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Hamas’ Management of the Hostage Crisis: Time Works Against the Deal

A blimp-shaped balloon launched by families and supporters of Israeli hostages held by Hamas in Gaza, flies over the prime minister's office, in Jerusalem, 02 December 2024. EPA/ABIR SULTAN
A blimp-shaped balloon launched by families and supporters of Israeli hostages held by Hamas in Gaza, flies over the prime minister's office, in Jerusalem, 02 December 2024. EPA/ABIR SULTAN
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Hamas’ Management of the Hostage Crisis: Time Works Against the Deal

A blimp-shaped balloon launched by families and supporters of Israeli hostages held by Hamas in Gaza, flies over the prime minister's office, in Jerusalem, 02 December 2024. EPA/ABIR SULTAN
A blimp-shaped balloon launched by families and supporters of Israeli hostages held by Hamas in Gaza, flies over the prime minister's office, in Jerusalem, 02 December 2024. EPA/ABIR SULTAN

After more than 420 days of the most devastating war in Palestinian history, the people of Gaza, who have lost their land, lives, homes, and loved ones, still struggle to understand what exactly happened. What did Hamas aim to achieve with its surprise attack on Israel on October 7, 2023? The offensive reshaped the region and opened the gates to war and sweeping changes.

The only clear outcome so far is that Gaza has become unlivable. The survivors, who have lost nearly 50,000 people in the ongoing war and seen over 100,000 wounded, are left with indescribable pain.

If the residents of Gaza—and perhaps those in the West Bank, Lebanon, and other areas—are uncertain about Hamas’ intentions, they at least hope that the results, no matter how delayed, will be proportional to the losses. The only compensation for such sacrifices, they believe, would be the establishment of a state. But did Hamas genuinely seek statehood?

Hamas claims the attack marked the start of a liberation campaign. However, it focused on certain key issues: addressing the “stagnation” in the Israeli prisoner file, protesting repeated Israeli security force violations against Palestinian detainees, and countering increased aggression in Jerusalem and Al-Aqsa Mosque, as well as escalating settlement activity.

Hamas has also stated it aimed to preemptively strike to deny Israel the chance to surprise Gaza and to bring the Palestinian cause back to global attention.

A Hamas source told Asharq Al-Awsat: “These were valid and sufficient reasons for the movement to launch the attack, but the plan spiraled out of control.”

“The primary goal was to capture Israeli soldiers and broker a historic prisoner exchange deal. The other reasons were secondary. Even the main planners did not expect the Israeli forces to collapse so quickly, which allowed more resistance fighters to push into other areas within a short period. This expanded the scope of the operation beyond what was originally planned,” the source added.

Since its establishment in the late 1980s, Hamas has been fixated on liberating Palestinian prisoners through force.

In the early 1990s, shortly after its founding, Hamas managed to kidnap soldiers in the West Bank, Gaza, and Jerusalem, killing them without negotiation. In 1994, Hamas operatives abducted a soldier in Ramallah, broadcasted images and messages, and demanded a prisoner swap before Israeli forces raided the location, killing everyone inside.

Over the past few decades, Hamas has persistently pursued this goal, culminating in the 2006 abduction of Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit near Gaza. Shalit was held until 2011 when a major exchange deal freed him in return for 1,000 Palestinian prisoners, including Yahya Sinwar, who later spearheaded the October 7 attack to secure the release of remaining prisoners.

Hamas remains the only group to have successfully kidnapped Israelis inside Palestinian territories, unlike others who managed such operations abroad.

A Hamas source stated: “The movement’s leadership, particularly its political bureau chief Yahya Sinwar, has always prioritized the prisoner issue, seizing every opportunity to release as many as possible.”

“Sinwar had promised his comrades upon his release in the Shalit deal to secure their freedom,” the source added.

Indeed, Sinwar had sought a deal for four captives held by Hamas: soldiers Hadar Goldin and Oron Shaul, captured in 2014, along with Avraham Mengistu, who crossed the Gaza border that same year, and Hisham al-Sayed, who also infiltrated from the border.

Hamas’ Tactics Before and After

Between 2014 and 2023, Hamas tried every strategy, proposing comprehensive deals and humanitarian exchanges and pressuring Israel by releasing videos of captives. Before the war, Hamas released a video of Mengistu, in which he said: “I am Avera Mengistu, the prisoner. How long will I remain in captivity with my friends? Where are the state of Israel and its people regarding our fate?”

Hamas has consistently used video releases to pressure Israel into prisoner swaps, a tactic it amplified during the current war. Over the past year, the group released multiple videos of Israeli captives to exert pressure on both the Israeli government and the families of detainees.

