As-Suwayda: The Echo of Blood in a Fractured Unity

In the mountains of As-Suwayda, where rocks conceal the tales of centuries and voices slumber in the folds of the wind, new chapters are being written in the epic of blood and fire—chapters not so different from those inscribed with ink of longing and belonging in the chronicles of history. Time repeats itself, though with different faces and deadlier tools. Amid this bleak scene, As-Suwayda stands at a crossroads: either a genuine unity founded on justice and participation,´-or-a battleground for conflicts fueled by conspiracies and adorned with interests. What wounds the heart most is that blood is spilled in the name of unity, while forgetting that true unity cannot be imposed by force—it must be sown in hearts through equality.

On this land, long acquainted with moderation and patience, clashes have erupted between Bedouins and armed members of the Druze community. It was a deafening cry from the depths of history, a reminder that tensions have not been resolved, only accumulated. Blood was shed, homes destroyed, families displaced, and pain hidden behind sterile statistics. According to UN reports, over 87,000 people have been displaced and hundreds killed, including women and children, while hospital morgues can no longer accommodate the dead. The streets have turned into mosques of mercy. This brutal scene was not just a military confrontation, but a reflection of a deeper conflict, rooted in an old wound that never healed and a policy governed by brute force rather than wisdom.

Damascus, which dispatched its forces under the pretext of restoring stability, seemed to believe it had received the green light from Washington—relying on statements by envoy Thomas Barrack who called for a “unified state doctrine,” and considered the Baku security talks a license for action. But politics is never innocent, and international calculations are rarely simple. The Israeli response came swiftly and harshly, with airstrikes targeting Syrian army positions—as if to say, “Don’t meddle with Druze blood-;- there are red lines you shall not cross.” Israel, initially silent to preserve the image of peace promoted by the U.S. administration, suddenly shifted under internal pressure—especially from the Druze community within Israel—turning the bombing into a clear political message: control over southern Syria cannot be asserted without explicit approval.

Yet the bigger questions remain unanswered: what does it mean to build a state in the name of unity, only to weaponize that unity to suppress other communities? Is unity achieved by marginalizing minorities and neglecting their rights?´-or-is it by giving every component a voice and a place in decision-making? True unity lies not in the consolidation of arms, but in the unity of hearts, and in granting each party its right to participate without sectarian´-or-ethnic discrimination. What is painful is that Damascus, instead of listening to the voices within Syria, chose to tune in to external support—deepening the crisis and widening the gap between center and periphery, turning As-Suwayda into a stage for conflicts far larger than its geographical size.

A politics governed by the logic of force always breeds division and nurtures mistrust. The army, which entered As-Suwayda claiming to preserve national unity, merely reopened old wounds and scrambled the cards. The Bedouins withdrew under an agreement, but left behind a warning: “We will retaliate if the deal is violated.” This suggests the matter is far from resolved—it has merely been postponed. The war here is not merely between an army and a tribe, but between two visions of the state: one that seeks to impose unity from above, and another that demands genuine participation from below. And in this clash, the Syrian person remains the ultimate victim—killed twice: once by bullets, and again by the silence of institutions and nations.

The philosophical reflection this moment demands leads us to a deeper question: what does it mean to build a state under the banner of “order and system” if the first casualty is unity itself? A state is not merely institutions and borders—it is a spiritual entity composed of diversity, difference, and the lived experience of coexistence. When the state is reduced to a binary of “the center´-or-chaos,” the human dimension is lost, the law becomes a tool of repression, and unity a slogan for domination. This is where we need a different model—one that rethinks the very idea of the state, and grants every sect and ethnicity its rightful role in shaping the whole. This is not secession´-or-partition, but rather a recognition of reality and a respect for human rights.

In this light, the Druze dossier intersects with the Kurdish dream—a shared vision that sees unity not as suppression, but as plurality and participation. Like the Druze, the Kurds demand their right to be part of the state—not a patch of land ruled by force and forgotten in decision-making. A real state is one that gives each component its due, respects diversity, and recognizes that identity is not a threat, but a form of wealth. Any unity built on oppression is a fragile one, destined to collapse with the first gust of wind.

This is not just about politics—it is about humanity, about the spirit that links mountains to identity, and blood to homeland. Folk poetry, in its simple chant—"In each grain of our soil flows blood"—expresses a dream still far from reach: the dream of balance, where blood is not the currency of authority, but the spark for building true justice. Unity is not a prison, nor a weapon to wield against minorities—it is a shared space of freedom, where every group can breathe and express itself, without fear of erasure´-or-exclusion.

In the end, As-Suwayda is not just a geographical spot—it is a mirror reflecting all of Syria, and the dialectic of the struggle between unity and separation, power and justice, the center and the margins. Will the voices of communities be heard before more blood is spilled? Will Damascus understand that the Druze, the Alawites, the Kurds, and others possess an integrated consciousness that cannot be reduced to loyalty to the center? And will the Americans and Israelis grasp that a unity not built on justice is merely a sandcastle doomed to fall with the first breeze?

The answer lies not in force, nor in foreign interventions, but in wisdom—in listening to the voice of conscience, and rethinking the very idea of the state so it may become a homeland for all, not a prison for some. Writing, literature, and political struggle remain the only paths to planting the roots of peace—not a false peace cloaked in words, but a true peace built on truth, equality, and mutual respect.

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