Latakia Erupts: Alawite Minority Faces Brutal New Regime Crackdown

Paul Riverbank, 12/31/2025Latakia erupts as Alawite minority faces regime crackdowns, sparking new protests and deepening divisions.

Since the upheaval that saw Bashar Assad—himself an Alawite—flee to Moscow, there’s been little that felt certain in Latakia. Power passed from one set of rulers to another: Hayat Tahrir al-Sham, formerly a banner for jihadist authority before its own fissures, installed Ahmed al-Sharaa—more often known as Abu Mohammed al-Jolani—as Syria’s new leader. Sharaa’s public remarks made gestures toward unity, but his rule brought a strict vision that left minorities, especially Alawites, feeling as if the ground had given way beneath them.

This latest unrest seemed to come to a head after the attack on Homs’ Ali ibn Abi Talib Mosque, a blast that claimed eight lives. This wasn’t just another tally in Syria’s long list of tragedies—it happened during Christmas week, when religious minorities already feel vulnerable. The government’s statement came swiftly: the usual suspects of “remnants of the old regime, ISIS, and outside collaborators” were blamed for trying to “shatter peace and unravel what remains of Syria’s shared fabric.” For many, though, the words landed hollow.

Latakia’s protests, spearheaded by Sheikh Ghazal Ghazal and the Supreme Alawite Islamic Council, marked a turning point. You could see posters in the crowd—handwritten, some just a few words: “Dignity,” “End the blood,” “Let us choose.” People from all walks gathered, particularly around Azhari Square. Elderly women, students clutching battered notebooks, men worried about missing relatives—everyone had their own story. But it didn’t take long before a festive sense of hope gave way to something colder. Chaos broke out, and networks like SOHR began reporting gunfire, commotion, and—by day’s end—a total of three fatalities, including a young man who was simply returning from his aunt’s house.

Official channels wasted no time pushing a different version. Within hours, SANA was broadcasting statements pinning blame on “remnants of the ousted regime,” saying that plainclothes “outlaws” started the violence. Familiar phrases resurfaced—accusations that demonstrators were attacking ambulances and emergency workers, hints of greater conspiracies beneath what appeared to be a peaceful assembly. Some witnesses in the city’s east said they watched protestors argue among themselves before shopfronts were smashed and a cascade of confusion followed—bladed weapons glinting, vehicles dented in the scramble, gunfire that seemed to come from a dozen directions at once.

Security forces rolled in as night fell, accompanied by tanks and armored vehicles unfamiliar even to some locals. An overnight curfew, starting at 5 pm, cloaked both Latakia and Tartus in an uneasy quiet, leaving only medical staff and urgent cases to move freely. Patrols focused on Alawite neighborhoods, amplifying the feeling among some residents that they were now under siege in their own homes.

Yet, in spite of—or perhaps because of—the repression, the protests, dubbed the “Flood of Dignity,” rippled out. Tartus saw its own gatherings, with parallel demands: justice, the end of arbitrary detentions carried out since Assad’s departure, and a call to halt what one sign called “collective revenge.” Kurds and Christians, whose ties to central power have always been uneasy, quietly signaled their own support for some form of autonomy. Across coffee shops and living rooms, questions tumbled over one another: Could these grievances finally give birth to a less centralized, more pluralist Syria? Or were the government’s heavy-handed tactics cementing a cycle of fear and division?

An off-the-record conversation with a teacher in Jableh summed up the mood. “All the state’s talk about unity—how are we supposed to believe it, when any voice raised for our safety is silenced by soldiers?” she asked, glancing nervously towards the shuttered window.

For now, government spokesmen continue to depict protestors as “would-be terrorists,” latching onto the country’s old wounds and warning of a return to chaos. Yet, with each crackdown, trust erodes a little more. Latakia’s new scars are reminders that, as every group jockeys for a place in the future Syria, the shadows of the old order loom—never quite letting go.

