In Turkish-Funded Syria Camps, Tents Give Way to Homes
Internally displaced Syrians pictured in front of tents, before they became resident at a new housing complex in the opposition-held area of Bizaah, in the northern Aleppo governorate Bakr ALKASEM AFP
In Turkish-Funded Syria Camps, Tents Give Way to Homes
Internally displaced Syrians pictured in front of tents, before they became resident at a new housing complex in the opposition-held area of Bizaah, in the northern Aleppo governorate Bakr ALKASEM AFP
Syrian mother of four Maryam al-Hussein was relieved to have a roof over her head as she moved from a tent camp into a housing complex built with Turkish support.
"When I first heard that we were moving into a house, I couldn't believe it," the 28-year-old widow told AFP in opposition-held northern Syria.
"I was so happy that I couldn't think of anything other than the move," she said, sitting outside her new concrete home.
The housing complex built near the Turkish-held Syrian city of Al-Bab is the latest in a series of residential projects sponsored by Ankara.
Turkey's goal is to create a so-called "safe zone" along its border to keep Syrians displaced by war from crossing into its territory, and to allow it to send back some of the millions who already did.
The housing units, branded by local officials and their Turkish sponsors as a humanitarian action to assist displaced families, could also serve as a model for initiatives to resettle Syrian refugees living in Turkey.
Turkey and its proxies have seized control of territory inside Syria during several military operations launched since 2016.
In these regions, the Turkish lira has become the main currency and Ankara has helped set up hospitals, post offices and schools that teach the Turkish language.
Turkish non-governmental group the Humanitarian Relief Foundation (IHH) said it has supported the construction of more than 18,000 residential units in Syria's north since 2019.
"More than 50,000 people have settled in the houses we have built so far," said IHH secretary general Durmus Aydin.
Aydin said that twice as many will be sheltered in a total of 24,325 homes due to be completed by April.
The latest housing complex was built near the opposition-held area of Bizaah with the support of Turkey's AFAD emergencies agency, local officials said.
It consists of 300 one-storey concrete units with large metal doors and small side windows.
Each unit is made up of two rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom, and is equipped with its own water tank and costs about $2,500 to build, Aydin said.
They will be home to residents of a nearby displacement camp who were transferred there this month.
The complex -- which is one of many similar housing projects supported by AFAD -- includes a mosque and a school.
A medical center is currently under construction, local officials said.
For Maryam, the move marks a major upgrade from the dilapidated tent camps where she had lived with her father, brother and four children under harsh conditions.
Maryam, whose husband was killed in battles between opposition and Syrian regime forces, was displaced by war in 2019 and moved from one camp to another seeking refuge.
"In the winter, a house is better, because the rain does not seep in and in the summer it remains cool because stone deflects heat better than tents that turn into furnaces," she said.
Local official Hussein al-Issa, who oversees the resettlement of displaced families, said the Bizaah housing complex was built on land managed by an opposition-affiliated local council with "the full cooperation" of Turkey.
"These houses are temporary shelters for our displaced brothers," he said.
While many displaced families are grateful to Turkey for helping provide shelter, Mohammad Haj Moussa appeared dissatisfied.
"It's like we are lying to ourselves," the 38-year-old father of four told AFP.
"We want a (permanent) solution. We want to return to our homes," added Haj Moussa, who was displaced by war five year ago.
Since fleeing his home in the northwestern province of Idlib, Haj Moussa said he had moved from one displacement camp to another.
"This unit isn't too different" from the camps, he said. "It's a joke."
Nearby, Ahmed Mustafa Katouli said he was grateful to have a concrete roof over his head, but complained the units are too small.
"These houses do not make up for what we have lost," said the father of six, displaced from Aleppo with his wife nearly a decade ago.
"We have lost homes, land and martyrs," he said, adding that after years of surviving in tents, "I am forced to live here".
Makeshift Captagon Labs Emerge in Syria from Rubble of Assad’s Narcotics Tradehttps://english.aawsat.com/features/5130508-makeshift-captagon-labs-emerge-syria-rubble-assad%E2%80%99s-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)
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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)
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.
