reflects a sentiment shared by several participants, but it does not mean that women constitute a homogeneous group or face identical risks. The invisibility of queer women emerges from the intersection of patriarchal structures, economic dependence, family surveillance and growing fear, as well as marginalization that can also occur within LGBTQ+ spaces themselves.

The Faces of Fear Change, and Its Sources Fragment

Mutasem, a filmmaker living abroad, explains the difference he sees in survival strategies after Assad’s fall:

“A dictatorial regime represses for authoritarian reasons; it wants obedience, not annihilation. A religious extremist represses for ideological reasons and sees your very existence as a mistake. That, to me, is the difference between prison and the grave.”

This distinction between “familiar, institutionalized” danger and “ideological, annihilatory” danger is a description of the psychology of someone living in fear, not a political endorsement. It echoes the testimony of Adel, a Syrian doctor who recently left the country.

“From a personal standpoint, and because of my sexual identity, Assad’s regime sometimes seemed less dangerous to me than extremist religious groups,” he says.

Adel emphasizes that he was never a supporter of Assad and describes the regime as a “brutal killing machine.” But he explains his reasoning: “The regime might detain you because of your identity, but it leaves a narrow margin for maneuvering or hiding. Extremist groups, by contrast, may hunt you down with the intention of killing you, publicly and spectacularly, as part of a ritual of cleansing public space.”

Others read the equation differently.

Zaid, a 40-year-old Syrian doctor living abroad who visited Syria after Assad’s fall, says the Islamists he encountered appeared “more open and more capable of controlling the streets.” Other participants consider the former regime and hardline religious groups to pose comparable levels of danger.

“Islamists” cannot, however, be treated as a single bloc. Nor can ISIS, Jabhat al-Nusra in its earlier phases, Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham, and the security and administrative institutions of the current authority be conflated. Each has a different history, structure and record of practices, even if current fears are shaped by past experiences and the absence of clear legal safeguards.

These theoretical comparisons translated into visible and documented physical terror on the ground.

Salem, 32, told Daraj: “I saw with my own eyes how a person was executed by being thrown from a height in Raqqa when it was under the control of extremist groups.”

The discussion was no longer about the “possibility” of abuse, but about the image of a body falling from a high building amid public chanting and crowds, as an intended social warning.

Reports by Hurras Equality Movement and Syrians for Truth and Justice document this period, recording dozens of systematic field executions of people accused of “homosexuality” or “adultery” by ISIS in Raqqa and Deir ez-Zor. The executions were carried out through brutal methods including throwing people from rooftops, stoning them to death and crucifying them in public squares.

These practices were not limited to ISIS. The same human rights reports document practices by Jabhat al-Nusra in Idlib and northern Aleppo, where so-called “sharia courts” were used as a cover for issuing death sentences.

Similar incidents were reported after the fall of Assad. Scattered reports emerged of people described as “effeminate” being detained in the streets of Damascus and subjected to severe physical and verbal abuse. A video purportedly documenting one such incident, allegedly involving members of the General Security forces, also circulated online. The Syrian authorities have not commented on the incident or confirmed whether those involved were affiliated with the security forces.

The effects of violence do not stop at Syria’s borders.

Many Syrian LGBTQ+ people believed that leaving the country would mean the end of fear. But testimonies from exile reveal the persistence of its psychological and physical effects.

Madiha, who lives in Germany, says she still trembles in fear whenever she hears fireworks during celebrations because her body has not forgotten years of constant anticipation, when the law was absent and the body itself became an exposed target.

Majid, also living in Germany, describes acute physical symptoms, including sudden spikes in his heart rate whenever memories return. He also describes a layered sense of alienation:

“I am deeply attached to Syria, and I grieve because it is a country that belongs to everyone. But it is no longer my country. Syrians are divided, and some of them see us — dissident Alawites or gay people — as a burden.”

As power changes, so does the language and source of fear.

“The fears are increasingly linked to the supporters of this authority,” says Rafi, a 35-year-old media professional from Damascus. “The main fear is that this constituency could mobilize to attack LGBTQ+ people, particularly through apps and online groups.”

Munir adds: “In the past, fear had familiar features: a bribe, a known security branch, or a particular person you had to avoid. Today, fear is as moral as it is security-related. I calculate every detail of my daily life: what I wear, who sees me with whom, and every message I send.”

Majid describes the situation, in personal terms, as replacing “Umayyad masculinity” with “Assadist masculinity,” while Salem summarizes it: “Exclusion affects everyone, and freedoms are shrinking. What does that mean for the queer community?”

In this sense, fear is no longer tied to a single actor or a specific security institution. It has become part of everyday life, infiltrating language, clothing, relationships and digital spaces until it becomes a permanent condition rather than a response to a clear and identifiable threat.

Survival Strategies and a Distorted Social Contract

About a month after Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham reached Damascus and a new authority was formed, two videos circulated on social media.

The first showed a transgender person being beaten, insulted and subjected to severe threats of physical violence. The second showed a transgender woman being released from a detention center while being humiliated and assaulted.

The videos alone do not establish the full context of the incidents or determine institutional responsibility. But they heightened fears among LGBTQ+ people, particularly amid the absence of publicly announced official investigations or independent mechanisms for receiving complaints and protecting victims.

At the same time, François Zenkieh, founder of Hurras Equality Movement, said he documented a third incident that took place last January, when a local faction raided a private birthday party in Jaramana and detained all the gay people present. They were reportedly subjected to insults and beatings before being released.