On a street in the heart of Latakia, the last traces of dusk had barely faded when gunshots started echoing through the city’s alleys—a sudden, jarring break in what used to be the calmest stretch of Syria’s coastline. By the time calm returned, three people were dead. The city, once considered a sanctuary for Syria’s Alawite minority, was changed, perhaps for good.Since the upheaval that saw Bashar Assad—himself an Alawite—flee to Moscow, there’s been little that felt certain in Latakia. Power passed from one set of rulers to another: Hayat Tahrir al-Sham, formerly a banner for jihadist authority before its own fissures, installed Ahmed al-Sharaa—more often known as Abu Mohammed al-Jolani—as Syria’s new leader. Sharaa’s public remarks made gestures toward unity, but his rule brought a strict vision that left minorities, especially Alawites, feeling as if the ground had given way beneath them.This latest unrest seemed to come to a head after the attack on Homs’ Ali ibn Abi Talib Mosque, a blast that claimed eight lives. This wasn’t just another tally in Syria’s long list of tragedies—it happened during Christmas week, when religious minorities already feel vulnerable. The government’s statement came swiftly: the usual suspects of “remnants of the old regime, ISIS, and outside collaborators” were blamed for trying to “shatter peace and unravel what remains of Syria’s shared fabric.” For many, though, the words landed hollow.Latakia’s protests, spearheaded by Sheikh Ghazal Ghazal and the Supreme Alawite Islamic Council, marked a turning point. You could see posters in the crowd—handwritten, some just a few words: “Dignity,” “End the blood,” “Let us choose.” People from all walks gathered, particularly around Azhari Square. Elderly women, students clutching battered notebooks, men worried about missing relatives—everyone had their own story. But it didn’t take long before a festive sense of hope gave way to something colder. Chaos broke out, and networks like SOHR began reporting gunfire, commotion, and—by day’s end—a total of three fatalities, including a young man who was simply returning from his aunt’s house.Official channels wasted no time pushing a different version. Within hours, SANA was broadcasting statements pinning blame on “remnants of the ousted regime,” saying that plainclothes “outlaws” started the violence. Familiar phrases resurfaced—accusations that demonstrators were attacking ambulances and emergency workers, hints of greater conspiracies beneath what appeared to be a peaceful assembly. Some witnesses in the city’s east said they watched protestors argue among themselves before shopfronts were smashed and a cascade of confusion followed—bladed weapons glinting, vehicles dented in the scramble, gunfire that seemed to come from a dozen directions at once.Security forces rolled in as night fell, accompanied by tanks and armored vehicles unfamiliar even to some locals. An overnight curfew, starting at 5 pm, cloaked both Latakia and Tartus in an uneasy quiet, leaving only medical staff and urgent cases to move freely. Patrols focused on Alawite neighborhoods, amplifying the feeling among some residents that they were now under siege in their own homes.Yet, in spite of—or perhaps because of—the repression, the protests, dubbed the “Flood of Dignity,” rippled out. Tartus saw its own gatherings, with parallel demands: justice, the end of arbitrary detentions carried out since Assad’s departure, and a call to halt what one sign called “collective revenge.” Kurds and Christians, whose ties to central power have always been uneasy, quietly signaled their own support for some form of autonomy. Across coffee shops and living rooms, questions tumbled over one another: Could these grievances finally give birth to a less centralized, more pluralist Syria? Or were the government’s heavy-handed tactics cementing a cycle of fear and division?An off-the-record conversation with a teacher in Jableh summed up the mood. “All the state’s talk about unity—how are we supposed to believe it, when any voice raised for our safety is silenced by soldiers?” she asked, glancing nervously towards the shuttered window.For now, government spokesmen continue to depict protestors as “would-be terrorists,” latching onto the country’s old wounds and warning of a return to chaos. Yet, with each crackdown, trust erodes a little more. Latakia’s new scars are reminders that, as every group jockeys for a place in the future Syria, the shadows of the old order loom—never quite letting go.