Genocide Against Alawites in the Syrian Coast 7 / March / 2025

They came from the corners of the earth, faces we once knew, hands we once shook. They walked through the valleys with iron in their grip and silence in their hearts. The moon hid behind the clouds, unwilling to witness what unfolded beneath its pale light. The soil, once kissed by the feet of our ancestors, now drinks the blood of its own children. It does not resist, does not cry out—perhaps even the earth has grown tired of mourning. The wind carries the scent of decay, and the streets, those once filled with the laughter of children, now whisper only to the dead.

No shroud, no farewell, no sacred words spoken over their broken bodies. They lie where they fell, eyes frozen in disbelief, staring at the sky that refused to weep for them. Admist the rubble and ashes, a strange melody drifted through the horizon - not a wail, not a lament, but a mad hymn dancing to the rhythm of absence, as if the wind itself were celebrating the fading of all traces.

Brothers by blood, by language, by years of shared bread—how swiftly they became strangers with blades in their hands. The wells that once quenched our thirst now echo with screams that refuse to fade. The walls that once sheltered us now bear witness to betrayals written in the crimson ink of our veins.

I walk among the ruins of my heart, among the echoes of a land that once called me its own. But no more. It has been severed, the roots torn out with cruelty so cold, even the stones refuse to hold their warmth. This place, once a mother to us, has become an unmarked grave, a void where love has been buried alongside the slain.

Let them claim the dust, the mountains, the rivers that still run red. They can carve their names into the stones, but they will never carve themselves into our souls again. This land will always be ours, but we—oh, we are no longer hers. Humanity has been laid to rest here, and no one came to mourn.