Dispatch

In the Hills of Alawistan

In Syria’s beautiful northwest, all is peaceful. But death is never far away.

TARTOUS, Syria — Above the Syrian coastal town of Tartous, groups of Alawite men and boys were amassing at different landings along a road that winds higher and higher, away from the Mediterranean and into the hills. We saw them assembling as we traveled the same path, taking advantage of a day off to get out of the city.

On this new spring Sunday, they were waiting for the corpses of Alawite soldiers -- conscripts in the Syrian Army -- to arrive from below. A funeral procession was building, one motorcycle at a time, one open-cabbed truck at a time, each laden with several passengers. The mothers and wives were recognizable in their black clothes with sheer white scarves draped around their necks, which have become public uniform once a family has been anointed with loss.

Those gathering affixed to their cars large posters of the men and boys, showing the fallen still alive, posing in uniform or with a gun. Many were quite young, the tickle of mustaches below their noses not withstanding. A photo of President Bashar al-Assad, sporting sunglasses and military fatigues, often hovered above their images, assuming a posture of determination and leadership -- his finger pointing to something in the horizon that we cannot see. Is it a goal, a future, a death?

Many of these soldiers died in places far away from where they grew up in these hills, which like the entire Tartous region is relatively peaceful -- compared to the varying degrees of hell being experienced in other parts of the country. Throughout my several-day stay in April, there were no sounds of gunfire, shelling, or bombardments, sounds regularly heard in Damascus. We were protected by a bubble that we nonetheless knew a thousand pins -- of revenge, reckoning, and reality -- would one day burst.

Though home to Sunnis and Christians  as well, the coastal region and its peaks have become an Alawite stronghold. The Alawites, a heterodox Muslim sect from which Assad also hails, had escaped past religious persecution here. Once the lowest rung of society, their daughters had been maids in many Syrians' homes and their sons had joined the armed forces for lack of other opportunities. Hafez al-Assad, Bashar's father and the dictator before him, had come from their ranks, and when he seized power, the fortune of many -- though hardly all -- of the sect's members improved. 

The Assads themselves come from nearby Qardaha, a village located above Latakia, which lies north of Tartous along the Mediterranean. Many have speculated that Bashar has kept the coastal regions and their hills secure should he need to beat a retreat from Damascus (or as a possible location for a future Alawite state should Syria end up in pieces). Indeed, before Israel's raid outside the capital dominated all the headlines, disturbing allegations emerged of massacres of Sunnis in Banyas and al Bayda, areas that would be incorporated in any such Alawistan.

Though these hills are hardly exclusively Alawite, it is clearly Alawi territory. The few road signs here direct travelers to the tomb of Saleh al-Ali, an Alawite leader who opposed French rule in the 1920s. A statue of Ali graces the entrance to the village of Sheikh Badr, which sits along the ever-climbing road that reaches toward the site of pilgrimage for Alawites and the government officials who ceremoniously visit on Independence Day. He appears victorious cast in stone, a rifle raised high into the air. His triumph, however, is somewhat belied by disproportionately sized head and limbs that made him look cartoonish.

Here, the hills are verdant and gently terraced. A Damascene used to the barren embrace of Mount Qassioun, which overlooks the Syrian capital, would easily be forgiven for feeling a tinge of envy. Yet for a region that was supposed to be protected and privileged, it is still remarkably underdeveloped. The modesty, if not poverty, of the homes was interrupted only rarely by a luxurious villa belonging to someone known to be close to the regime. The road was just enough to be functional.

Weren't 40 years of Assad rule supposed to have made Alawites the best off in Syria? Weren't they facing impending retaliatory massacre for having thrown in their lot with the sons of these hills?

Had they been swindled?

The legend of Saleh al-Ali shines a light on how the myth of Alawite privilege never quite corresponded to the reality. As a well-respected historian told me, Ali was a petty nationalist inflated into gigantic proportions by Syria's first president, Shukri al-Quwatli. His goal was to give the Alawites an alternate hero after the government hung cult leader Suleiman al-Murshed, who had led an Alawite revolt against the newly independent state in 1946. 

Passing the statue, a woman from a village atop another hill shrugged, under her breath: "He used to steal chickens from my great-grandfather."

Further up the twisting road, each turn offering a view more stunning, we pulled over to take in a dramatic vista, joining several others in quiet reverie. With one's back to the line of coffins coming up the road, the violence encircling Syria might as well have been in a different country. A patchwork of different shades of green -- pine, olive, cypress, grass -- and their different textures lit up each time the sun ventured from behind the several hanging clouds. Children were subdued, couples held hands, young men smoked cigarettes.

