Activists: Kafranbel's Recapture by Syria's Regime 'Spells a Heavy Blow'

A mural inspired by the 2011 Syrian uprising in the deserted city of Kafranbel. AFP
A mural inspired by the 2011 Syrian uprising in the deserted city of Kafranbel. AFP
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Activists: Kafranbel's Recapture by Syria's Regime 'Spells a Heavy Blow'

A mural inspired by the 2011 Syrian uprising in the deserted city of Kafranbel. AFP
A mural inspired by the 2011 Syrian uprising in the deserted city of Kafranbel. AFP

The town of Kafranbel this week became the latest to be seized in a deadly regime onslaught against the last opposition bastion in northwestern Syria.

Known for its witty posters, murals and cartoons, the city has long been a symbol of humourous defiance to Damascus and its recapture by the regime spells a heavy blow, activists say.

Kafranbel falls in Idlib province bordering Turkey and was one of the first to join the revolutionary fervour that swept Syria in 2011.

Ibrahim Sweid, 31, said he was at the first protest in Kafranbel in April 2011, just weeks after the uprising kicked off against President Bashar al-Assad's regime.

The town was once "the icon of the revolution, its resounding lute, the spark of the uprising in the Syrian north", he said, AFP reported.

"Our aim was first and foremost to bring down Assad's regime."

Sweid was among activists who set up the town's media office to document protests and then the bombardment as the country slid into civil war.

But today its members are long gone -- displaced, in exile, or killed.

Among those lost are Raed Fares, a charismatic cartoonist and radio host who was killed by unknown gunmen in 2018.

He and others had made the town famous for the witty slogans and giant political cartoons they held up in Arabic and English at the town's demonstrations.

Sweid, along with his wife and their three children fled 10 months ago after the Russia-backed regime increased its bombardment of the town. However, he returned from time to time, witnessing the town slowly sink into rubble, continuing to work as a journalist for a local television channel.

In 2012, Kafranbel was rocked by fighting between regime fighters and defectors from Assad's army, before it slipped out of the government's control.

Sweid said he remembers filming the joy of residents -- including the late Raed Fares -- that summer.

"But now Raed's dead and so is Kafranbel," he laments.

Only last Tuesday, he crouched on its outskirts, watching helplessly from afar as the missiles rained down.

"I left the area when I was sure it had fallen to the enemy. I looked at it one last time and left it at one o'clock in the morning," he said.

"After nine years of revolution, Kafranbel was occupied -- a town that had managed to give a voice to Syrians worldwide with its cartoons and signs."

A town of some 20,000 people, Kafranbel stood out among its neighbours for its creative approach to activism.

"I have a dream. Let freedom ring from Kafranbel," read one sign in 2012 in English, playing on the town's name and echoing the words of Martin Luther King.

A poster the same year complained of congested skies, and demanded that policemen regulate the traffic of the warplanes overhead.

According to AFP, by 2015, Kafranbel was part of a large region under the control of opposition forces.

Two years later, it was overrun by the militants of Syria's former Al-Qaeda affiliate who still dominate the wider region today.

Fares said at the time he founded Fresh FM in 2013 to counter "fundamentalist narratives" in Idlib. After that, he was repeatedly targeted by armed groups.

A first wave of residents fled the town last year, while others held out before joining the exodus over the past few months.

The onslaught on the wider region since December has displaced almost 950,000 people from their homes, more than half of them children, the United Nations says.

Bilal Bayush, 27, said Kafranbel over the past two months had become uninhabitable.

"If you were sick, there was nowhere to be treated or to buy medicine," said the father of two.

"Not a pillar has been left standing. My house is probably destroyed," said the activist, who was arrested as a student at Aleppo University before joining other citizen journalists in Kafranbel.

"For every event in Kafranbel, you'd see a cartoon on the walls of Kafranbel, a sign at its protests," he said.

Today nothing is left but memories.

"We use to sing and laugh for the revolution... It all ended with Kafranbel."



Fear Stalks Tehran as Israel Bombards, Shelters Fill Up and Communicating Grows Harder

Shops remain shuttered Tehran's historic Grand Bazaar, Monday, June 16, 2025. (AP)
Shops remain shuttered Tehran's historic Grand Bazaar, Monday, June 16, 2025. (AP)
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Fear Stalks Tehran as Israel Bombards, Shelters Fill Up and Communicating Grows Harder

Shops remain shuttered Tehran's historic Grand Bazaar, Monday, June 16, 2025. (AP)
Shops remain shuttered Tehran's historic Grand Bazaar, Monday, June 16, 2025. (AP)

The streets of Tehran are empty, businesses closed, communications patchy at best. With no bona fide bomb shelters open to the public, panicked masses spend restless nights on the floors of metro stations as strikes boom overhead.

This is Iran’s capital city, just under a week into a fierce Israeli blitz to destroy the country's nuclear program and its military capabilities. After knocking out much of Iran's air defense system, Israel says its warplanes have free rein over the city's skies. US President Donald Trump on Monday told Tehran's roughly 10 million residents to evacuate “immediately.”

Thousands have fled, spending hours in gridlock as they head toward the suburbs, the Caspian Sea, or even Armenia or Türkiye. But others — those elderly and infirm — are stuck in high-rise apartment buildings. Their relatives fret: what to do?

