LGBT Syrians Are Being Hunted by Their Neighbors
When Syrian President Bashar al-Assad was ousted in late 2024 after more than two decades of authoritarian rule and civil war, some outside observers hailed the end of an era. For a moment, hope flickered: hope for democracy, civil rights, and long-awaited societal transformation. But what followed was not peace. In the power vacuum left behind, Syria has descended into a state of lawlessness and violent fragmentation. Armed factions now rule by force, and reports from the ground paint a grim picture: roving militias target religious and sexual minorities with impunity, and a climate of fear permeates daily life. Yet little of this reality has broken through to the West.
In regions like Latakia and Tartus, where Alawite people (Assad’s ethnic group) are the majority, sectarian violence has surged. Thousands have been killed in retaliatory attacks against those perceived to be Assad loyalists by dint of their ethnicity. Western Syria has also seen a fierce Assadist insurgency, where regime loyalists have launched deadly attacks against the interim government. Meanwhile, ISIS has taken advantage of the security vacuum in the east to stage a resurgence, further destabilizing the country. In the south, Sweida — home to the Druze minority — has plunged into chaos, where criminal networks thrive amid a collapse of central authority.
And in the midst of the madness, LGBT Syrians live in terror. Of the transitional government, yes, but also of their neighbors.
“I low-key feel that I was more comfortable when the government, the ex-government, was still in charge,” Ibrahim, a 23-year-old gay man living in Damascus, told me. “It wasn’t fully safe, but it wasn’t this. Now, we don’t know who to fear more — the new militias or the people we used to call neighbors.”
Ibrahim is part of a community that has long lived in the shadows. Under Assad, “queerness” was taboo, and same-sex relations were criminalized under Article 520 of the Syrian Penal Code. But while arrests did happen, they were sporadic. There was a kind of unspoken détente — the Assadist version of “don’t ask, don’t tell”, the former US military policy that let gay and bi people serve as long as they didn’t state their sexuality and no one asked.
“Before, we had to be cautious, but we could exist,” Ibrahim explained. “I had my group. We had Batouma, a place where people from the community would meet, drink, and play music. A few of us were even openly out. They might get arrested once or twice, but they didn’t get hurt. Not like now.”
What changed after Assad fell was not just the political order, but the structure of law enforcement. With the collapse of centralized power came an explosion of armed factions — each with its own vision for Syria’s future. Some of these militias, especially in conservative Sunni-dominated areas, have made it their mission to purge what they view as moral deviance.
“They were hunting us,” Ibrahim said of the wave of violence that began within weeks of Assad’s ouster. “They caught four to six people — trans people mostly, because they’re visible. One woman was beaten in a car and nearly stabbed. [Videos of the attack] went viral. I knew someone who knew her. That was when we all stopped going out.”
Francois Zankih, Founder and Director of the Guardians of Equality Movement (GEM), a Syrian LGBT-led organization, confirmed the escalation. “Since the fall of the Assad regime, we’ve seen a 70% increase in urgent protection requests,” he told me. “That includes threats, arrests, and demands for emergency relocation.” But Francois was clear: “This is not because the Assad regime was protecting us. On the contrary — Assad’s government systematically criminalized LGBT people, imprisoned them under Penal Codes 520 and 517, and tortured many of us. I was arrested and tortured twice myself — once at age 16, again in 2018. I still carry the scars.”
Francois fled Syria in 2020 after being issued a death sentence for his activism, which spans LGBT rights, political reform, and human rights advocacy. From exile, he rebuilt GEM and now oversees five core programs: emergency response, advocacy, digital security, mental health, and capacity building for Syrian LGBT individuals.
Source: New York Times.
Reem, a 24-year-old lesbian and IT student, told me she now lives a “double life.” One version of herself is public and cautious; the other is hidden, private, and online.
“It’s hell here,” she said quietly over a WhatsApp call, speaking from her bedroom in Damascus. “I’d rather die than live a lie.”
Reem found her first community through a Facebook group called “Safe Space.” She’s only met four LGBT people in real life. Most of her romantic life has played out online, with brief, painful glimpses of something more. Many worry about being entrapped into fake online romances orchestrated by those who wish them harm.
Today, Reem is focused on one thing: escape. She’s finishing her bachelor’s degree and applying for scholarships abroad, hoping to secure a future in a country where she can live openly. When asked if she ever dreams of getting married one day, she allowed herself a brief moment to hope.
“When you asked me about marriage, I put my hand over my mouth and smiled,” she told me. “I dream about it. Maybe one day it’ll come true. Or maybe I’ll kill myself before it happens.”
She said this not for dramatic effect, but as a matter of fact. When I shared with her that I am a woman about to marry my future wife, she didn’t respond with bitterness or jealousy. She wept and congratulated me. To know that couples like my fiancée and me exist gives her hope. Halfway through our conversation, she moved to the basement of her family home, speaking in hushed tones, concerned that her family might overhear us. It was after midnight in Syria, and her mental state had been worsening over the past few months. She agreed to speak with me because she wants her story to be told.
