Abbas Ibrahim … The Eyes and Ears of the Lebanese State

Lebanese General Security chief Major General Abbas Ibrahim. (NNA)
Lebanese General Security chief Major General Abbas Ibrahim. (NNA)
TT
20

Abbas Ibrahim … The Eyes and Ears of the Lebanese State

Lebanese General Security chief Major General Abbas Ibrahim. (NNA)
Lebanese General Security chief Major General Abbas Ibrahim. (NNA)

In the few years that followed his appointment as general director of the Lebanese General Security, Major General Abbas Ibrahim managed to prove himself to be a major sponsor of successful internal and foreign mediations, especially in regards to the fierce war his agency is waging against terrorist groups. He has, at the same time, managed to persuade these groups to accept deals, taking advantage of their ambitions and fears.

Ibrahim’s name rose to prominence in successful swap deals with terror groups where he played the role of “achieving the greatest possible gain, while paying the lowest possible price.” These prices were usually paid to the “pockets” of others, not the Lebanese state, which has never paid a dime in these deals that have involved its citizens and its territory.

Ibrahim’s special ties with the contradictory sides have made him an acceptable negotiator and an in-demand mediator in several internal and foreign affairs.

Based on his position as head of the General Security, Ibrahim plays the role of the “eyes and ears of the state.” He is the president’s aide on security files and is also tasked with working on several sensitive affairs, whether through special appointment or through the nature of his work. The reality on the ground however sees him playing a central role in combating terrorist groups through the General Security, which is working at a remarkably effective rate, in cooperation with the other security agencies. He is also in charge of the Palestinian and Syrian files in Lebanon, as well as the administrative role his institution plays in managing foreigners in Lebanon, whether they are artists, expatriates or terror groups.

Some believe that since his appointment to his post in July 2011, Ibrahim succeeded in avoiding being politically affiliated to a certain party. He stayed close to the side that named him – AMAL and “Hezbollah” that appoint all Shi’ite public employees to their posts – while convincing their rivals of his centrist mediator role. This therefor enabled him to maintain his position at a distance from the rival parties in Lebanon, giving himself ample room to maneuver to fulfill his security-political role.

Despite all this, Ibrahim has had his fair share of criticism from both rival parties, whether in his counter-terrorism duty that saw him work closely with the Syrian regime and “Hezbollah” or in his adherence to official institutions and accompanying the interior minister on visits and conferences.

As usual, Ibrahim treated each side with remarkable balance. On the one hand, he repeatedly hailed the role of the “resistance”, which shuts down his critics from the pro-”Hezbollah” camp, and on the other he also praised the official security institutions, which prevents the armed group’s rivals from going too far in criticizing him.

Those close to Ibrahim acknowledge the difficulty of the centrist role he is playing. Editor-in-chief of the “General Security” magazine Mounir Akiki said that Ibrahim has more than once “called on the Lebanese to steer clear of political disputes … stressing that all sides operate under the constitution and Taef Accord.” Lebanon unfortunately, lies in an arena of regional contradictions that affects everyone, but they are all ultimately bound to return to national principles, he noted.

At the General Security, Ibrahim sought to develop the agency and eliminate corruption, which he said usually comes from the head of an institution. If the leader lacks the necessary abilities to manage the institution, then it is doomed to fail.

Upon his appointment to his position, said Akiki, Ibrahim devised a set of programs and goals under the umbrella of the law and jurisdiction. This saw cooperation between the army, Internal Security Forces and State Security agency. Each one of them has its jurisdiction and duties under law. If all three work together properly, then a safe state can be established.

Syrian crisis

Ibrahim has also played a prominent role in mediations linked to the Syrian crisis. In 2012, a pro-Syrian opposition Lebanese group was ambushed by the regime and most of its members were killed. Ibrahim, after being tasked by the political authority, managed to contact the regime and return the corpses to their loved ones. A prisoner who had been captured by the regime was also released.

He played an even more important role after the abduction in Syria of a bus of Lebanese Shi’ites who were traveling from Iran to Lebanon. Here, Ibrahim used his ties with Turkish intelligence chief Hakan Fidan to work on releasing them. The mediation saw Ibrahim contact Turkey, Qatar and the Syrian regime to ensure their release.

Akiki attributed Ibrahim’s success in these deals to his belief in the importance of credibility, his official position and his personal relations. These factors allowed him to enter negotiations and continue with them. Ibrahim has not once made concessions at the expense of the Lebanese state, stressed Akiki.

“His smart negotiation skills, patience and knowledge of how the other side thinks, as well as the trust, credibility and direct ties that he enjoys, have built his success,” added Akiki.

He noted however that direct negotiations were never held with “terrorists”.

“I do not believe that he would accept to negotiate with them directly. There was a mediator tasked with relaying their conditions or demands to us and also relaying our own to them,” he explained.

Future ambition

Some say that Ibrahim is seeking to enter the political field in the future and that he is laying the foundation for it now. In his current role, he appears to be walking in the footsteps of Speaker Nabih Berri, who enjoys excellent ties with several main parties in Lebanon, as opposed to “Hezbollah”, which has a limited number of allies and several rivals.

On this speculation, Akiki said: “We need to wait five years (the end of Ibrahim’s term in office) to see if it will come true.”

Ibrahim says that he will be in the place where he will be able “to serve the most, which is what he is doing in his current post,” explained Akiki.

Profile

Abbas Ibrahim was born on March 2, 1959. He hails from the town of Kawthariyet al-Sayyad in southern Lebanon. He is married to Ghada Zeineddine and they have three children: Mohammed, Ali and Bilal.

He first enrolled in military school when he was 19 and he graduated three years later with the rank of lieutenant. Throughout the 1980s, he took part in several training courses in the military, culminating in an infantry course in the United States in 1989. This was followed by a computer course in 1996 to stay up to date with the electronic age. He also received advanced security training in the United Kingdom in 1998.

In 1989, Ibrahim was the personal bodyguard of Arab League envoy to Lebanon Lakhdar Brahimi. He was then appointed bodyguard to late President Elias al-Hrawi and remained in that post until 1992 when he was tasked with protecting then newly appointed Prime Minister Rafik Hariri. In 1994, he was appointed head of the counter-terrorism and espionage department at the intelligence directorate.

Between 2005 and 2008, Ibrahim was head of the intelligence bureau in the South, putting him on the frontlines of the unrest in the Palestinian refugee camp of Ain el-Hilweh and all of its complications. He has successfully dealt with this thorny issue, building special ties with the Palestinian leadership there, which he has since used to his advantage in his current post as head of General Security.

Commander of the Palestinian national security forces in Lebanon Sobhi Abou Arab told Asharq Al-Awsat that Ibrahim “was the first Lebanese official to enter the refugee camps and meet with all sides, including popular, organized and Islamic factions. He was the first to initiate contact out of his keenness on security and stability.” Abou Arab hailed Ibrahim’s calm approach, as well as his negotiation skills and diplomatic abilities.

Two years after his appointment as General Security chief in 2011, Ibrahim declared that he had remained at an equal distance from all sides and that he had sought to serve all citizens away from sectarian disputes. This was proven true, garnering him the trust of all sides, who have put their faith in him with the county’s most difficult and complicated files.



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)
TT
20

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.