From the battlefields of Idlib to the quiet ruins of Aleppo, Syria today stands as a paradox of survival—a nation ruled by the illusion of reform while imprisoned by the same machinery of coercion that tore it apart. Nearly fifteen years after the uprising began, the country is divided not only by geography but by truth itself: the truth of who governs, who suffers, and who still hopes that change is possible. The latest incarnation of power in Damascus and Idlib—the so-called “interim government” led by Ahmed al-Sharaa—promises reconstruction and moderation. Yet what it delivers is continuity: the same militant hierarchy dressed in civilian costume, the same war economy disguised as administration, and the same dependence on violence presented as stability.
Behind every speech about governance and recovery lies the legacy of jihad. Ahmed al-Sharaa, once known as Abu Mohammad al-Jolani, rose from the ranks of al-Qaeda in Iraq, pledged allegiance to Ayman al-Zawahiri, and later led al-Nusra Front before rebranding his movement as Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham. His ideological transformation, celebrated by some as pragmatism, is in fact a tactical metamorphosis designed to survive—not to reform. When he split from al-Qaeda, it was not because he renounced jihadist doctrine but because global pressure demanded a new façade. The result is a system that maintains the language of extremism while courting legitimacy from the very world it once declared war upon.
Two successive leaders of the Islamic State—Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi and Abu Ibrahim al-Hashimi al-Qurashi—were both killed inside al-Sharaa’s territory. Such coincidence is impossible without complicity. Either the leader of Syria’s northwest knew they were there and sheltered them, or he lacked any control over his own domain. In both cases, the claim to legitimacy collapses. A government that emerges from this soil can only reproduce the logic of the underground: secrecy, loyalty, and fear.
Within this environment, governance becomes an instrument of survival rather than service. The administrative structures in Idlib mimic the forms of a state—ministries, courts, police—but their substance remains coercive. Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, and independent Syrian monitors describe the same pattern: arbitrary detentions, disappearances, censorship, forced morality codes, and restrictions on women. These are not the errors of an immature democracy but the deliberate instruments of control. Economic life follows the same logic. Markets are monopolized by HTS-linked businessmen; cross-border trade through Bab al-Hawa is taxed like a fiefdom; humanitarian aid is repackaged and resold. What was once jihad for ideology has become jihad for profit.
To the outside world, al-Sharaa’s rhetoric of moderation is seductive. Western diplomats, weary of endless conflict, see in him a potential partner—a Sunni leader who might counterbalance Iranian influence. But the illusion collapses under law. Al-Sharaa remains designated by the U.S. Treasury as a Specially Designated Global Terrorist under Executive Order 13224. That label is not symbolic; it freezes his assets, bans his travel, and criminalizes any financial dealings with him. International reconstruction institutions—the IMF, World Bank, and UN development agencies—cannot legally transact with a government he leads. Under such conditions, Syria’s recovery becomes impossible. Every foreign investor faces the same barrier: to build in Idlib is to finance terrorism.
The paradox deepens when one considers al-Sharaa’s diplomacy. He now speaks of cooperation with Iran, the same power his movement once anathematized. He reaches out to Turkey and Qatar while suppressing pro-Turkish factions within his own ranks. His ideological compass spins toward whoever offers protection. In that shifting opportunism, Syria’s sovereignty dissolves. The country becomes an arena where foreign patrons trade influence over the ruins of a state. Tehran uses Syria as a corridor to Lebanon; Ankara sees it as a buffer against the Kurds; Moscow defends its Mediterranean base; Washington maintains its sanctions. None of them offer a roadmap to peace.
Yet amid this exhaustion, a new figure has re-entered the conversation—Brigadier General Manaf Tlass, a career officer once close to Bashar al-Assad, who defected in 2012 and refused to take part in the regime’s massacres. Tlass represents an idea long absent from Syrian discourse: that change can come from professionalism, not ideology. His proposal for a Transitional Military Council seeks to unite defected army officers, Kurdish representatives, and moderate opposition under one national command. The aim is not conquest but reconstruction—a neutral force that can secure cease-fire zones, disarm militias, and prepare the country for civilian governance under UN Resolution 2254.
Unlike those who weaponized faith, Tlass speaks the language of citizenship. He does not deny the crimes of the Assad era; he acknowledges them as the price of silence. He calls for transitional justice, truth commissions, and the reintegration of refugees. For the first time in years, a Syrian voice speaks not in the name of sect or faction, but of a state that belongs to all. It is not charisma that sets him apart but coherence: a man who understands both the army he served and the people it betrayed.
The contrast between the two men—al-Sharaa and Tlass—captures the essence of Syria’s choice. One promises salvation through continuity, the other through change. One is anchored in illegality, the other in legitimacy. The first offers a future of permanent militias and economic dependency; the second imagines the revival of national institutions and a secular order. The world, too, faces a choice. To engage with a terrorist administration is to endorse paralysis. To support a transitional structure is to risk involvement—but also to create the first conditions for peace.
The consequences of inaction are not abstract. Every month that Idlib remains under HTS control, new generations grow up in a culture of surveillance and indoctrination. Schools teach obedience instead of thought. Young men find identity only in arms. Women disappear behind walls of fear. Refugees lose hope of return because the Syria that awaits them no longer resembles a homeland. A conflict once defined by ideology has turned into one of demography: the replacement of citizens with subjects, of belonging with submission.
For the international community, moral clarity must precede political convenience. The question is no longer whether al-Sharaa can be “moderated,” but whether the world is willing to normalize a state that criminalizes dissent and profits from chaos. The price of appeasement is measured not only in dollars but in generations. Every compromise with illegitimacy deepens the conviction that violence pays.
Syria’s salvation will not come from slogans of reform or selective diplomacy. It will come from the re-creation of lawful authority, the re-establishment of institutions, and the recognition that no peace can stand on foundations of terror. The path outlined by Manaf Tlass is not perfect, but it is practicable. It builds on existing military structures, introduces accountability, and aligns with international law. It restores the idea that a Syrian state can exist without fear.
Fifteen years of war have turned Syria into a laboratory of despair. Its people have endured chemical attacks, siege, hunger, and betrayal. Yet within that devastation survives a stubborn will to live. The bazaar still opens, children still learn, and music still drifts from the cafés of Damascus and Hama. What they await is not another faction, but the return of a state.
Between illusion and renewal, Syria stands at its narrowest bridge. The mirage of reform cannot forever substitute for justice. The international community must decide whether it prefers the comfort of denial or the challenge of reconstruction. History will not remember who held Idlib; it will remember who dared to rebuild Syria.
