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'Starvation on the Way': Border Crossing Decision Weighs on Northwest Syria

A road sign that reads Welcome to Bab al-Hawa crossing is seen at Bab al-Hawa crossing at the Syrian-Turkish border, in Idlib governorate, Syria June 10, 2021. (Reuters)
A road sign that reads Welcome to Bab al-Hawa crossing is seen at Bab al-Hawa crossing at the Syrian-Turkish border, in Idlib governorate, Syria June 10, 2021. (Reuters)
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'Starvation on the Way': Border Crossing Decision Weighs on Northwest Syria

A road sign that reads Welcome to Bab al-Hawa crossing is seen at Bab al-Hawa crossing at the Syrian-Turkish border, in Idlib governorate, Syria June 10, 2021. (Reuters)
A road sign that reads Welcome to Bab al-Hawa crossing is seen at Bab al-Hawa crossing at the Syrian-Turkish border, in Idlib governorate, Syria June 10, 2021. (Reuters)

Hussein Mahmoud, a displaced farmer from Syria's Hama province who now lives in a camp in northern Idlib, divides the basic items in a food basket he receives monthly amongst his wife and 13 children.

By mid-month, the bread, rice, lentils and other essentials he gets as aid are nearly scarce but Mahmoud now fears this little support that has provided a lifeline for his family might end.

"If this food aid stops, where do we go? What do we do?" he said. "Starvation is on the way."

Millions of people living in northwest Syria, many of them displaced from elsewhere in the country's decade-long conflict, face Mahmoud's fate should the United Nations fail to approve an extension to cross-border humanitarian operations this July.

Access for cross-border aid from Turkey was reduced last year to just one crossing point after opposition from Russia and China - permanent Security Council members - to renewing other crossings. A new showdown is likely next month when the operation's mandate must be renewed.

Idlib province, Syria's last rebel stronghold, is home to around 3 million people, more than half of whom depend on food aid.

All of that filters through the Bab al-Hawa crossing where currently around 1,000 UN trucks enter a month through Turkey.

"Right now there is a plan for if no renewal happens and alongside our partner the World Food Program we are stockpiling for three months until the end of September," said Bassil al-Dirri, Idlib area manager for the Turkish Humanitarian Relief Association (IYD).

"But after that there will be nothing."

Surging food prices
President Bashar al-Assad has survived the insurgency against him, and now holds sway over around 70% of the country, helped by Russia's military and Iran's Shiite militias.

But Turkey still controls territory in the northwest and there are growing concerns that Russia, Assad's ally, will veto a decision to keep the crossing open.

Should that happen, UN coordinated aid would have to re-route operations through Damascus.

"I ask all the humanitarians in the world to stand up against Russia to not make this happen," said Abdelsalam al-Youssef, director of Teh displaced camp in northern Idlib.

"There will be a humanitarian catastrophe if it does," he said as he attended a rally on the issue in the camp.

Some in Idlib warn of looming price rises should basic items grow scarce as demand for staples like bread and rice increases and supply remains limited.

"Traditional trade routes can't cope with the needs of the market... so from an economic perspective, there will be an insane increase in prices" Dirri said.

"We are talking about basic items for each family, not luxuries... no family can go on living without them," he said.

Food prices in Syria have jumped by more than 200% in the last year alone, a March assessment by the WFP found.

The study found that a record 12.4 million Syrians, more than 60% of the population, suffer from food insecurity and hunger, double the number of 2018.

Some of the country's poorest and most desperate, having abandoned homes and land to flee war, live in Idlib's squalid camps like Mahmoud.

His family's fate and millions of others now hangs on the July 10 decision.

"We are asking God first and then the authorities to please make this continue for us," he said.

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The Border Zone with Lebanon: A Refuge for Syrians Fearing ‘Change’

The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).
The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).
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The Border Zone with Lebanon: A Refuge for Syrians Fearing ‘Change’

The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).
The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).

