The myth of Syria’s Sunni majority

In a Syria broken by decades of one-family rule, the ruins are not confined to cities and neighbourhoods. Ideas too have collapsed. Chief among them is the belief in a coherent “Sunni majority”, a notion that dissolved the moment it was tested against reality.

The roots of this illusion run deep. Under the Ottomans, Sunni Islam formed part of the empire’s legitimacy, yet Syria’s Sunnis never developed as an organised communal body. They were subjects of an imperial order, not members of a defined constituency. Urban scholars and administrators carried out the instructions of Istanbul but did not lead a unified community with shared interests.

Minority communities enjoyed a measure of autonomy under the millet system. Sunnis, lacking a comparable framework, were absorbed into the identity of the empire. They were numerous but dispersed, and the idea of a self-aware majority never took hold.

The French mandate intensified this fragmentation. By carving Syria into separate entities — Alawite state, Druze state, and the states of Damascus and Aleppo — it prevented any common national identity from forming. These divisions shaped the Sunni landscape as well. Urban elites pursued influence and patronage, while the countryside was left to deprivation.

Social and economic divides widened. In Damascus and Aleppo merchants, notables and scholars lived within networks of capital and education. In Hama, Homs and rural Aleppo poverty dictated daily life. What was described as a majority was in practice a loose collection of groups without shared priorities or a common political project.

Religion did little to compensate for these fractures. Salafism rose in the late 19th Century with a message that condemned Asharism and Sufism. Sufi communities held to their practices despite accusations of backwardness. Secular currents — leftist, nationalist and liberal — added further layers of disagreement. No authority emerged that could provide direction for all the currents within Sunni Islam. Rivalry and mutual suspicion became the norm.

Even the mosques reflected this fragmentation. One preacher defended Sufism, another attacked it, and a third dismissed plurality altogether. Satellite channels in the 2000s widened the gap by giving each current its own audience. Islamic schools became separate islands, whether Ashari, Salafi or Muslim Brotherhood. Religious identification narrowed until individuals defined themselves less as Sunni and more by loyalty to their specific current.

Socioeconomic divisions cut just as deeply. The children of urban elites in Damascus and Aleppo grew up with stability and wider horizons, while communities in Idlib, Deir ez-Zor and Hama preserved more conservative traditions. When the 2011 uprising began, the split became stark. Rural factions fought the regime with resolve and mostly under an Islamist banner. Many urban elites opted for neutrality or accommodation. The supposed majority revealed itself as a set of disconnected worlds.

The Hama massacre of 1982 had cemented this disunity. It was a warning to other cities which chose silence rather than risk the same fate. The sieges and displacement that followed in Ghouta, Aleppo and Homs created a sense of betrayal and resentment across Sunni communities. The IDP camps felt abandoned by the cities.

Forced displacement accelerated the erosion of the majority illusion. From the early years of the conflict the regime reshaped the demographic map through evacuations and population transfers. Eastern Aleppo, Homs, Daraya, Eastern Ghouta and Daraa lost their Sunni inhabitants to the north. This was more than a shift of residence; it broke apart longstanding social fabrics and produced scattered communities living far from home.

External migration pushed the fragmentation even further. Millions of Sunnis left Syria entirely. Although still the largest demographic group, they no longer functioned as a political majority. Inside Syria their presence in the major cities shrank. Abroad they appeared less as a political constituency and more as a humanitarian population.

This rupture created a fragmented sense of identity. The concerns of a family in a displacement camp differ from those of refugees in Europe, and differ again from those of internally displaced communities in the north. Meanwhile, the violence that accompanied the fall of the regime reshaped perceptions among minorities and in the international community. From an oppressed majority, the Sunnis are now seen as vengeful radicals intent on perpetuating that oppression - only now against minority groups. 

Across the long arc from the Ottoman era to the French mandate, from Hafez to Bashar, from uprising to regime collapse, the idea of a unified Sunni majority has revealed itself as one of Syria’s most fragile myths. The result has been devastated cities, mass displacement and a society fractured along every imaginable axis. Sectarian discourse cannot repair this. It serves only to prolong instability.

Another option is emerging from beneath the rubble: civil society and a citizenship-based national identity. Despite its limits, Syrian civil society continues to show that people can be connected through civic engagement instead of sectarian belonging. National identity offers the possibility of redefining individuals as Syrians whose rights come from citizenship rather than from affiliation with a sect or community. Building such an identity requires steady work through schools, media and civic organisations. It demands the slow reconstruction of trust among communities and the ability to move beyond entrenched memories of war and fear.

The path ahead is demanding but unmistakable. A viable future depends on citizenship and a real civil state. When rights come through national belonging rather than sect, a country can hold together. Without such a shift, Syria may persist in name while the idea of a single nation continues to erode.