Assad’s Legacy and the Failure of a Syrian Homeland

From the Defense Brigades to jihadist militias, Syria’s rulers have behaved less like nation-builders and more like occupiers of their own country.

In the 1970s and early 1980s, members of the infamous Saraya al-Difa’ (Defense Brigades), led by the late President Hafez al-Assad’s brother Rifaat, roamed Syria’s urban centers like a law unto themselves—ignoring social norms and traffic rules, stealing from street peddlers, harassing young women leaving school, and terrorizing civilians with impunity. No one dared intervene.

The overwhelming majority of these men were Alawites, including some Murshidis—a heterodox offshoot of Alawite Islam whose adherents carried a potent sense of historical grievance, particularly toward Syria’s Sunni majority. They blamed Sunnis for the 1946 execution of their founder, Salman al-Murshid, who was accused of treason and blasphemy soon after Syrian independence. The charges were clearly political: Murshid had agitated for an independent Alawite state along the coast, and though he later renounced the idea publicly, his popularity and unorthodox theology made him a threat not only to the new Sunni-dominated authorities in Damascus, but also to other Alawite elites.

In the eyes of Murshidis—and indeed many Alawites—the details of Murshid’s trial and execution mattered less than the identity of those they believed responsible. Sunnis bore the blame. This sectarian lens, reinforced by a long history of marginalization under Ottoman rule (which privileged Sunni Islam), shaped Alawite perceptions of power and vulnerability in the new republic. While much of Syria’s post-independence press and intellectual elite chose to ignore or downplay sectarian undercurrents, the cycles of military coups, counter-coups, and purges—particularly in the army and intelligence services—were often driven by sectarian and regional considerations.

The Muslim Brotherhood saw what others preferred to deny. Their own factional predilections made them adept at recognizing those same impulses in others. When Hafez al-Assad seized power in 1970 in a coup d’état he dubbed the Corrective Movement, the implications were unmistakable to them: a member of a historically persecuted minority had captured the levers of power in a Sunni-majority country. This was unacceptable to them. Since neither side was interested in leaving such decisions on governance to the ballot box, a violent showdown was inevitable.

By 1976, the Brotherhood’s agitations, sporadic terrorist attacks, and assassinations morphed into an armed insurgency, aided in part by Saddam Hussein’s Iraq—another Ba’athist regime, but one where a Sunni leader now ruled over a Shia majority. Assad and Saddam despised and distrusted each other, and the Sunni–Shia/Alawite dynamic added another layer of animosity.

Meanwhile, peaceful opposition to Assad’s regime persisted among various leftist and civil society groups—but their struggle was quickly eclipsed by the violent confrontation with the Brotherhood. The regime framed the entire crisis as a war against “terrorists” aligned with the West and Zionism. In response to growing unrest, Assad unleashed the army, including the Defense Brigades. The conflict reached its brutal apex in 1982, when Brotherhood fighters barricaded themselves in the city of Hama. Government forces laid siege, bombarded the city, and ultimately stormed it—killing between 15,000 and 40,000 civilians, destroying much of the old architecture, and crushing the spirit of rebellion through mass executions, rape, and collective punishment.

From that point on, the Assad regime governed Syria not just through repression, but as a settler-occupier. It relied on Alawite officers and soldiers to police cities where tensions festered beneath the surface. Alawites, who had traditionally lived in coastal and mountain villages, were settled in newly built suburbs surrounding major cities—a demographic reshaping that further alienated them from local populations. Though most Alawites remained poor and dependent on the state, their overrepresentation in the military, intelligence services, and public sector—including scholarships and foreign study programs—fueled widespread resentment.

By the time the 2011 revolution erupted, the regime’s divisive tactics were tragically predictable. Many Alawites, across clans and class lines, rallied to Assad—not necessarily out of love and loyalty, but out of fear and fatalism. The regime’s propaganda found fertile ground among a community that had long been primed to believe that their survival depended on Assad’s rule.

The opposition’s early commitment to nonviolence, civic discourse, and inclusive citizenship was quickly overshadowed by the presence of the Muslim Brotherhood in its ranks—despite the irony that the Brotherhood had only recently been engaged in Turkish-sponsored dialogue with the regime itself. For Assad, holding quiet talks with the Brotherhood was a pragmatic move; for the opposition to include them openly was a liability that played straight into the regime’s narrative. The Brotherhood’s organizational strength and external support ensured their presence, and soon, they too had militias.

But the revolution’s trajectory was ultimately hijacked not just by the Brotherhood or the regime, but by an international free-for-all. Foreign powers, each pursuing their own interests, helped turn Syria into a battlefield for rival ideologies and agendas. In time, it was the Salafi jihadists—a religiopolitical Sunni Islamist ideology that seeks to establish a global caliphate through armed struggle—who emerged dominant across large swaths of territory.

Today, these fighters patrol the streets of cities they often don’t belong to—and where their presence is unwelcome, or no longer welcome, though few would dare say so. Many carry distorted, romanticized versions of history, shaped by ideology and trauma. They see themselves as liberators, entitled to recognition, obedience, and the spoils. Locals regard them with suspicion, if not fear. Most hail from Idlib province or from abroad—including Central Asia, the North Caucasus, and China’s Uyghur regions. All are Sunni. But even when patrolling Sunni-majority neighborhoods, their presence feels like that of an occupying force. Trauma runs deep, and appeals to pan-Sunni solidarity ring hollow. In this country, strangers rarely inspire feelings of safety—and everyone becomes a stranger the moment they leave their village or neighborhood.

Hyper-local belonging is a hallmark of deeply traditional societies. And beneath the layers of modernity and the ideological slogans of the Ba’ath Party and its political partners, Syrian society—indeed, Syrian societies—remain profoundly traditional. The idea of a shared Syrian homeland—where all are welcome and none are a stranger—remains a precarious, unfinished project.

And to many, it now feels like a failed one.

How could it not, when some parts of the country are treated like conquered lands, and others as lands yet to be conquered?

Swapping socialism for Islamism, or Alawite Shabbiha thugs for Sunni jihadist enforcers, may impose a semblance of order in some areas while provoking rebellion in others. But in every case, it cannot heal, endure, or rebuild. Only a genuine sense of patriotism, anchored in equality, accountability, and the rule of law, can offer a sustainable future.

The Assad regime’s decades-long survival depended on geopolitics that no longer apply. The world itself is changing. In this emerging global order, even powerful actors are no longer shy about using chaos and violence to get their way. Assad’s old tactic—threatening regional instability if he is challenged—has lost its edge. Syria’s new rulers should make a note of that as they ponder their options. Chaos is now a currency traded by all.

If Syria is to avoid perpetual collapse—if the project of building a shared homeland is to succeed—it must adopt a new structural paradigm rooted in inclusivity, decentralization, and genuine power-sharing. Nothing less will do.

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