Most recently, Hamas released footage of dual US-Israeli citizen Aidan Alexander, who appealed to President-elect Donald Trump and Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu to negotiate his release and that of others in a prisoner exchange deal. Alexander warned that his Hamas captors had received new instructions if Israeli forces reached them, implying the possibility of his execution. He urged Israelis to protest daily to pressure their government to agree to a deal and end the war in Gaza.

Hamas’ latest video claims that 33 captives were killed and others went missing due to decisions made by Netanyahu and the Israeli army. It warned that continuing the war might lead to the permanent loss of captives.

A movement insider remarked: “When efforts for a deal failed, Hamas resorted to military action on October 7 to revive the issue.” However, the results were far from what Hamas had hoped for.

Most observers believe Hamas initially planned to capture a limited number of Israelis, forcing Israel into a short conflict that would result in a prisoner exchange, similar to the Shalit operation.

But the flood Hamas unleashed instead brought catastrophe upon Gaza, which has been devastated and paid an exorbitant price far exceeding its intended objectives.

A Growing Debate

Voices in Gaza are increasingly questioning whether the release of prisoners justifies the immense destruction. Many argue that the number of casualties now far exceeds the number of prisoners—around 6,000 before the war.

Fared Abu Habl, a displaced Palestinian from Jabalia now in Khan Yunis, said: “All we want is for this war to stop. Nothing can compensate for the enormous price we’ve paid—not even the release of all prisoners can restore our dignity as we languish in tents with nothing to feed our children.”

He added: “Who is responsible for this? If the prisoners themselves were asked, they might sacrifice their freedom to end this bloodshed.”

However, Manal Yassin argues that Israel and Netanyahu are primarily to blame for prolonging the war, rejecting every solution Hamas has offered. She believes Hamas has shown considerable flexibility but that Israel remains unwilling to negotiate.

This debate has spilled over to social media, with many voicing frustration. Writer Mahmoud Judeh lamented on Facebook: “The situation defies logic—hunger, fear, and rain-drenched misery in Gaza. This relentless suffering for nothing but humiliation.”

Dr. Fadel Ashour noted: “Hamas’ futile persistence is costing us dearly—our blood and the flesh of our children.”

Such public debates have extended to politicians and religious figures. Sheikh Suleiman Al-Dayeh, a prominent Islamic scholar aligned with Hamas, sparked controversy by criticizing the war’s toll. While defending the October 7 attack, he acknowledged its devastating impact on Gaza and called for reflection.

His comments drew mixed reactions, with some branding him a “defeatist.”

Hamas insiders admitted that the scale of the October 7 operation exceeded expectations, particularly regarding the extent of Israel’s retaliation. They conceded that if the planners had foreseen the consequences, they might have reconsidered the operation.

Negotiating a prisoner swap with Israel now appears more complicated than Hamas anticipated. Meanwhile, Netanyahu seems intent on prolonging the war to secure his political survival. Observers suggest this strategy helps him delay his corruption trials and maintain his coalition.

Many agree that a deal becomes less likely as time drags on, leaving Gaza in ruins and its people in despair.

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Makeshift Captagon Labs Emerge in Syria from Rubble of Assad’s Narcotics Trade

Syria's new authorities burn hundreds of tons of Captagon pills and bags of hashish at the headquarters of the Fourth Division in Damascus. (EPA)
Syria's new authorities burn hundreds of tons of Captagon pills and bags of hashish at the headquarters of the Fourth Division in Damascus. (EPA)
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Makeshift Captagon Labs Emerge in Syria from Rubble of Assad’s Narcotics Trade

Syria's new authorities burn hundreds of tons of Captagon pills and bags of hashish at the headquarters of the Fourth Division in Damascus. (EPA)
Syria's new authorities burn hundreds of tons of Captagon pills and bags of hashish at the headquarters of the Fourth Division in Damascus. (EPA)

Ahmed el-Jouri

 

Syria has not only endured a war that shattered its cities, but also a quieter conflict—one that devours lives long before bodies fall. Amid the charred ruins of burned-out neighborhoods, an entire generation has grown up under the grip of a cheap pill originally intended for export but now flooding the local market.

The story began when the former Syrian regime transformed Captagon—a synthetic stimulant made from amphetamine and theophylline—into a lucrative war currency.

Once a controlled substance, it soon became a torrent surging through the country's alleys and streets, robbing youths of their futures and turning dreams into nightmares.

By 2020, the crisis had deepened. The price of a single Captagon pill plummeted from $1.50 to just five cents—cheaper than a cup of tea.

The drop reflected a cascade of events: the enforcement of the Caesar Act sanctions, sweeping sanctions targeting the Assad government, Lebanon's economic and banking collapse in late 2019, restrictions on dollar transactions and withdrawals from Lebanon, and tighter control over land borders that slightly curbed smuggling.

