Jack Jabbour
Amidst this tempestuous war, an individual from the Alawite community in Syria does not stand before the news screens as a neutral observer. Here, war is not a passing headline; it is an existential earthquake that shakes the soul, awakening ancient, deep-seated questions about fear, belonging, and the harrowing cost of survival. The moment they attempt to voice an opinion, they discover that their voice is not heard as an individual’s, but is instead interrogated through the lens of their name, their history, and the heavy burden of the collective mental image others hold of their community. Suddenly, the conversation shifts from an analysis of regional conflict into a brutal trial of identity and loyalty—a questioning of the group’s very right to be multifaceted or even conflicted.
This is how the anxieties of minorities manifest during moments of great transition. They do not approach crises solely through the gates of politics, but through much more fragile corridors: the corridors of fear, burdened memory, and a profound skepticism toward the future. Majorities, by virtue of their scale, may preoccupy themselves with calculations of gain and loss or shifting power dynamics. A minority, however, keeps its eyes fixed on the “ceiling”—will it hold, or will it collapse? They worry about the “name”—will it remain a symbol of citizenship, or will it be transformed into an indictment? They are consumed by the minute details of daily life in the streets, the homes, and the neighborhoods, searching for continuity without falling into the abyss.
In the Alawite case, the scene grows even more complex, as the community carries layers of accumulated burdens. They are a religious minority in a restless region; a social minority that emerged from the rural margins to the centers of state power; and a political minority whose image has been bound—whether by force or by choice—to the structure of authority for decades. Thus, the Alawite individual does not enter this historical moment “lightly.” They enter it weighed down by what has been said about them, by what has been imposed upon them, and by a legacy of alliances and enmities they were not always partners in forging—not to mention the painful losses that often go unacknowledged by the world.
Consequently, their positions on the conflict are never read like any other. An emotional leaning toward a certain “axis” is immediately reduced to a narrow sectarian mold. Distance or reservation is interpreted as ingratitude toward those who claimed to provide protection. Meanwhile, their apprehension regarding foreign rhetoric about “protecting minorities” stems from a deep realization: protection born in the furnace of war is rarely disinterested. If they do not declare their fears in the specific formula others demand, suspicion follows them. It is as if this community is caught between two opposing mirrors, each insisting on presenting a distorted image and saying: “This is your true face.”
From here, the internal structure begins to fracture—not out of a desire for discord, but because the pressures have exceeded the capacity of any single definition to contain them. Within the Alawite environment today, contradictory wills collide: some find safety in taking refuge with any power that keeps the “knife” away from the throat; others seek liberation from the stereotypes that brought more enmity than security; and others simply search for a space to breathe, away from grand geopolitical projects. This multiplicity, which would be a sign of vitality in any healthy society, turns in times of war into a battlefield of mutual accusations—because fear makes people harsh, and because war has no patience for complexity.
Displacement and the diaspora add geographical and intellectual dimensions to this divide. An Alawite in Lebanon views the war through a lens entirely different from one living in the Gulf. Those who have settled in Europe have begun to see the landscape through the prism of rights and liberties, while those in Turkey or the United States rearrange their priorities according to their new contexts. Location does not change the essence, but it shifts the angle of vision; it makes the danger seem imminent to some and distant to others, and it alters the very language used to express anxiety.
At the heart of this wandering, the question of the future emerges as the most painful of all. What does it mean to be part of a community that was accustomed to seeing the state as the ultimate sanctuary of protection, only to find itself before a shattered country and a fractured national memory? What does it mean to try to rediscover yourself while others race to fit you into their pre-packaged molds? And what does it mean to yearn for a simple, ordinary life at a time when you are demanded to locate yourself on a geopolitical map that exceeds your endurance—a map that devours any answer that is not oversimplified?
“For this reason, I do not view the current Alawite polemic as a mere political clash over regional axes and alliances. Rather, I read it as a profound struggle over the very ‘concept of survival’ in its most extreme manifestations. It is an exhausting search for the path of least resistance to traverse this turbulent era; an existential disagreement over the source of protection: Does it come from embedding oneself in alliances, or from withdrawal and isolation? Does it lie in silence and invisibility, or in the courage to forge a new, shared language with the Syrian society in all its diversity?
In this debate, every side acts out of a deep-seated conviction that they are shielding the ‘collective entity’ from annihilation—even if it appears to the other side as a march toward the abyss. Thus, the harshness of mutual accusations is not merely a passing division; it is the groan of a deep wound that speaks through us all.
Communities caught in the winds of great transformations do not have the luxury of seeking ‘absolute moral idealism.’ Instead, they grasp for a minimum threshold of existential safety that grants them the capacity to think. They search for a safe distance to protect their essence from political instrumentalization, refusing to become a mere pretext for grand projects that do not resemble them, or fodder for wars beyond their endurance. Yet, reality grants no such luxury. The prevailing climate demands alignment; grand narratives do not forgive hesitation; and a memory burdened with apprehension turns every step into a new project of anxiety.
Today, the Syrian individual, by virtue of their belonging to this path, stands on shifting sands. They do not only face military wars, but a haunting legacy, stereotypes marketed in their name, and a fear of a relentless tomorrow. Beneath it all lies a buried desire for emancipation—a desire to transition from being an ‘object’ in the narratives of others to being a ‘subject’ that possesses its own narrative of itself.
Perhaps this is the crux of the whole matter: the community today does not need more loyalty tests, nor does it need forced answers given under fire. It is in desperate need of ‘air’ and a space of freedom—a space through which it can attempt to repair its features away from the distorted mirrors others have fashioned for it. For human communities do not rediscover their essence in times of tranquility; they do so while trembling in the heart of the storm, struggling to salvage whatever meaning remains.
