In the early days of March, in what should have been a tranquil seaside enclave on Syria’s western coast, a tragedy of unspeakable horror unfolded. Over six harrowing days beginning Thursday, March 6, heavily populated Alawite-majority neighbourhoods in the coastal region were subjected to a systematic assault, bearing the unmistakable marks of ethnic cleansing. Armed factions, allegedly linked to the transitional government in Damascus, unleashed a wave of violence that claimed the lives of over one thousand civilians—men, women, children, and the elderly—according to the Syrian Observatory for Human Rights. Yet, the true toll remains unacknowledged by official authorities.
Now, survivors of what is being termed the Coastal Massacre are breaking their silence. Through painstaking documentation by Syrian author Rosa Yassin Hassan, these testimonies—poignant, raw, and devastating—are being published in Arabic by Daraj and in English by Untold Stories (Hikayat Ma Anhiqat), offering the world a glimpse into the abyss experienced by ordinary Syrians.
A Dawn of Terror
One survivor, identified under the alias Samir, a 31-year-old lawyer and humanitarian worker, recounted his descent into nightmare:
“Never did I imagine that the street I walked daily would be strewn with the lifeless bodies of friends, neighbours, and children—thirty-two souls lying at doorsteps, atop rooftops, even on the very path I had to tread. How I wished I could float above them, a cloud passing gently, a bird brushing them with its wings in mourning.”
Samir’s neighbourhood, Hayy Al-Qusour in the city of Baniyas—a district known for its affluence and interwoven Alawite and Christian communities—had long been a haven of coexistence. In recent years, it had also embraced internally displaced families from ravaged cities like Aleppo and Idlib, forging fragile but resilient bonds of unity. That fragile peace was shattered with a ferocity no one anticipated.
On the eve of the massacre, as Samir’s mother prepared the Ramadan evening meal, distant gunfire began to encroach upon their lives, growing louder and nearer with each passing moment. “That night,” he recalled, “we slept to the sound of artillery and woke to devastation.”
Masked Men and Unanswered Questions
By Friday morning, the horror was at their doorstep. Masked gunmen in desert fatigues, bearing military gear yet concealing their faces, stormed Samir’s building. “Why would soldiers of the state mask their identities?” he wondered. When the intruders demanded to know the family’s sect—“Are you Alawites or Sunnis?”—a deeper unease took hold. “Why should our army ask such a thing?” he asked, his voice haunted.
Though spared that day, Samir witnessed the street engulfed in flames, his neighbours’ homes burning, the air pierced by gunfire and chants of “Allahu Akbar,” cries that, in that moment, brought only terror.
The masked men returned the next day, their violence unrelenting. Disturbingly, homes belonging to Christian families and Sunni IDPs were left untouched, while Alawite households faced destruction. “How did they know?” Samir asked, reflecting on the precision of the attacks. “Were there informants among us? Was this carnage planned?” A friend later revealed that her father had been abducted after trying to shield a neighbour’s empty home from looting. “We know exactly whose door we’re knocking on,” his captors told him before vanishing.
In the massacre’s aftermath, many survivors questioned the conspicuous absence of public security forces, previously stationed nearby. “Where did they go?” Samir asked. “Were they not supposed to protect us?” In the midst of the carnage, a Red Crescent vehicle appeared, accompanied by public security. “We are here to collect the bodies,” they said, offering a chilling conclusion to the days of bloodshed.
Unrelenting Grief and a Haunting Farewell
For Samir and countless others, the massacre was not just a rupture of safety, but an obliteration of the very fabric of community and daily life. “To whom shall I now say, good morning?” he lamented. “The street is silent. The laughter of children is gone. The neighbours’ doors are closed forever.”
As Syria embarks on a tenuous transition under a new government, the scars of this massacre cut deep, raising urgent questions about justice, accountability, and the future of coexistence. The testimonies emerging from Baniyas are not merely recollections—they are cries for recognition, for mourning, and for the world not to look away.
This article was translated and edited by The Syrian Observer. The Syrian Observer has not verified the content of this story. Responsibility for the information and views set out in this article lies entirely with the author.
