Until the morning of Dec. 7, Rasha Khazem never believed that Bashar al-Assad could fall, let alone flee. “He would rather cause the death of the whole world than relinquish power,” recalls the young deaf woman, recounting the days leading up to the regime’s collapse. Her memories are conveyed through Farah al-Tall, a sign language interpreter, who translates Khazem’s signs into words.
Khazem, 23, lives with her deaf parents in a modest house in Asad al-Din, a slum on the outskirts of Mount Qasioun in Damascus. Throughout the war, the family faced compounded challenges; their inability to hear meant they lacked an early warning system for external dangers. This constant vulnerability made fear an ever-present part of their lives. They thought this fear was behind them after the regime declared Damascus and its surrounding countryside “secure and under the army’s full control” in May 2018. Although the capital remained largely untouched by violence after that, the family’s sense of security then unraveled overnight.
On Nov. 29, 2024, Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) and its allies in the armed opposition captured Aleppo, marking a dramatic turning point. Their forces continued a rapid advance southward, seizing Hama and Homs in quick succession. The collapse of regime forces in these key cities made the specter of violent battles in Damascus a terrifying possibility.
In response, Khazem and her family took precautionary measures. The most urgent task was ensuring a reliable power source to keep their cellphones charged, with devices always within reach and set to vibrate — a crucial means of alerting deaf individuals to calls or messages. They also established a “hotline” system with local sign language interpreters, particularly relying on al-Tall, who lived nearby.
Al-Tall’s parents cannot read or write, so their only sources of news are video clips with sign language explanations. According to al-Tall, the deaf community shares news rapidly, thanks to closed groups on Facebook and WhatsApp where members exchange written messages and video clips in sign language. Khazem, on the other hand, is literate, works as a sign language trainer, and leads a team called Creadeaf — a blend of the words “creative” and “deaf.”
Two nights before the regime’s collapse, the precautionary measures in Khazem’s household became more urgent, as fears grew of home invasions should armed opposition forces reach Damascus and encounter resistance from regime troops. The family’s focus shifted to guarding their front door, particularly during the night. Normally, they relied on special lighting connected to the doorbell that flashed to signal visitors, but frequent power outages had drained the house’s backup batteries, rendering the system useless. “We decided to take turns staying awake,” Khazem explains. “We divided the night into shifts so one of us could watch the door and monitor the incoming news.”
During her turn on the “guard shift,” as her father slept, a flood of notifications caused her phone to vibrate incessantly. One message stood out — a video from a deaf friend announcing that the regime had fallen. “I replied: ‘Impossible!’” Khazem recalls. Her emotions were conflicted: She wanted desperately to follow the event on television, but the house had no electricity. She called al-Tall to confirm the news circulating on social media, and Farah verified it.
At that moment, Khazem woke her father. “When he opened his eyes, I told him the regime had fallen,” she says. His response was disbelief: “This is impossible. Maybe it’s a trick. Maybe he’s hiding. Maybe it’s an ambush by the intelligence services. They’re strong and brutal; they must be planning something.” Overwhelmed with fear, Khazem’s father imagined catastrophic retaliation from the regime.
But as time passed, the family began to accept the truth: Assad had fled, and the regime had indeed fallen.
These moments intensified the horror that the Assad regime had engraved in the minds of Syrians for decades — a fear deeply rooted in the collective subconscious, ready to resurface at the first sign of turmoil. For Khazem and her family, that trigger was the regime’s withdrawal from Aleppo in late November.
Khazem followed the unfolding events in Aleppo through the deaf community there. “What happened in Aleppo heightened our fear, especially the reports of airstrikes by Russian and Syrian aircraft that caused civilian casualties,” she says.
Following the withdrawal of Syrian regime forces from Aleppo, most of the city’s residents were gripped by a fear of what might happen. This fear stemmed from two main concerns: First, how would HTS govern the city? Would they impose Sharia rule? Second, there was the fear of reliving a bloody chapter from Aleppo’s recent past. Between 2012 and 2016, the city endured massive destruction during a protracted battle, with the regime controlling the western neighborhoods and the armed opposition holding the eastern ones. Those eastern areas were devastated by explosive barrel bombs and joint airstrikes from Russian and Syrian forces.
Indeed, in the three days following the regime’s withdrawal, Russian aircraft launched a series of airstrikes targeting residential areas. These attacks starkly contradicted the regime’s media reports, which claimed the raids were “accurate and focused, targeting terrorist gatherings.”
Rezan Haddo, a Kurdish humanitarian activist from Afrin, experienced these events firsthand. “Most of the victims who arrived at the university hospital were civilians, including people I know well,” he explains, his voice trembling as he recalls the horrors of Friday, Nov. 29. On that day, he helped a relative move from the Al-Furqan neighborhood to Sheikh Maqsoud, an area often referred to as “Aleppo Kurdistan.”
Sheikh Maqsoud, predominantly inhabited by Syrian Kurds, had remained outside regime control in recent years. It was governed by the so-called Autonomous Administration and defended by the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF), which had successfully negotiated an uneasy balance of power with the regime. While the SDF maintained control over Sheikh Maqsoud, the regime retained a security presence in the city of Hasakah, preserving a fragile status quo.
Recent developments have heightened the fears of Aleppo’s Kurds, particularly concerns about being targeted on ethnic grounds. “The situation was unclear, and it wasn’t obvious which faction was leading the operation,” explains Haddo. The Kurds’ apprehension stemmed largely from the actions of opposition National Army groups, backed by Turkey, which committed numerous violations after taking control of Afrin in 2018. Although these groups participated in the recent military operation, the entry into Aleppo was led by HTS. So far, HTS has behaved differently than expected.