The videos prompted divided reactions.

Some commenters rejected the existence or public visibility of these groups, while others condemned the violations regardless of their social or religious views on homosexuality and gender transition.

In our limited survey, we asked why some LGBTQ+ people support an authority whose constituent forces include groups with a history of criminalizing homosexuality and persecuting gender non-conforming people.

We do not yet know the final legal and political direction of this authority. The question therefore focused on the historical record of some of the forces that contributed to its formation, rather than assuming that past practices will necessarily continue in the same form.

The answers were not uniform, nor were they as straightforward as we had expected.

Munir lists reasons ranging from political pragmatism, following the logic of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” to deeply rooted national, religious or familial identities that may take precedence over sexual orientation or gender identity at moments of danger.

Some participants referred to “identification with the aggressor” as a possible explanation in certain cases, while others spoke of a fear of chaos that outweighed their fear of organized repression.

These explanations, however, cannot be used to diagnose individuals or reduce their political and psychological choices to a single motive.

Munir concludes that the LGBTQ+ community is not a homogeneous bloc. It includes conservatives, right-wingers, leftists and people who are not politically engaged. It also includes people who reject the Western categories commonly used to describe their sexual orientations or identities.

Madiha describes the reality facing the queer community this way:

“In Syria, people first need safety and food. Sexual freedoms are a postponed luxury.”

She asks how someone who rejects traditional social molds can support an authority that, in their view, represents much of what they oppose.

Then she answers: “People cling to any alternative to Assad. So it is not a complete forgetting of identity, but a temporary freezing of the conflict, a rearrangement of priorities, and the prioritization of other identities.”

Mazen believes Syrians have become accustomed to trading one right for another, or sacrificing rights in exchange for needs they consider more urgent, such as security and education.

Today, holding former regime officials accountable or achieving justice for victims may become the priority for some, leading them to accept the postponement of other demands.

But the most divergent voice comes from Zaid, who visited Syria after Assad’s fall and says he lived there “normally.”

He describes the Islamists he encountered as “more open than the former regime when it comes to homosexuality,” and says the current authority turns a blind eye to secret gay parties in Damascus.

This remains an individual testimony and, on its own, is insufficient to establish the existence of an official policy or a stable legal guarantee.

Jack, by contrast, who lived for years under Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham, describes this support as resembling “Stockholm syndrome,” an attempt to adapt, or the result of “brainwashing.”

This is a personal and contentious characterization that cannot be generalized.

Layla Qadsi, a Syrian-Canadian citizen, activist, transgender woman and director of Sawtouna, who previously lived in Idlib, says some supporters of the authority “are still drunk and intoxicated by the fall of the former regime and have not yet developed a fully critical reading of the new reality.”

The testimonies reveal that sexual orientation and gender identity have not disappeared. But their expression, and demands for rights associated with them, have at times receded behind priorities imposed by war and collapse — from the search for safety and justice to sectarian, familial and political identities.

One participant says that “a large section [of the community] has never reconciled with its sexual orientation or gender identity in the first place,” which can make it easier to conceal those identities or avoid publicly defending them.

Another believes that “sexual orientation is not a priority,” and that what matters to some people is simply being able to live their private lives, even in secrecy.

Survival strategies within the LGBTQ+ community itself have diverged.

For some, returning to invisibility is an unavoidable survival strategy. Others reject this logic as a permanent surrender to fear.

Rafi states his position clearly:

“I strongly support disappearing. Safety first, safety above everything and safety at the end. What is the point of publicly declaring the existence of a queer community at a time when its members could be killed?”

Majid rejects this logic:

“We are always expected, as queer people, to put everyone else before our own lives. I’ve had enough. Today, I live for myself first.”

Munir describes a more complicated position:

“When I saw members of our community supporting this authority, I felt doubly betrayed. But I understand their motives. Many people live within families and small communities from which they cannot detach themselves. So they choose silence in exchange for relative safety.”

He adds that concealment has returned “more violently than before,” as even the small spaces that once provided some degree of safety have become vulnerable to surveillance and entrapment.

Mazen sums it up:

“Pragmatism may work, but only temporarily.”

He adds: “You can see this practice among people who were known for years for defending queer rights, and then suddenly decided to hide their identities in favor of the state. It is as if Syrian queer people only become visible in Europe, while inside Syria they return to their normative roles, without networks of solidarity or political confrontation with Syrian laws.”

This masked visibility is mirrored by the disappearance Munir describes:

“Yes, it is a disappearance, but not a dramatic one that happens overnight. It is gradual. I make my space smaller day by day: less visibility, less speech, less presence. And there is something harder than the fear of death: the fear of being gradually erased, until no one notices that you ever existed.”

Rafi points to another source of threat, one that comes from within the queer community itself:

“The sense of threat comes from the ‘queering’ of some people who had long shown support for queer people or had been part of the community themselves… Today they have become part of the same constituency that does not care about personal freedoms. The threat I feel from them is much greater than the threat I feel from the authority itself.”

Fear therefore moves between outside and inside, between authority and society, and between what is openly declared and what is changing silently within the very networks that are supposed to be the safest.

Perhaps the experience of Syria’s LGBTQ+ community reveals something about the condition of Syrians more broadly in this new era.

The choice was never really between freedom and repression. It was a desperate maneuver between different degrees of danger, and between authorities and societies that demand individuals surrender part of themselves in exchange for a limited measure of safety.

The hardest question remains:

How can a country be built when its citizens fear one another as much as they fear those who govern them — or even more?