This article was originally published by The Atlantic on October 11, 2024. You can read the original version here.
When Hezbollah’s leader, Hassan Nasrallah, was killed last month, my social-media feeds lit up with images and videos from Syria, my home country. In some areas, including Idlib and the suburbs of Aleppo, residents celebrated late into the night, blasting music and raising banners calling for Bashar al-Assad, the Syrian dictator, to be next. People handed out sweets; celebratory messages, memes, and phone calls flooded my WhatsApp. But the news channels broadcasting from just across the border captured something else: a wave of grief sweeping southern Lebanon.
The jubilation on one side of the line and the mourning on the other reflect our region’s deep complexity. For several years, Hezbollah ravaged the Syrian opposition on behalf of the autocratic Assad government. Its intervention left deep scars—displacement, destruction, and trauma, especially in the Damascus suburbs and Homs, which Hezbollah besieged. The Syrians who welcomed Nasrallah’s assassination were not exactly celebrating the Israelis who carried it out. But many of us felt that for once, the world had tipped in our favor.
Assad—and his father, the dictator Hafez al-Assad, before him—had made Syria the crucial geographical and political link between Iran and Hezbollah. The Lebanese Shiite militia could not have survived without the weapons, fighters, and funds that Tehran supplied by way of Syria. But in 2011, circumstances in Syria threatened this arrangement. Peaceful protests challenged the country’s autocracy; Assad met them brutally, and the country’s opposition transformed into an armed rebellion. Nasrallah saw little choice but to defend his supply line and political network. Hezbollah justified this intervention by framing it as a war against extremists, a fight against chaos, and a defense of Syria’s sovereignty against Western-backed militants. But on the ground, Hezbollah wasn’t just fighting armed factions; it was waging a war against the Syrian people.
Madaya, a small town near the Lebanese border, lay along Hezbollah’s supply route to Syria. Armed rebel fighters reached that town in 2015, and Hezbollah, together with Assad’s forces, encircled it, cutting off food and medical supplies. Within weeks, the people of Madaya were starving. A border town once home to markets for smuggled electronics and clothes transformed into a fortress of suffering. Some civilians resorted to eating leaves, grass, or stray animals. People foraging for food were shot by snipers or killed by land mines. At least 23 people, six of them babies younger than 1, died from starvation in Madaya in a little over a month, in December 2015 and January 2016. An international outcry did nothing to stop Hezbollah from continuing to enforce its siege.
Syrians tried to expose these horrors by posting stories and photos from Madaya on social media. But before long, supporters of Hezbollah and the Syrian government sadistically adopted the hashtag “in solidarity with the siege of Madaya” and posted photos of tables laden with grilled meat and fish, along with selfies in front of overloaded fridges. Despite numerous human-rights groups’ reports to the contrary, the government and Hezbollah claimed that the photos of starvation were fake, and that no civilians remained in Madaya anyway—just foreign agents and traitors whose deaths were necessary to save Syria.
Madaya remained under blockade until 2017, when Qatar, representing the rebel forces, and Iran, representing the Syrian government, brokered an evacuation deal relocating the survivors of the siege to opposition-held areas, such as Idlib. Worn down by hunger and bombardment, the evacuees were told to pack only one small bag each, and leave everything else behind.
Hezbollah was not kinder to other Syrian cities. In Aleppo, a relentless bombing campaign that was the joint work of the Syrian government, Russian forces, and Hezbollah destroyed neighborhoods, killed thousands of people, and wrecked infrastructure. Nasrallah called the contest for Aleppo the “greatest battle” of the Syrian war. He deployed additional fighters there to tighten the regime’s hold. Civilians were forced to evacuate—and as they did so, Hosein Mortada, one of the founders of the Iranian news channel Al-Alam and a propagandist embedded with Hezbollah, stood by and mocked them.
Mortada was already infamous among Syrians for turning media coverage into a weapon of psychological warfare. With his thick Lebanese accent and brutal livestreams from the battlefield, Mortada cheered missile strikes and referred to opposition figures as “sheep.” In one YouTube video, he sits in a big bulldozer and praises its power, then squats in the dirt with a toy truck, saying gleefully, “This bulldozer is better for some of you, because you don’t have anything.”
Many who endured the siege of their cities, only to have Hezbollah agents mock and question their suffering before international eyes, have little ambivalence about celebrating Nasrallah’s death. They view the Hezbollah leader’s fate with a tragic sense of justice: Finally, someone whose hands were stained with blood, and who seemed untouchable, was killed.
But as the prominent Syrian intellectual and dissident Yassin Al Haj Saleh often admonished, looking at the world solely through a Syrian lens only isolates us. For many of us Syrians who were active in the uprising and now live in exile, that warning has resonated since Nasrallah’s death. Both on social media and in private conversations, we question whether the justice felt in Nasrallah’s demise should be tempered with concern for the broader regional suffering. We ask: Is it moral to welcome Nasrallah’s killing if the cost is the destruction of Lebanon—a country already reeling from economic collapse, political mismanagement, and the Beirut port explosion just a few years ago? Nasrallah is dead—but for many Syrians who oppose Israel’s war in Gaza, which has killed thousands of civilians, the manner of his death made the event hard to celebrate. Dara Abdallah, a Syrian writer and poet exiled in Berlin, wrote on social media that he could not condone Nasrallah’s assassination, because the means—what appears to have been multiple 2,000-pound bombs rather than, say, a sniper’s bullet—demonstrated that “Israel has no problem eliminating an entire group of people in order to kill just one person.”
I worry that when the parties, memes, and trays of sweets are finished, Syria will be all the more isolated. Our country’s anguish has been pushed to the margins of global consciousness. Its regime has committed atrocities detailed in thousands of pages of documents that have yielded nothing but distant, largely symbolic trials in European courts. To live through all of this is to understand, in the deepest sense, that the world’s moral compass does not always point toward justice.
When the news of Nasrallah’s death broke, many Syrians felt, for a brief moment, that an elusive dream had taken material shape—that eliminating a figure like Nasrallah would somehow move us closer to peace, closer to righting the wrongs done to us. But the rising death toll in Lebanon also suggests a bitter truth. I am reminded of other moments in our region’s history—the deaths of Saddam Hussein and Muammar Qaddafi, for example—that seemed at first to render justice but only perpetuated the cycle of violence.
In our region, we sometimes feel as though accountability is destined to be followed by more destruction and bloodshed—as though we can never say that the scales have tipped in our favor without questioning the cost.
About the Author
Loubna Mrie is a Syrian writer based in the United States. She writes about Syria and the surrounding region, exploring themes of conflict, exile, and the human impact of war.