The road from Beirut to Damascus is now lined with unfamiliar scenes. In just a few days, everything has changed for those traveling to the Syrian capital by land from Lebanon. Once an economic lifeline for Damascus, the route bustled with visitors—Syrians and Lebanese alike—and large trucks carried goods from Beirut’s port to Syria, a necessity brought on by international sanctions that have forced the country to rely on this corridor.

The journey to Damascus via Lebanon begins at the Masnaa border crossing, which, during the early days of Syria’s upheaval, saw unprecedented traffic heading into Syria. While outbound traffic has returned to normal—or even declined—inbound activity has surged again. Hundreds of Syrian families line up at the border, hoping for “humanitarian exceptions” to enter Lebanon. However, the influx has clogged the route for everyone, even those eligible for entry. For days, the road was virtually impassable until Lebanese authorities intervened to reopen it. Still, complaints from Syrians about alleged abuses at the border prompted General Security chief Major General Elias al-Baysari to launch an investigation into these violations, followed by measures to reduce the number of entries to just a few hundred.

Some Syrians leave after being denied entry, only for others to arrive, clinging to the hope that Lebanon might eventually open its doors. Entry is now restricted to those with valid residency, travelers transiting through Beirut’s airport, or individuals with official documentation.

Families wait in cars, with children and women inside while men gather around fires outside. Ayman, a man in his fifties from rural Damascus, anxiously waits for permission to cross after being denied entry by the checkpoint. He mentions receiving a promise that his case will be reviewed. “We are in danger. I won’t take my children back to die,” he says, refusing to elaborate on the exact threat. Determined, he vows to remain in the deserted zone indefinitely if necessary.

Despite no reports of targeted violence against former regime supporters or religious minorities—especially Shiites—fear remains pervasive. Bilal, a Syrian from the predominantly Shiite town of Zahraa near Aleppo, recounts how a relative was killed and claims that his name is on a wanted list. “I’ll never go back,” he says firmly.

The scene repeats itself just past the first opposition-held checkpoint, opposite the abandoned Syrian passport office. Crossing is straightforward and no longer requires ID for Lebanese citizens, unlike in the past. A friendly greeting and a wave from the armed guards suffice, often accompanied by a smile and “Welcome!” This is a stark contrast to the past, when multiple military checkpoints, infamous for soliciting bribes in the form of bread, cigarettes, or cash, made travel cumbersome.

Now, entering and exiting Syria via land is remarkably easy—no paperwork, no questions, and no inspections.

Near a victory arch along the road, adorned with images of deposed Syrian President Bashar al-Assad and his late father Hafez, stands a young man. His old car is parked nearby, with his wife and three children—all under ten years old—waiting inside. Hesitantly, he approaches a Lebanese traveler, asking whether he can enter Lebanon without the “yellow card” once issued by Syrian authorities for outgoing vehicles. Syrian border guards had turned him away, warning that Lebanese authorities might confiscate his car.

The man, from the Shiite-majority village of Foua near Idlib, is determined to reach Lebanon. “I’ve arranged for work with someone there, and I need to leave as soon as possible,” he explains nervously. Though he insists no one has harmed him, his unease is evident as he prepares to leave.

The Assads’ towering portraits remain intact, likely due to their height, while those at ground level have been torn down or trampled. Military checkpoints have been vandalized or destroyed.

Abandoned vehicles litter the roadside, some still smoldering, while others have been stripped of all valuables—tires, parts, and accessories. Military vehicles, tanks, and armored carriers, some still loaded with ammunition, lie deserted along the route from the border to Damascus. These remnants tell the story of a collapsed regime and an uncertain future.

Scattered among the wreckage are vehicles destroyed by Israeli missile strikes targeting Syrian air defense systems, including anti-aircraft launchers mounted on military trucks.

The stretch of abandoned military hardware extends from the Syrian border to the outskirts of Damascus. These vehicles were once meant to defend the capital but now lie powerless, deserted by soldiers who left their uniforms discarded along the roadside as they fled. The old Syrian flag lies tattered and forgotten in multiple locations, untouched—neither reclaimed nor mourned.