In the small Druze town of Sawara el-Kubra, the shrine of al-Khidr stands charred. The air is thick with the acrid stench of burned stone and cloth. The five-pointed star—symbol of the Druze faith—has been ripped from the roof. “They came in yelling Allahu Akbar, then used the sanctuary’s own candles to set it ablaze,” says Laith*, a local municipal worker now wearing combat clothes. “Then they humiliated us with sectarian chants.” He stops, refuses to say more, bashful. A man standing next to him takes over: “You are pigs; traitors; your sisters are prostitutes. That’s what they were shouting,” the other man says. The attack began at dawn on April 30. Mortars rained on the village for hours. Around 6:30 a.m., after a brief lull that allowed families to flee, armed men entered, looting homes, torching shops, and desecrating the shrine. Not a single store was spared, according to locals.
This wasn’t an isolated incident. It was part of a broader surge in sectarian violence targeting Syria’s Druze communities, triggered by the circulation of an alleged audio clip—attributed to a Druze sheikh—insulting the Prophet Muhammad. The community swiftly denied the claim. Syria’s Ministry of Interior also issued a statement on Tuesday 29th announcing an investigation. But the damage was done.
In the aftermath of one of the deadliest waves of sectarian violence in recent Syrian history, the Syrian Observatory for Human Rights (SOHR) confirmed a total of 134 fatalities following a week of clashes in Druze-majority areas across Sweida and the outskirts of Damascus, including Jaramana, Sahnaya, and Ashrafiyat Sahnaya.
The toll includes 88 armed Druze fighters, 14 civilians, and 32 members of the Syrian ministries of defense and interior, as well as affiliated paramilitary units. Eyewitnesses claim members of the General Security Directorate—the state’s internal police—were present and complicit. Some footage confirms their presence, but their full role remains unclear.
In Sawara el-Kubra, two civilians were killed. One was Laith’ uncle. “He was just sitting there, unarmed. They shot him. We couldn’t retrieve his body until the next day,” he says. Bullet casings litter the ground. On a nearby wall, bloodstains and bullet holes bear witness. “They also stormed into my father’s house—he’s 82—and beat him. They tore a photo of my aunt off the wall and trampled on it. She died a month ago” he adds, his voice breaking when he talks about this violence.
Even the Hospital isn’t Safe
A violence that also bled into the capital’s suburbs. On April 29, clashes erupted in Jaramana, a Druze-majority city located in the south of Damascus. One week later, the town’s bus station is overrun. Hundreds of families try to leave. The highway to Sweida is closed, with only a few buses shuttling people back. Sandra*, a 29-year-old doctor, pushes her way onto one of them. Inside, the atmosphere is suffocating. Passengers are crammed three to one onto seats meant for two. “All the Druze want to return to Sweida. Those who remain have no choice to stay because of their jobs,” she says.
The violence, documented by videos circulating on social media has spread existential anxiety within the community, which fears suffering the same fate as the Alawites. Each person interviewed knows someone who died, was injured, went missing, or took part in the fighting. Concern is particularly widespread among Druze students in Damascus, Homs, or even Latakia after sectarian chants and threats were made against them within universities and dorms. “I went to demonstrate in Umayyad Square when the regime fell. It seems a long time ago,” sighs the 29-years-old doctor. She works at al-Mujtahed Hospital in Damascus. She doesn’t know if she’ll be safer in Sweida, but, she says, “at least I’ll be with my family.”
“I saw it with my own eyes four days ago,” she continues, lowering her voice. “Nine wounded from Sehnaya arrived at the ER. I tried to bring them food. General Security stopped me, asked for my name. A friend told me they mocked the men because they were Druze. Doctors were also ordered not to perform cardiac massage on an injured man, who subsequently died.”
At a checkpoint, the bus halts. Sandra looks out nervously at the men from the General Security standing outside. “I don’t trust them. But not all of them are the same. Some told others to back off when they asked about my name. And not all Sunnis are radicals, far from that. Friends from their community helped me get leave from the hospital.”
Another woman, standing nearby, overhears. “You work at al-Mujtahed? My grandfather was injured in Sehnaya last Thursday. We heard he was taken there. But when we came to see him, General Security turned us away. Later we were told he was moved to Daraya for questioning. No news since. It’s been four days. He’s 75 years old.”
This wave of sectarian violence is more than reactionary. It reflects long-simmering grievances—land disputes, cycles of revenge, and the deep fragmentation of post-war Syria. Sami Warde*, a 27-year-old activist from Jaramana, is trying to document the violence with a group of friends. “During the civil war, 300 men from our town joined the Shabiha militias. They fought in al-Malihah in 2014.” The recent attackers came from there. “Some Hezbollah fighters were also based in Jaramana, and participated in massacres”. Some alliances formed in the civil war and local conflicts are shaping today’s chaos.
Quiet Horror on the Coast
In Homs and along the coastal provinces—home to Syria’s Alawite minority—the sense of threat is just as palpable, though less visible now. On March 6, former regime loyalists attacked government forces, sparking massacres that killed 1,334 people, according to the Syrian Network for Human Rights. Since then, the violence has continued under the radar.
One troubling trend: the kidnapping of Alawite women. The Civil Peace Group, an NGO formed after Assad’s fall, has recorded 72 cases since January in eastern Syria alone.
Ali Hassan hasn’t heard from his sister since April 13. “Batoul was on a bus to Safita. She was texting her husband, checking on their son. Then silence after 4 p.m.” The last photo of her shows her smiling, eyes lined in kohl. Her fate is unknown. “We went to the police, contacted people we know in General Security—nothing,” says Hassan.
He doesn’t directly accuse the authorities, but their failure speaks volumes. “They’re not in control. They don’t have the numbers, the capacity. If justice had been applied from the beginning, none of this would be happening.”
Calls for transitional justice grow louder. Victims, activists, and civil society figures argue it’s the only way to break Syria’s cycles of vengeance. But the authorities remain silent. After the March massacres, they promised an investigative commission. The report was due in a month. It’s already been delayed two.
This fuels a sense of injustice, as Syria emerges bloodless from 14 years of civil war.