Ahmed al-Sharaa, the leader of HTS formerly known as Abu Muhammad al-Jolani, appears eager to rebrand the group and remove it from international and U.S. terrorist organization lists.
Despite these shifts, Aleppo’s Kurds remain wary, particularly as battles continue in northern and northeastern Syria between the SDF and National Army groups. While life in Sheikh Maqsoud proceeds as it did before, the atmosphere is marked by caution and anticipation, tempered by a general sense of relief following the regime’s collapse.
“When we heard of the regime’s fall, the feeling was strange — a mix of joy, anxiety and anticipation,” Haddo reflects. “Then came the images of atrocities from Sednaya prison and other detention centers, adding profound sadness to our already complex emotions.”
Haddo cannot separate his relief over the regime’s fall from broader concerns about communal peace and fears of what might unfold next, particularly in northeastern Syria and along the coast.
In the coastal city of Latakia, the fall of the regime reverberated loudly. For Juman (a pseudonym), the events evoked more than passing concern — they stirred a deep existential fear. A professional journalist who prefers to remain anonymous, Juman describes how the atmosphere of anticipation escalated in the days leading up to Assad’s flight.
“They were heavy days,” she recalls. “The fear was overwhelming, as was the sense that we needed someone to protect us — but there was no one.” Juman clarifies that her fears were not rooted in the common narrative about protecting minorities. “I’ve never categorized myself by sect or religion, and I dislike being classified that way. But we had no idea how the factions would treat us if they entered the city. Would they kill us? Would they take revenge on Latakia and its people simply because of the false belief that this is Assad’s stronghold?”
As rumors swirled and uncertainty deepened, Juman took strict precautions, imposing what she calls “house arrest” on her family. Her children stopped attending classes and activities, and her husband stayed home. “We weren’t the only family behaving this way,” she notes. “There were widespread fears and rumors that all males would be arbitrarily conscripted to defend the cities.”
The rapid escalation of events, coupled with a lack of logical sequence, heightened the panic in many parts of Syria, particularly in areas perceived as loyal to the regime. Few could imagine the regime’s collapse; instead, most believed that “the army must have a plan, and it will execute it at the right moment.” But that moment never came. In hindsight, the army seemed more like an illusion — an entity that vanished astonishingly quickly.
By the morning of Saturday, Dec. 7, tensions in Juman’s neighborhood had reached their peak. Her family decided to stock up on goods and basic necessities as a precaution while attempting to “live normally.” Yet confusion and anxiety grew by the hour, fueled by unreliable news and a flood of rumors mingled with opinions on social media. Even Juman’s role as a journalist offered little clarity amid the chaos.
“Many relatives and friends assumed I knew more than they did,” she says. “They asked me: What’s happening? What’s going to happen? I had only one honest answer: I don’t know!”
As night fell, the flood of news felt simultaneously credible and deniable, with two questions dominating the whispers: “Have the opposition factions really entered Damascus? Is the regime about to fall?”
Hours later, the streets provided an answer. “We heard gunfire, followed by takbeers and chants we’d never heard in our neighborhood before,” Juman recalls.
For the three days following the regime’s collapse, Juman and her family lived in constant dread, convinced that “someone could come to kill us at any moment.” This fear persisted despite reassurances from the new administration, which issued statements promising safety. “Even with their smiles and reassurances, I thought they were pretending to be kind while planning to kill us,” Juman admits.
Although the immediate fear of being killed has subsided, Juman is unsure whether her overall anxiety has lessened. “The fear of the unknown remains overwhelming,” she says.
Hours after they were certain of the regime’s fall, Khazem and her parents sat down for a spirited discussion. It was an animated exchange, despite the absence of spoken words. “We agreed that our lives might improve, but we also knew that challenges lay ahead — not only because we are Syrians but also because we are deaf,” Khazem explains.
She reflects on the previous regime’s claims of support for people with disabilities, dismissing much of it as propaganda. “There was some support, but it wasn’t fair. Even in addressing the needs of people with disabilities, there was selectivity and discrimination. I hope this will change — that we’ll have a voice, and not just be recipients and implementers.”
Accurate statistics on hearing disabilities in Syria are scarce. While government estimates placed the number of deaf individuals at around 20,000, sign language interpreter al-Tall suggests the actual figure “could be five times higher,” based on international surveys and estimates. The World Health Organization reports that approximately 5% of the global population experiences hearing loss, but al-Tall believes Syria’s rates are likely above average. This disparity is due to war-related injuries, as well as indirect factors such as an increase in underage marriages and the high prevalence of consanguineous marriages in some communities.
According to international organizations, around 28% to 30% of Syria’s population lives with some form of disability — double the global average of 15%.
Khazem looks to the future with cautious optimism, though she cannot shake her lingering fears. Laughing nervously, she admits that her greatest fear is “the return of Bashar al-Assad.” But then, her tone grows serious as she speaks of her concern about the potential for chaos and infighting among armed opposition factions.
Haddo voices a different set of anxieties. He worries about the entrenchment of the demographic changes that have reshaped Syria during the war, particularly the risk of preventing displaced people from returning to their homes. “This is especially true for those displaced from Afrin,” he explains, pointing to Turkey’s determination to impose a new reality in northern Syria.
Juman, meanwhile, is silent for a few moments before sharing her fears. “The future of my children is what worries me the most,” she says, her voice trembling. She recounts a moment of raw emotion on the morning of Dec. 8. At 7 a.m., overwhelmed with guilt, she rushed to embrace her children, crying and apologizing to them as they looked at her in confusion.
“I didn’t even know what I was apologizing for. All I knew was that I couldn’t protect them. Protect them from whom? From what? I don’t know.” She pauses before adding, “I wonder all the time: Are we in big trouble, or not?”
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