This Asharq Al-Awsat investigation, drawing on field visits to areas of post-Assad Syria and interviews with pharmacists and doctors in Amman and Erbil, retraces the production pipeline of Captagon.

It also features testimonies from addicts and their families, painting a stark portrait of a drug that fuels despair in a nation already exhausted by war.

A member of the Syrian security forces at a Captagon factory in Douma near Damascus on December 13. (AP)

In the shadows: Captagon addiction grips Syria's youth

In the crumbling streets of Damascus, where tangled electric wires dangle like specters above weary passersby, a toxic trade thrives under innocent names—“energy pills”, “happiness tablets” and others depending on the dealer. But behind the playful labels lies a systematic crisis. Syria's youth are not falling to addiction by chance—they are being consumed by design.

According to the International Labor Organization, 39.2% of working-age Syrians (15 and older) were unemployed in 2023. But statistics say little about how people like Ahmed, 19, spend their days.

Slumped on a crumbling curb in Damascus' Rukn al-Din district, Ahmed stares at his tattered shoes as a nearby dealer leans in: “This pill will make you a man... you'll work like a horse without feeling tired.”

Ahmed didn't know that the “man” he was promised would become enslaved to a handful of blue pills. The long hours at a bombed-out workshop turned into a nightmare only numbed by more doses.

His story is far from unique. It echoes across Syria like a shared curse in a land battered by war and poverty. In this darkness, Captagon glimmers like a false shooting star. Sources recount how the pill knocks down young people one after another, like dominoes—girls included.

Even the dream of escape has become part of the tragedy. Some sell family land to fund a risky boat journey out of the country. One man made it only as far as a Turkish prison—addicted, penniless, landless, and with no future.

This investigation collected over a dozen testimonies from across Syria—either directly from addicts or their families—offering a window into a drug crisis that has taken a darker turn since the fall of Assad's regime.

What was once a tightly controlled trade, reliant on pharmaceutical infrastructure and exports while feeding a growing domestic market, has devolved into a chaotic, deadly business claiming more lives through overdoses and despair.

Yasser, 17, from Aleppo, was kicked out of his family home and now lives in a basement room owned by his uncle-in-law.

“My friends used to laugh when they took the pills,” Yasser told Asharq Al-Awsat.

“They told me it felt like being the hero in a video game. I tried them to prove I was brave like them. Now, I wander the streets like a ghost. I hear my mother's voice haunting me. On cold nights, I sneak back to our house, touch the locked door and imagine a shell falling on me... maybe death would offer me a forgiveness I don't deserve,” he added.

In the northeastern city of Hasaka, Ali, 22, from Deir Ezzor, spoke after a grueling day of physical labor. “One day, I carried sacks of flour on my back for 10 straight hours,” he recalled.

“My boss was watching, then tossed me a pill and said, 'Take this—it'll make your back like iron.' Now, my back carries more than weight... the heaviest burden is what I see in my children's eyes. When I get home, I pretend to sleep so they won't come near me. I hear them whisper, 'Papa sleeps like he's dead.'”

Mohammad Abu Youssef, 45, rubs his cracked hands and gazes at a photo of his eldest son.

“I sold my health, worked myself to the bone just to pay his school fees. But Captagon stole him from me,” he said.

“When I found him trembling like a leaf in the corner, I screamed, 'Why didn't you die in the bombing?!' I tried sending him to Europe with smugglers, but he fled the truck halfway and returned months later—his eyes are just two black voids. Now, I've locked him in the house. I buy the pills for him myself and pray every night that God takes him.”

Captagon pills concealed in fake fruit found inside a factory in Douma east of Damascus. (EPA)

No rehab, no way out: Syria's addicts face slow death

In a country ravaged by war and addiction, the absence of rehabilitation centers is proving fatal for many. Without treatment options, a growing number of Syrians are left to spiral deeper into dependency—with no support, no shelter, and no escape.

Dr. Rawan al-Hussein, who requested using an alias for safety reasons, works with a branch of the health directorate and also consults for a non-governmental organization focused on addiction cases. Each day, she sifts through piles of case files, trying to salvage what's left of shattered lives.

“Just last week, a frail young man came to me carrying his infant daughter,” she recalled.

“He said, 'Take her before I sell her for pills. I don't even have a bed to put her in.'”

With rehab facilities scarce or nonexistent in many areas, stories like his are becoming tragically common—leaving medical workers overwhelmed and addicts trapped in a slow-motion collapse.

Al-Hussein exhaled deeply as she gathers water-damaged papers from her desk.

“International organizations send us boxes of medicine without assessing our needs,” she said. “Our youth are dying because the toxins are already in their blood. What are we supposed to do with bandages for wounds no one can see?”

The real tragedy, she explained, lies not just in the spread of addiction, but in the absence of mental health and rehabilitation services.