Of course, they people here want to protect this splendor and tranquility. But what had it cost Syria for this area to avoid the fate of the rest of the country? Did its survival necessitate the destruction of so many other places? What would it cost these hills once the misguided yet inevitable calls for vengeance and retribution pierced this bubble? Was it too late to alter this zero-sum formula by which Syria was being destroyed and re-imagined?

The breeze carried with it the scent of burning trash -- the lack of effective government waste removal was another hint that this was hardly some lavish enclave of wealthy oligarchs. The air here was already several degrees colder than where we had begun our trip, at sea level. Its briskness and its smell hurried our return to the road.

Descending back to Tartous, the road -- generally wide enough for a lane of traffic going each direction with room for passing -- was overtaken by the funeral convoy that had caught up from below. The vehicles on our side pulled over to give way.

The women's faces were contorted in pain as they walked next to a small white van carrying the bodies. Young men revved their motorcycles while keeping the slow pace, and the boys standing on the back of the bikes occasionally broke a smile before remembering the solemnity of the occasion.

A dissident -- who happens to be Alawite and who had finally just been smuggled to safety in Beirut after being under virtual house arrest for the past year -- explained to me that defecting for a member of his sect carries greater costs than for other Syrians. "A Sunni can escape to Turkey or to his home village; if he's an Alawi, the regime will kill him and his family, or his own village will do it," he said. "He's dead either way."

Armed checkpoints awaited us on our descent. Cars patiently queued, drivers obligingly rolling down their windows to present the ID cards of all the men (and the women, if asked) and popping the trunk when demanded. Some of the men who guarded these checkpoints worked for the regular army, while other belonged to local pro-regime militias. Some wore combat boots but others were in sneakers, loafers, or even flip-flops; several of their guns seemed held together by duct tape. Most had managed to find a pair of camouflaged pants and many wore what appeared to be newly minted black baseball caps with a Syrian flag motif, suggesting "Team Syria" had just won a pennant somewhere.

Once these men waved a car along, the window was rolled back up, the trunk shut, and conversation or silence resumed. Except, of course, in those cases where the passengers once sufficiently out of earshot cursed the house, father, religion, mothers, sisters, or some combination thereof of the soldiers or shabiha (militiamen) to whom they had just submitted.

Closer to the water, groves of orange trees had blossomed and the air was perfumed -- a scent Syrians bottle in mazahar (orange blossom water) and then use for sweets, drinks, and even on the skin. Before these years changed the meaning of every place in Syria, this fragrance was as essential to my memories of Tartous as freshly caught branzino and the languid life of a town by the sea.

We were waved through another checkpoint and entered Bseereh, an area where many residents of Tartous have waterfront flats. The road narrowed, lowering us to the level of the coast. Tall wetland grasses brushed against the car as we navigated our way. Any spare soil between the buildings was used to cultivate vegetables. Between the Mediterranean and us were the pastel-colored beachfront chalets that used to be full of beachgoers and fun-seekers in the summer months. They were now already crammed with Syrians from the provinces of Aleppo, Homs, and Hama who had fled the violence. Several hundreds of thousands of internally displaced people have reportedly found shelter here. These Syrians are immediately identifiable by the locals -- generally more conservatively dressed, with cars bearing license plates from other parts of the country.

At the shore, several of these displaced families had gathered. Women in full black abaya and hijab watched as excited children ran barefoot through the sand.

"They must be from Aleppo. It's not yet warm enough to swim," said a young Tartous native, pointing to little boys wading in the water as it rocked against the sand.

Watching them as they jumped, splashed, and laughed in the sea, he added, "Let them enjoy it while they can."

Flickr/fchmksfkcb

Dispatch

How Do You Say 'Quagmire' in Farsi?

Why Syria could turn out to be Iran's Vietnam -- not America's.

ARSAL, Lebanon  — For more than a year, leaders in Lebanon have anxiously eyed the murderous civil war in Syria, wondering whether it would leap across the border and engulf the small, fractious country. And yet, it is Lebanon that now has jumped decisively into the fray, with Hezbollah's help apparently crucial to the Syrian regime's strategy and survival.

Uniformed Hezbollah fighters openly patrol the northern reaches of Lebanon's Beqaa Valley, fighting on either side of the increasingly porous border with Syria. Rocket and mortar teams target Free Syrian Army (FSA) fighters a few miles away, and Lebanese Hezbollah infantry fighters crisscross the "Shiite villages" surrounding the city of Qusayr just across the border in Syria, which now forms one of the pivot points of the conflict.

The fighting around Qusayr has brought into the open the parlor game over whether Iran and Hezbollah are active combatants in Syria's war. In an April 30 speech, Hezbollah chief Hassan Nasrallah hinted at greater involvement from the Lebanese paramilitary group in Syria, warning that the regime had "real friends" who would prevent Syria from "fall[ing] into the hands" of the United States and Israel.

