Massaudier of Lebanon – Hassan Suleiman huffed in the morning sun, sweating despite running to his shins under the weight of his shoulders, his backpack and a child sitting on full plastic bag across the Kabil River.
Behind him was his wife, mother-in-law and other relatives, heading badly to the riverbed. Behind them, more people, a growing line, have fled the violence that has engulfed their nation for the relative security of Lebanon.
It has been five days since clashes between the Alawites and Syrian government forces were left to sectarian massacres, transforming the emerald lush village of Tatas into a slaughterhouse.
Meanwhile, hundreds of civilians (nearly 1,000) were chased, tortured and shot dead, primarily vengeful, against Alawis, the Coreligionist of Bashar al-Assad. Many Hardline Sunni Muslims count Alawite members as pagans.
HTS officials argue that the situation is currently under control and that government-affiliated groups targeting civilians will be punished, but Suleiman, an Alawian farmer, had no chance.
His village, Ransiya, was only a mile and a half away from the river, which marked part of the Lebanon-Syrian border. It was close enough for him to make a terrible trip to get his belongings from his home. However, he kept his visits short and feared that if state-allied gunmen began to attack, he would not have enough time to escape.
“The government is a liar,” he said. “Yes, maybe it’s calm during the day, but at night they’ll come and slaughter you,” he glanced at the people gathered on the Syrian side of the river on Monday, undressing his shoes and rolling his pants before soaking them in the water.
Suleiman sighed.
He had come to Lebanon with another man on Friday. He said that if it was in his own right, he would risk returning to Syria.
But he had to think about his daughter. In his mind was a number of videos circulating enthusiastically among villagers, depicting what was said to be pro-government fighters lined up the residents, pushing them into their heads with AK-47 bullets.
“If someone from the government comes for us and you use your rifle to kill him, then you’re a (branded) criminal. Then you’re accountable and they’ll slaughter you.”
The other, if you don’t protect yourself, he said, “He will kill you. There’s no solution.”
Nearby was Abu Ali, 35, who had just crossed his wife and three sons. He escaped the first day of unrest, from the city of Tartus to his hometown of Sheikh Sayed, 22 miles north of the Lebanese border. He then decided to escape from the village as well.
“We left this morning as gunmen came to the Tartus building and they were told they were welcoming men from the combat era,” Abu Ali said, pointing to his son, all young men over the age of 18.
“In 30 minutes, all the villagers in this area are on this side. Araweet won’t stay there.”
During Syria’s nearly 14 years of civil war, Lebanon hosted around 1.5 million to 2 million Syrians. After Assad collapsed in November, approximately 260,000 people returned to Japan.
However, the recent uncertainty that has so far sparked around 7,616 Exodus records to Lebanon has been an unwelcome reversal for the authorities here.
“We received them because it’s a humanitarian situation, but our situation as a municipality is below zero,” said Ali Ahmad al-Ali, mayor of Masaudie, a village controlled by Alawite, near the narrow, shallow twist of the Kabir River. In a fat year, he has an annual budget of $220,000 to deal with the influx of refugees. But Lebanon’s multi-year currency crisis cut that figure to around $4,000.
“We have 550 families so far,” Al Ali said, adding that they have been evacuated to the massaudier mosque and schools and the homes of residents.
“And as I was talking to you, I was told that there would just be four or five new ones coming in. I can’t keep up.”
Sitting on a monotonous cinder block lined with a hair blanket and a thin mattress was Amar Sako, a farmer from the village of Kilbet Al Hammam.
“We had nothing from my house at 4am, but we had nothing to watch you wear,” Sako said, adding that the house was burned.
“They say they are chasing the loyalty of the administration. Is my child a loyalty to the administration? Is my wife a loyalist to the administration?”
The clash began on Thursday, apparently an attempt at an armed coup by Assad al-Sharah against President Assad Al-Sharah, when 16 security guards were killed in rural areas of Syria’s controlled coast, leading a coalition of Muslim factions to defeat Assad. Syrian network for human rights, or war monitor, SNHR, counted 172 security personnel killed by rebels.
As more security forces were surrounded and killed by pro-Assad militants, the government sought reinforcement and portrayed factions and armed gunmen.
They placed the Putsch mostly, but then many people turned their anger towards Alawis. (Arawis says that while some have benefited from their connections with the previous government, Assad’s chronism is ecumenical and benefits a small circle of people from all sects.)
The SNHR said 420 people were killed by government forces and allied factions. Another war monitor, the Syrian Human Rights Observatory, put the death toll among civilians in 973. Other activists say thousands have died.
Recently, Alshara ordered the establishment of a committee to investigate and punish violations against civilians.
However, in a climate where mistrust was the dominant sentiment, Sako and many others interviewed here claimed that government forces were assembled the massacres, planting bodies in uniforms, and planting guns on them to prove the military’s argument that it was fighting terrorism.
There was little evidence of that. Or there was little evidence that the loyalty of the pro-stakes was the Assad Loyalist who committed the worst offence to block the image of Al-Sharaa and attempts to gain international legitimacy.
However, reports of ongoing attacks were eagerly featured to enhance the competing narratives of rival camps. On one hand, the powerful former minority did not want to abandon its influence.
But for those walking across the Kabir River, their concerns are home and safe.
“We want international intervention. Russia, the United Nations – anyone. Kadija, who is in her 50s, staying with her sons at school and repeating a common view among the refugees here.