Jehad Nga for The New York Times
Ibtisam Ali Aboud (with her son Jafar) says that her husband, a Syrian Alawite, was killed by his Sunni friend.
The Damascus neighborhood known as Mezze 86 is a dense, dilapidated warren of narrow hillside streets adorned with posters bearing the face of Syria's president, Bashar al-Assad. The presidential palace is nearby, and the area is crawling with well-armed guards and soldiers. It is next to impossible to enter unless you are accompanied by government officials or well-known locals, almost all of them members of Assad's Alawite sect. I drove there on a quiet Friday morning in May, and we were stopped several times at checkpoints by young soldiers who examined our documents carefully before waving us on. When we arrived at our destination, in a small parking lot hemmed in by cinder-block towers, I emerged from the car to the suspicious glares of several middle-aged men in fatigues. "They are not expecting foreigners here," one of the men who accompanied me said. "The rebels are trying constantly to hit this place, because they know who lives here." He pointed to a damaged roof not far away. "A mortar struck very close the other day. A lady was killed just above us, and another just below."
Jehad Nga for The New York Times
Latakia, the capital of Syria's Alawite region.
To many Syrians, Mezze 86 is a terrifying place, a stronghold for regime officers and the ruthless paramilitary gunmen known as shabiha, or "ghosts." These are the men accused of carrying out much of the torture and killing that has left more than 90,000 people dead since the Syrian uprising began two years ago. Some of the older men living in the neighborhood are veterans of the notorious defense brigades, which helped carry out the 1982 massacre of Hama, where between 10,000 and 30,000 people were killed in less than a month. Yet Mezze 86 now emanates a sense of aggrieved martyrdom. The streets are lined with colorful portraits of dead soldiers; every household proclaims the fallen and the wounded and the vanished.
I went there to meet a woman named Ibtisam Ali Aboud, who had fled her home after her husband — a retired Alawite officer named Muhsin — was killed in February by rebels. Ibtisam is a woman of 50, but she looked 20 years older, her face a pale canvas of anxious lines over her long, black mourning cloak. Her son was with her, a timid-looking 17-year-old named Jafar. We spoke in a dingy, sparsely furnished room, with a picture of a bearded Alawite saint on the wall. "We never used to feel any distinction between people of different sects," Ibtisam told me. "Now they are ready to slaughter us." Her husband's killer was a car mechanic named Ayham, she said, who had eaten at their table and casually borrowed money from her husband only 10 days earlier, promising to pay it back soon. Someone had been slipping notes under their door — "Die, Alawite scum," "Get out, regime thugs" — and sectarian killings and kidnappings were growing more common; even Muhsin had narrowly escaped being taken captive by armed men. But he refused to listen to his wife's warnings when she told him that Ayham was working with Sunni rebel gunmen. "Ayham is my friend," he had told her. "This is Syria, not Iraq." One night he went out to run an errand and never came home. They found his body in the family car the next day, a bullet hole in his head. The family's small auto-repair shop was burned to the ground days later. Jafar said that he was on his way home from there when five men surrounded him. "We will cut you all to pieces if you don't get out," the men said. "You will follow your father to the grave."
The family fled their home on the capital's outskirts to Mezze 86, where they would be surrounded by other Alawites. "We are the ones who are being targeted," Ibtisam told me. "My husband did nothing. He was a retired officer volunteering at a hospital." Now, she said, she could barely afford to rent two cramped rooms with her four children. A dull artillery boom shook the coffee cups on the table where we sat. The men who took me to her, also Alawite, began to reel off their own stories of murdered friends and relatives, and of neighbors abducted by rebels. "You will find stories like this in every house, people killed, people kidnapped, and all because of their sect," one of them said. "They think all Alawites are rich, because we are the same sect as Bashar al-Assad. They think we can talk to the president whenever we like. But look how we are living!"
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