The thunder of artillery fire in the mountains flanking the Beqaa Valley, like the spate of no-longer-hidden Hezbollah funerals, make clear that Hezbollah and its Iranian sponsors have crossed a Rubicon. They are now fully vested factions in the Syrian civil war, and they're committed to an open and escalating fight.

Not 20 miles from Hezbollah's position as the crow flies, FSA fighters flee across the border to the Sunni village of Arsal, nestled north in the Beqaa Valley in the mountains separating Lebanon and Syria. They make no distinction between the Syrian army, Hezbollah, and Iran -- because, they say, they get shot at by all three.

"We could have common interests with Hezbollah, but they're attacking us. Now there are grudges, which we will have to settle after the war," said Shehadeh Ahmed Sheikh, 24, a self-described mortar man in the FSA. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor of an unfinished home in Arsal. Sheikh had brought with him 16 members of his extended family after their house in Qusayr had been destroyed earlier that week; as we talked, they squatted around him in the dwelling, which they had been assigned to by Arsal's mayor.

Like many Sunnis in the area, he referred to Hezbollah, whose name means "the Party of God" in Arabic, as Hezb al-Shaitan -- "the Party of Satan."

By supporting Syrian President Bashar al-Assad to the hilt, Hezbollah and Iran are risking their hard-won reputation as stewards of an anti-Israel and anti-U.S. alliance that transcends sect and nationality. Syrian combatants increasingly understand the war in sectarian terms: On one side there is the Sunni majority; on the other side, other sects and a small group of Sunnis that have made common cause with the Alawite regime.

Western diplomats estimate that a few thousand Hezbollah fighters are involved in the Syrian fighting. Close observers of the group, which carefully guards its operational structure, say that they mistrust any precise numbers. But if Hezbollah has sent hundreds, or even a few thousand, of its best-trained fighters to Syria, that deployment certainly represents a significant percentage of its fighting force. During its 2006 war with Israel, the highest estimate of Hezbollah fighters killed was about 700, with the group's own official death toll closer to 300.

Sunnis are increasingly framing the conflict as a sectarian jihad. The influential Lebanese Salafi cleric Ahmad Al-Assir has set up his own militia, suggesting his fighters would be just as willing to confront Hezbollah in Lebanon as they already are to travel to Syria to fight alongside the rebels there. Supporters of the regime and Hezbollah point out that the rebellion tolerates Sunni fundamentalist extremists whereas Assad and Hezbollah rely on a time-tested alliance of minorities, including Alawites, Christians, Druze, and Shiite Muslims. The propaganda of both sides has sharpened a narrative of the Syrian conflict as a struggle between Sunni extremists and old-style authoritarians, who at least protect the minorities they exploit. Deadly identity politics have taken root, and people on both sides of the conflict see it more and more as a matter of survival. Sheikh, the young Sunni fighter, planned to return to battle as soon as he settled his family: "We cannot go back to the way things were before."

* * *

On the eve of the uprisings just three short years ago, many Arab analysts observed half-jokingly that the most influential state in the Arab world wasn't Arab at all -- it was Iran, awash in oil revenues and ready to lavish cash on a region in the throes of an increasingly hot Sunni-Shiite cold war. Sunni monarchs and dictators fretted about a "Shiite Crescent" linking Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Hezbollah. Tehran, for its part, strutted triumphantly across the Arab stage, bragging about an unstoppable "Axis of Resistance" oiled with ideological fervor and the supreme leader's bank account.

What a difference a few uprisings can make. Today, Iran's involvement in Syria has all the makings of a quagmire, and certainly represents the Islamic Republic's biggest strategic setback in the region since its war with Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein ended in 1988. Syria's conflict has begun to attract so much attention and resources that it threatens to end the era when Iran could nimbly outmaneuver the slow-moving American behemoth in the Middle East.

Iran -- already reeling from sanctions -- is spending hundreds of millions of dollars propping up Bashar al-Assad's regime. In the murky arena of sub rosa foreign intervention, it's impossible to keep a detailed count of the dollars, guns, and operatives the Islamic Republic has dispatched to Syria. Westerners and Arab officials who have met in recent months with Syrian government ministers say that Iranian advisers are retooling key ministries to provide copious military training, including to the newly established citizen militias in regime-controlled areas of Syria. "We back Syria," Iranian General Ahmad Reza Pourdastan reiterated on May 5. "If there is need for training we will provide them with the training."