Israeli strikes on Iran have killed at least 585 people and wounded over 1,300, a human rights group says. State media, also a target of bombardment, have stopped reporting on the attacks, leaving Iranians in the dark. There are few visible signs of state authority: Police appear largely undercover, air raid sirens are unreliable, and there’s scant information on what to do in case of attack.

Shirin, 49, who lives in the southern part of Tehran, said every call or text to friends and family in recent days has felt like it could be the last.

“We don’t know if tomorrow we will be alive,” she said.

Many Iranians feel conflicted. Some support Israel's targeting of Iranian political and military officials they see as repressive. Others staunchly defend the country and retaliatory strikes on Israel. Then, there are those who oppose Iran’s rulers, but still don't want to see their country bombed.

To stay, or to go? The Associated Press interviewed five people in Iran and one Iranian American in the US over the phone. All spoke either on the condition of anonymity or only allowed their first names to be used, for fear of retribution from the state against them or their families.

Most of the calls ended abruptly and within minutes, cutting off conversations as people grew nervous or because the connection dropped. Iran’s government has acknowledged disrupting internet access. It says it's to protect the country, though that has blocked average Iranians from getting information from the outside world.

Iranians in the diaspora wait anxiously for news from relatives. One, an Iranian American human rights researcher in the US, said he last heard from relatives when some were trying to flee Tehran earlier in the week. He believes that lack of gas and traffic prevented them from leaving.

The most heartbreaking interaction, he said, was when his older cousins with whom he grew up in Iran told him “We don’t know where to go. If we die, we die.”

“Their sense was just despair,” he said.

Some families have made the decision to split up.

A 23-year-old Afghan refugee who has lived in Iran for four years said he stayed behind in Tehran but sent his wife and newborn son out of the city after a strike Monday hit a nearby pharmacy.

“It was a very bad shock for them,” he said.

Some, like Shirin, said fleeing was not an option. The apartment buildings in Tehran are towering and dense. Her father has Alzheimer’s and needs an ambulance to move. Her mother's severe arthritis would make even a short trip extremely painful.

Still, hoping escape might be possible, she spent the last several days trying to gather their medications. Her brother waited at a gas station until 3 a.m., only to be turned away when the fuel ran out. As of Monday, gas was being rationed to under 20 liters (5 gallons) per driver at stations across Iran after an Israeli strike set fire to the world's largest gas field.

Some people, like Arshia, said they are just tired.

“I don’t want to go in traffic for 40 hours, 30 hours, 20 hours, just to get to somewhere that might get bombed eventually,” he said.

The 22-year-old has been staying in the house with his parents since the initial Israeli strike. He said his once-lively neighborhood of Saadat Abad in northwestern Tehran is now a ghost town. Schools are closed. Very few people even step outside to walk their dogs. Most local stores have run out of drinking water and cooking oil. Others closed.

Still, Arshia said the prospect of finding a new place is too daunting.

“We don’t have the resources to leave at the moment,” he said.

Residents are on their own

No air raid sirens went off as Israeli strikes began pounding Tehran before dawn Friday. For many, it was an early sign civilians would have to go it alone.

During the Iran-Iraq war in the 1980s, Tehran was a low-slung city, many homes had basements to shelter in, and there were air raid drills and sirens. Now the capital is packed with close-built high-rise apartments without shelters.

“It's a kind of failing of the past that they didn’t build shelters,” said a 29-year-old Tehran resident who left the city Monday. “Even though we’ve been under the shadow of a war, as long as I can remember.”

Her friend's boyfriend was killed while going to the store.

“You don’t really expect your boyfriend or your anyone, really to leave the house and never return when they just went out for a routine normal shopping trip,” she said.

Those who choose to relocate do so without help from the government. The state has said it is opening mosques, schools and metro stations for use as shelters. Some are closed, others overcrowded.

Hundreds crammed into one Tehran metro station Friday night. Small family groups lay on the floor. One student, a refugee from another country, said she spent 12 hours in the station with her relatives.

“Everyone there was panicking because of the situation,” she said. “Everyone doesn’t know what will happen next, if there is war in the future and what they should do. People think nowhere is safe for them.”

Soon after leaving the station, she saw that Israel had warned a swath of Tehran to evacuate.

“For immigrant communities, this is so hard to live in this kind of situation,” she said, explaining she feels like she has nowhere to escape to, especially not her home country, which she asked not be identified.

Fear of Iran mingles with fear of Israel

For Shirin, the hostilities are bittersweet. Despite being against the theocracy and its treatment of women, the idea that Israel may determine the future does not sit well with her.

“As much as we want the end of this regime, we didn’t want it to come at the hands of a foreign government,” she said. “We would have preferred that if there were to be a change, it would be the result of a people’s movement in Iran.”

Meanwhile, the 29-year-old who left Tehran had an even more basic message for those outside Iran:

“I just want people to remember that whatever is happening here, it’s not routine business for us. People’s lives here — people’s livelihoods — feel as important to them as they feel to anyone in any other place. How would you feel if your city or your country was under bombardment by another country, and people were dying left and right?”

“We are kind of like, this can’t be happening. This can’t be my life.”