Seven Ways Iran Spends its Money in the Syrian War

Fighters run for cover as a tank shell explodes during heavy fighting in Syria. (Reuters)
Fighters run for cover as a tank shell explodes during heavy fighting in Syria. (Reuters)
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Seven Ways Iran Spends its Money in the Syrian War

Fighters run for cover as a tank shell explodes during heavy fighting in Syria. (Reuters)
Fighters run for cover as a tank shell explodes during heavy fighting in Syria. (Reuters)

“Get out of Syria! Think about our plight!” This was one of the slogans canted during last December’s nationwide protests in more than 100 Iranian cities.

Seven years ago when Iran started getting involved in the Syrian conflict the narrative promoted by the authorities was that Iran was going there to protect “the Shi’ite holy shrines” against attacks by “Sunni extremists”, a defensive strategy, and would not become involved in the broader struggle for power between regime leader Bashar al-Assad and his opponents. Falling victim to mission creep, however, Iran was quickly re-cast as the chief guarantor of the survival of the regime, an objective labeled as “vital” for Iran’s own security.

Russia’s involvement two years after the Syrian conflict had started, and President Vladimir Putin’s quick emergence as the key setter of agenda in Syria, punctured the myth of Iran as the key player in Syria. That, in turn, has inspired complaints, at first sotto voce, but more recently openly, about the reasons for what Islamic Majlis member Mahmoud Sadeqi in Tehran has dubbed “our Syrian adventure.”

President Hassan Rouhani has tried to re-tell the Syrian story by claiming that Iran was showing a high degree of altruism by helping “our Syrian brothers in need.”

“Even in harsh circumstances we cut our own needs in order to help our Syrian brothers,” he said last month.

With the high number of human losses sustained by Iran and “allies” including Lebanese, Pakistani and Afghan mercenaries admitted officially, the question that people now ask is focused on the financial cost of “our Syrian adventure.”

Iran’s financial commitments in Syria could be divided into seven categories.

The first consists of the value of arms and other military materiel supplied by Iran to forces supporting Assad. These include Iranian-made surface-to-surface missiles modeled on the Chinese Silkworms originally developed for use at sea. Another major item consists of armored cars of which Iran is reported to have delivered over 400 to replace losses sustained by Assad’s elite 4th Armored Division. According to estimates by researchers in Iran, Iran has also supplied Assad with over 500 pieces of Russian-made heavy artillery for use against urban centers.

Because of many of the arms supplied to Syria come from Iran’s own stocks, often dating back to years, it is hard to put a price on them. It is even possible that Iran has tried to recycle its old arms as part of a broader plan to renew its arsenal of weapons.

However, some analysts, including Reza Saberi, claim that arms supplied by Iran could be valued at around $1.2 billion.

The second item on Iran’s expenses’ list in Syria consists of delivery of oil and petroleum products to Assad forces. This is done in the context of a credit line that Iran has opened for Syria. The most credible figure cited by the Iranian media puts the size of that “line” at between $2-3 billion a year. The total “credit line” allows for up to $6 billion a year and includes food and medical supplies which Iranian Foreign Minister Mohammed Javad Zarif has put at around $2.5 billion a year.

The third item in Iran’s “Syria expenses” list consists of what the central Bank of Iran calls “transfer funds”. This means Iran exporting a certain quantity of its own oil on behalf of Syria with the understanding that Syria will repay in due course in an interest-free arrangement.

According to Jesse Shahin, spokesman for the office of Staffan de Mistura, the United Nations’ Special emissary on Syria, the “transfer funds” amounts to Iran giving the Assad regime an average of $6 billion a year, sums largely spent on paying civil servants and the forces still more or less loyal to the regime.

The fourth item in Iran’s expenses consists of “emergency funds” made in 2012 and 2103. According to Nadim Shehadah, professor at the Tufts University in the US, cited by BBC researcher Ali Qadimi, that amounted to $14-15 billion.

Tehran sources say the “emergency funds” were disbursed with the help of Austrian and Italian private banks over 30 months in tranches of $300 to $1.2 billion.

The fifth item of Iranian expense consist of funds needed to maintain several paramilitary forces made up of “volunteers for martyrdom” from Afghanistan, Pakistan and, in much smaller numbers, Iraq. The umbrella organ for these forces is the so-called Fatemiyoun Division, formerly a brigade, which was built up to 12,000 men in 2016.

At the time, General Qasem Soleimani, Commander of the Quds Corps, the organ that is supposed to coordinate Iranian operations in Syria, claimed that “volunteers for martyrdom” received no more than $100 a month in cash.

However, several Majlis members, speaking on condition of anonymity, claim that the payment is closer to $1,000 a month as Quds Corps also pays “subsistence pay” to families of the “volunteers for martyrdom.” All in all, the Fatemiyoun Division and ancillaries cost Iran around $1 billion a year. That does not include the $800 million paid annually to the Lebanese branch of “Hezbollah” led by Hassan Nasrallah.

A sixth source of income to finance the war on Assad’s side is provided by what Tehran terms bilateral trade. Much of this, of course, is more in the nature of transit trade with Iranian companies selling Syria’s oil and gas and phosphate to third countries. According to General Yahya Rahim Safavi, a military adviser to “Supreme Guide” Ali Khamenei, in addition to that trade Iran has won a major mobile phone contract in Syria with the prospect of creating a major new source of income to finance the war.

A major source of income for Assad consisted of money spent by over 1.2 million Iranian pilgrims, who visited Syria each year prior to 2011. However, the flow of pilgrims has almost completely dried up with Iranians preferring to visit “holy shrines” in Iraq. Meanwhile, some of the infrastructure, including over 100 hotels, built with Iranian money have either been badly damaged or left abandoned in previously peaceful areas turned into battlefields.

According to some studies, Iran’s losses on that score could be put at over $2 billion as much of the infrastructure may no longer be recoverable.

A seventh source item of cost for the Syrian war is represented by what Iran spends on keeping around 13,000 of its own troops, often presented as advisers or technicians, in Syria. No official figures are available. But if Iranian troops in Syria receive the same treatment as comparable military ranks inside Iran itself the annual cost could be around $3 billion in salaries and upkeep, not taking into account the cost of weapons and materiel used. The most conservative estimate would see Iran spending an average of $12.7 billion a year in Syria of which less than $2 billion may be recovered in trade deals using Syrian energy and raw material.

According to Tehran sources, part of the funds needed is raised through a special one per cent tariff imposed on all car imports in Iran with the proceeds credited to a special “Resistance Account” controlled by the office of the “Supreme Guide”.

Another source of funds is provided by “voluntary donations” supposedly for the defense or rebuilding of “shrines ”. Under that scheme 26 of Iran’s 31 provinces are assigned quotas to fulfill by raising funds from local businesses and through donations collected at mosques and bazaars. Provinces with a Sunnis majority are excluded from the scheme. As these “donations” are collected by local Friday prayer leaders, it is hard to know what percentage is actually transferred to the central fund and how much is kept by the involved clerics themselves.

Tehran University Professor Sadeq Ziba-Kalam recently invited the leadership in Tehran to review involvement in Syria. He was rewarded with a prison sentence of 18 months.

Nevertheless, many Iranians are beginning to realize that Syria is a costly war, both in terms of human losses and financial burden. And that, some analysts, believe is already encouraging a re-think of what some Iranians regard as a losing strategy.



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.