A New State of Decentralized Terror
While the international community debates what comes next for Syria, a new kind of authoritarianism has taken hold — one defined less by central planning and more by decentralized terror. In the absence of a strong, cohesive state, fragmented militias, religious extremists, and local warlords have filled the leadership void, each imposing their own version of order through fear. This shift from institutional oppression to anarchic violence has made Syria even more dangerous for minority groups. LGBT Syrians, in particular, have become scapegoats and easy targets in a society increasingly ruled by unchecked armed actors. Without any semblance of legal protection or community support, many live in hiding, constantly navigating threats from both formal authorities and informal networks of violence. For them, the collapse of the Assad regime marks a new chapter of fear and invisibility in a country where being gay, bi, or trans can be a death sentence.
“The new government, if you can even call it that, doesn’t care about us,” Ibrahim told me. “They aren’t even pretending to tolerate [this widespread violence]. They’re just letting it happen. Militias do what they want.”
Francois described it as a "destabilized landscape of fragmented authorities", adding: “Today’s threats don’t stem from a single regime, but from lawlessness and societal hatred. Our community is not just targeted by official bodies, but by neighbors, by civilians.”
Despite the new leadership’s Islamist stance against alcohol, bans on LGBT gathering spaces, and growing religious extremism in some areas, Francois cautioned against nostalgia for the Assad era. “Yes, people are missing their old freedoms — beer, bars — but we must remember: Assad’s Syria was a state of systemic torture. He arrested American citizens without fear. He didn’t need the law to destroy lives.”
Even so, Francois sees signs of hope. “People can speak now. People are printing things on walls, posting openly on Facebook. Before, just having a conversation was dangerous. And the towns are no longer isolated. We’re more connected. We can document, organize, and share the truth.”
He pointed to the freeing of two LGBT prisoners as a meaningful shift. “We know of at least two people who were released from long-term detention [once Assad was overthrown] — one of them, a woman, had been jailed for years. And she’s free now.”
Still, fear persists. Francois stressed that the most dangerous actors today are often not official authorities, but society itself. “It was a neighbor’s complaint that led to a birthday party being raided. We’ve had cases where people were tortured and released the same day — but the real punishment comes from the public, from the stigma.”
Despite recent diplomatic overtures between the US, Turkey, and regional actors about the “post-Assad transition”, human rights — especially LGBT rights — have remained largely absent from the new leadership’s agenda.
Francois’s organization is pressing forward nonetheless. “We focus on strategic visibility, not random exposure. We offer mental health care tailored to survivors of war and torture. We’re also training LGBT Syrians in remote work so they can escape local discrimination by tapping into global markets. It’s not just survival. It’s resilience.”
Ibrahim and Reem both emphasized how isolated they feel — not just within Syria, but from the rest of the world.
“We got tired of asking for help,” Ibrahim said. “Easterners in general, but especially people like us in the community. We don’t expect anything anymore.”
A Heavy Toll Beneath a Crushing Weight
The psychological toll of this environment cannot be overstated. In both interviews, Ibrahim and Reem spoke openly about depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts.
“I’m severely depressed,” Ibrahim told me. “I feel like I have nothing to lose. I’m at zero. If anything happens, it’s either a zero or a one. Zero is what I have. One is escape.”
Reem echoed this sentiment:
“I can’t show my loved one to my father. I can’t even say her name. You know that feeling when straight girls talk about their boyfriends, and you realize you’ll never get to do that? That’s what it’s like every day.”
Even popular culture offers no refuge. While both Ibrahim and Reem recalled a Syrian TV series featuring a trans character, they said it was treated more as a myth than a real story. “It wasn’t about a trans man,” Reem said. “It was about something sick, something strange. No one took it seriously.”
Francois and his team at GEM are working to shift that narrative. “We’re building our own storytelling. We’re publishing reports, evidence, and even videos. We’re trying to make the invisible visible, without getting anyone killed in the process.”
The events transpiring in Syria are yet another sober reminder that toppling authoritarian regimes is not sufficient on its own to guarantee human rights. When it comes to protecting people’s most fundamental freedoms, anarchic fragmentation fares little better than brutal dictatorships. Liberal democracy, for all its flaws, remains the only proven path to human rights. But the citizens of the liberal West have grown increasingly consumed by internal squabbles and blind to much of the world. What LGBT Syrians want is not pity. It’s recognition.
“I just want people to know we’re here,” Reem said. “That we exist.”
“People ask if I feel ashamed of being gay,” Ibrahim added. “If I’m okay with going to hell for loving someone. That’s the kind of questions we get. Even from ‘allies.’ But the truth is — we’re tired. We don’t want to explain ourselves anymore.”
When asked what message he would send to people in the West, Ibrahim was blunt:
“Don’t forget us. Everyone has their battles — just because ours is life or death doesn’t mean theirs isn’t real. But I do wish they knew what we go through. Maybe they’d scream a little louder on our behalf.”
Reem and Ibrahim’s names have been changed to protect their safety.
Published May 16, 2025
