As videos of massacres against Alawites in Syria go viral on social media, I find myself haunted by one image—a mother sitting silently beside her murdered sons, her face frozen in shock as the cameraman taunts her, saying she deserves this fate. Her pain is palpable, yet her tragedy—multiplied thousands of times over—has failed to pierce our collective conscience.
March 5, when violence erupted in predominantly Alawite and Christian regions of western Syria, I’ve watched with growing horror as my collection of videos documenting these atrocities swelled beyond 30. The death toll—at least 1,200 souls—represents not just statistics but shattered families and communities ravaged by targeted violence.
The footage is soul-crushing—a young man named Mohammed trembles as he pleads for someone to save his sisters, his voice breaking as he describes bodies piling up outside his home. The dentist who weeps uncontrollably while recounting her grandfather’s murder and other such testimonies of crying relatives to either killed or missing loved ones burn into your consciousness.
Where are the mass demonstrations filling city squares? Where are the viral hashtags demanding justice? Why do major news outlets offer only fleeting coverage compared to other disasters?
Most revealing is the stark contrast between official statements from world powers. The United States explicitly condemned “radical Islamist terrorists, including foreign jihadis” for murdering people and expressed solidarity with Syria’s ethnic and religious minorities. The U.N. acknowledged “entire families, including women and children, were killed in predominantly Alawite cities and villages.”
But the European Union’s statement takes a jarringly different tone, condemning “attacks, reportedly by pro-Assad elements, on interim government forces”—a framing that cruelly inverts reality, implicitly blaming victims while obscuring the identity of perpetrators. The disconnection between ground truth and diplomatic positioning breaks faith with those suffering.
The brutality of these attacks, that should be called by their right terms, ethnoreligious cleansing and pogroms—documented proudly by perpetrators who show no fear of consequences—points to something far more sinister than “civil unrest.” When they film themselves, these killers laugh at the notion they might face prosecution.
Syria’s interim government has promised accountability, but the promises ring hollow as militant factions operate freely. Meanwhile, the predominantly Kurdish leadership in northeastern Syria has signed an agreement with the new Syrian regime that doesn’t mention the country’s Christians.
Greek Orthodox Patriarch John X cut through the diplomatic obfuscation. He said the majority of those killed were not combatants but civilians—women and children whose only “crime” was their religious identity. The attackers’ slogans specifically targeted Alawites and Christians, making the religious dimension impossible to ignore, though some try.
As refugees flee to Lebanon, my colleagues report heartbreaking scenes. These survivors desperately want to share their stories but tremble at giving their names, fear etched in their faces. They dream of someday returning home but fear speaking the truth could mean death. Their testimonies—detailing missing relatives, murdered family members, homes looted then burned—should shake us to our core.
I keep wondering about Mohammed. Did he survive? Did his sisters? His face haunts me as I scroll through diplomatic statements that reduce his terror to geopolitical calculations.
When we allow selective outrage to determine which victims receive our attention—when some lives are deemed more newsworthy than others—we don’t just abandon specific victims. We poison the very principle that all human lives deserve equal protection and dignity.
The blood spilled in Syria’s Alawite villages and cities cries out for acknowledgement. Will we listen, or turn away, comfortable in our selective compassion? And what happens if Syria’s Christians, already fleeing alongside Alawites, are attacked again? Out of 1.5 million Christians in Syria, fewer than 300,000 remain. When will world leaders demand safety for all Syrians, regardless of ethnicity and religion, if not now?
Nuri Kino is an independent investigative multi-award-winning reporter and minority rights expert.
The views expressed in this article are the writer’s own.
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