Staff working in Syria with the UNHCR and the World Health Organization told Asharq Al-Awsat that as of February 2025, there were no more than 10 specialized rehabilitation centers across the country, while the need is estimated at over 150.

With more than 70% of health facilities damaged or destroyed by war, accessing emergency care or psychiatric treatment has become nearly impossible.

“Even the programs that do exist are struggling,” al-Hussein added. “They rely heavily on volunteers and lack basic psychiatric medications.”

But the crisis runs deeper than infrastructure. Stigma, too, is a powerful barrier. “In Daraa, for example, residents rejected plans to open a rehab center out of fear it would tarnish the area's reputation,” a local organization told Asharq Al-Awsat.

Caught between a crumbling healthcare system and a society that shuns them, Syria's addicts are left to fight a silent war with little hope of rescue.

Captagon after Assad: Makeshift labs and a generation being wiped out by doses

The fall of the Assad regime did not mark the end of Syria's suffering—instead, it ignited a new phase of chaos, more fragmented and deadly.

As state institutions collapsed during years of war, young people became easy prey to a cheap addiction. Now, the regime's toxic legacy is playing out in the shadows through a deadlier, more decentralized Captagon industry.

While the new authorities dismantled public-facing drug labs in the wake of Assad's downfall, they failed to anticipate what would come next: the splintering of production into informal workshops run by former smugglers and recovering addicts navigating a shattered economy.

The once-affordable pill that had flooded the streets is now scarcer—and more expensive—driving many addicts to work inside the very workshops that sustain their addiction.

These makeshift labs operate with no safety standards, mixing dangerous chemicals by hand, without protective gear, and relying on improvised recipes that often push the drug's potency to lethal extremes.

In this post-Assad vacuum, Syria's Captagon trade has not disappeared—it has mutated, dragging a generation deeper into a cycle of desperation, exploitation, and overdose.

In the immediate aftermath of Assad's fall, Syria's new leadership launched a sweeping military and security campaign aimed at dismantling the country's Captagon empire—a key source of funding for the ousted regime.

The crackdown succeeded in destroying dozens of large-scale production facilities in the rural outskirts of Homs and Damascus. But what seemed like a victory soon spiraled into a deeper crisis.

With the collapse of organized production, the price of a single Captagon pill soared—from just five cents to more than $1.50, according to pharmacists and users interviewed by Asharq Al-Awsat.

Primitive material used to manufacture Captagon in the village of Hawik. (Asharq Al-Awsat)

The price surge has pushed many addicts into a state of desperation, willing to pay or do anything for a fix. It's a Russian doll of catastrophe: inside every crisis, a smaller one waits. The fall of Assad did not dismantle the machinery of death—it merely scattered it into thousands of dangerous fragments.

The addicts once hooked on the “cheap high” of mass-produced Captagon are now trapped in a darker spiral: counterfeit pills from unregulated workshops, mixed with unknown chemicals, sold on the black market.

To stave off withdrawal, users are turning to theft or joining smuggling rings. Families who once believed that regime change would bring their sons and daughters back from the brink have instead watched as they became statistics—new entries in the growing toll of addiction and overdose.

What began as a crackdown has, for many Syrians, morphed into a new chapter of the same tragedy—only now, it's less visible and harder to stop.

Captagon under Assad: A state-engineered drug empire disguised as pharma

Under the Assad regime, Captagon production was far from a rogue operation. It was a state-run enterprise cloaked in the legitimacy of Syria's once-thriving pharmaceutical sector.

Before the war, Syria boasted one of the most advanced pharmaceutical industries in the Middle East. The regime exploited that infrastructure to manufacture synthetic drugs on a large scale.

Licensed factories in Aleppo and Damascus—equipped with modern technology—became the backbone of a sophisticated narcotics operation. Inside, chemists and pharmacists engineered carefully calibrated formulas designed to hook users without causing immediate deaths.

Three former pharmacists who worked in separate Syrian pharmaceutical firms told Asharq Al-Awsat that official state laboratories were covertly used to develop these drug blends.

At times, authorities would shut down or confiscate equipment from legitimate factories under false pretenses—creating space for Captagon experts to refine new chemical compositions.

A chemical engineer who worked in a factory in Al-Kiswah, south of Damascus, said the effort was supported by foreign expertise.

“Iranian and Indian specialists were brought in to help perfect the formula,” the source revealed.

“There were strict protocols in place. The regime wanted addictive pills without scandals. That's why Syrian Captagon became the most sought-after on the market.”

Lighter versions of the drug were even rebranded and sold as “party pills”, offering users a temporary high and masking the addiction beneath.

Assad's narcotics machine wasn't just a revenue stream. It was a calculated instrument of control, designed to addict both domestic users and foreign buyers while preserving plausible deniability.