In private meetings, Iranian diplomats in the region project insouciance, suggesting that the Islamic Republic can indefinitely sustain its military and financial aid to the Assad regime. To be sure, its burden today is probably bearable. But as sanctions squeeze Iran and it comes under increasing pressure over its nuclear program, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) might find the investment harder to sustain. The conflict shows no signs of ending, and as foreign aid to the rebels escalates, Iran will have to pour in more and more resources simply to maintain a stalemate. If this is Iran's Vietnam, we're only beginning year three.

The cost of Tehran's support of Assad can't entirely be measured in dollars. Iran has had to sacrifice most of its other Arab allies on the Syrian altar. As the violence worsened, Hamas gave up its home in Damascus and its warm relationship with Tehran. Egypt's Muslim Brotherhood-dominated government has also adopted a scolding tone toward Iran on Syria. On Egyptian President Mohamed Morsy's first visit to Tehran, he took the opportunity to blast the "oppressive regime" in Damascus, saying it was an "ethical duty" to support the opposition.

Gone are the days when Iran held the mantle of popular resistance. Popular Arab movements, including Syria's own rebels, now have the momentum and air of authenticity. Iran's mullahs finally look to the Arab near-abroad as they long have appeared at home -- repressive, authoritarian, and fierce defenders of the status quo.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, Iran's commitment to Assad has put the crown jewel of its assets in the Arab world, Hezbollah, in danger. Just a few years ago, a survey found that Nasrallah was the most popular leader in the Arab world. Along with other members of the "resistance axis," Hezbollah mocked the rest of the Arab world's political movements as toadies and collaborators, happy to submit to American-Israeli hegemony. Today, however, it has sacrificed this popular support and enraged Sunnis across the Arab world by siding with a merciless dictator.

Hezbollah used to try to cultivate allies from all sects, so that it wouldn't seem to be pursuing a purely Shiite agenda, but it now appears in the eyes of the Arab world to have cast its lot -- hook, line, and sinker -- with a brutal minority regime in Syria over a popular, largely Islamist movement. A Pew survey last year found that the group's popularity was declining in predominantly Sunni countries such as Egypt and Jordan, while Lebanese Sunnis and Christians also increasingly soured on the party.

In the border town of Hermel, usually secretive Hezbollah fighters have openly mobilized. They fight on both sides of the border, protecting a ring of Shiite villages in Syria that connect Damascus to the Alawite heartland. An untold number of Hezbollah fighters have been killed in Syria -- so many that the movement has stopped keeping the funerals secret and has even released videos of some of the martyrs. "We bury our martyrs in the open," Nasrallah said in his recent speech. "We are not ashamed of them."

Hezbollah positions in Hermel were shelled on May 12, and the Sunni jihadist Nusra Front reportedly claimed responsibility. In their rhetoric, Lebanese politicians have sought to downplay the sectarian nature of the fight in Syria, and there are plenty of individuals who say they have chosen sides out of interest or ideology, rather than sect. Yet to most of its participants, the conflict has taken on an undeniably sectarian hue: an almost entirely Sunni rebellion, against a regime supported by the majority of Syria's other sects.

"There's no difference between Hezbollah, the army, and the Syrian regime," scoffed Mustafa Ezzedine, a driver in Arsal who was recently dragged into the conflict as a literal hostage, kidnapped because he was a Sunni Muslim by a Shiite clan that wanted one of its own kidnapped members released. It doesn't matter that among his guests at a recent, lazy hashish-fueled afternoon tea was a member of that same rival clan: sectarian politics have little regard for personal views. For residents of the Beqaa Valley, the war in Syria has already drifted across the border, and they fear it could get worse quickly.

The regional stakes are high as well. On at least one occasion, the Syrian conflict has cost an Iranian military commander his life. In mid-February, a shadowy IRGC officer responsible for overseeing Iranian reconstruction projects in Lebanon who went by the names Hessam Khoshnevis and Hassan Shateri was killed on the road from Damascus to Beirut. Iran put out the story that Israel assassinated their man, but Western and Arab officials told me they had seen reliable intelligence reports that it was a Syrian rebel ambush.

A who's who of Lebanese politicians paid condolences at the Iranian embassy, and Hezbollah's number two, Naim Qassem, delivered a long tribute to the fallen IRGC offer at a memorial service in an underground theater in Beirut's Hezbollah-controlled southern suburbs. It was the latest sign that Hezbollah is willing to risk everything in supporting the Syrian dictator -- and that Iran just may ask its Lebanese ally to fight to the end, or go down with the ship.

"We would be nothing without Iran!" Qassem thundered in his tribute. "Others hide the foreign funds they receive. We proudly open our hands to Iran's gifts. What the resistance needs, they provide."

ATTA KENARE/AFP/Getty Images