Nestled in northwestern Syria, Idlib has long been a crossroads of empires, cultures, and conflicts. Its fertile plains and strategic location made it a prize for conquerors from the Hittites to the Ottomans. But in the 21st century, Idlib has become synonymous with one of the most protracted and brutal chapters of the Syrian Civil War—a microcosm of global power struggles, humanitarian crises, and the resilience of ordinary people caught in the crossfire.
Idlib’s history stretches back millennia. The region was part of the ancient Ebla Kingdom, a thriving Bronze Age civilization whose ruins still dot the landscape. Later, it fell under Roman, Byzantine, and eventually Ottoman rule. The Ottomans left an indelible mark, with their administrative systems and architectural influences visible in Idlib’s old souks and mosques.
By the early 20th century, Idlib was a quiet agricultural hub, known for its olive groves and wheat fields. But the collapse of the Ottoman Empire and the subsequent French Mandate reshaped Syria’s political landscape, sowing seeds of discontent that would echo decades later.
When the Arab Spring reached Syria in 2011, Idlib was one of the first cities to rise up against Bashar al-Assad’s regime. Peaceful protests demanding reforms were met with brutal crackdowns, pushing many toward armed resistance. By 2012, rebel factions—including the Free Syrian Army (FSA)—had taken control of the city, marking the beginning of Idlib’s transformation into a rebel bastion.
As the war dragged on, moderate rebels found themselves outgunned and outmaneuvered by jihadist groups like Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), an offshoot of al-Qaeda. Idlib became a magnet for foreign fighters and a focal point of international counterterrorism operations. The U.S., Russia, Turkey, and Iran all jockeyed for influence, turning the province into a geopolitical battleground.
By 2015, the Assad regime—backed by Russian airstrikes and Iranian militias—began a relentless campaign to retake rebel-held territories. Cities like Aleppo fell, sending waves of displaced civilians and fighters fleeing to Idlib. The province’s population ballooned from 1.5 million to over 3 million, overwhelming already strained resources.
The term "de-escalation zone," brokered by Turkey and Russia in 2017, proved hollow. Bombings continued, schools and hospitals were targeted, and the world watched as Idlib became the largest open-air prison in Syria.
In Idlib, education is a casualty of war. Over 300 schools have been destroyed or repurposed as shelters. Teachers like Ahmed, who once taught math in a government school, now hold classes in basements, using whatever materials they can scavenge. "We don’t have textbooks, sometimes not even chalk," he says. "But if we don’t teach these children, who will?"
The Syria Civil Defense, known as the White Helmets, operate in near-impossible conditions. These volunteer rescue workers rush to bomb sites, digging through rubble with bare hands to save survivors. Their bravery has made them both celebrated and targeted—accused by the regime of being Western puppets, yet revered by locals as the last line of defense.
With borders sealed and aid restricted, hunger is a constant threat. The Bab al-Hawa crossing, the sole UN-approved humanitarian corridor, is a lifeline—but one that hangs by a thread. Every few months, debates in the UN Security Council threaten to cut off access entirely. Families stockpile lentils and rice, never knowing when the next shipment will come.
Idlib is more than a Syrian problem—it’s a flashpoint in a broader conflict. Turkey supports certain rebel factions to prevent another refugee wave. Russia backs Assad to maintain its Mediterranean foothold. The U.S. conducts sporadic strikes against HTS but avoids deeper entanglement. Meanwhile, civilians pay the price.
Europe fears a repeat of 2015’s migrant crisis if Idlib collapses. Turkey already hosts 3.6 million Syrian refugees and has warned it won’t absorb more. The specter of millions fleeing toward Greece or Bulgaria looms large, fueling far-right movements across the continent.
War crimes in Idlib—barrel bombs, chemical attacks, targeted strikes on hospitals—have been well-documented. But with Russia vetoing UN resolutions, accountability remains elusive. Survivors ask: "If the world knows, why does no one stop it?"
Periodic truces brokered by Turkey and Russia offer fleeting respite, but trust is nonexistent. Each side accuses the other of violations, and civilians brace for the next offensive.
Despite the chaos, Idlib’s civil society persists. Women-run bakeries, underground libraries, and citizen journalists documenting atrocities prove that even in war, life—and defiance—endures.
Will Idlib be the next Aleppo—razed and "reconciled" under regime control? Or will it remain a fractured, lawless enclave, a breeding ground for extremism? The answer depends not just on Syrians, but on the world’s willingness to act—or look away.