In the ever-fractured political landscape of Syria—where every religious and ethnic group has spent decades walking a tightrope between survival and allegiance to the central state—Sheikh Hikmat al-Hijri stands out as an enigmatic, paradoxical figure. The highest-ranking spiritual authority of Syria’s Druze community, born thousands of miles away in Latin America, has emerged as one of the most unexpected and outspoken political voices of the post-uprising era. His dramatic transformation—from staunch supporter of Bashar al-Assad to one of the regime’s boldest critics—mirrors a deeper crisis: the unraveling of Druze identity and political agency in modern Syria.
Born in 1965 in Venezuela, al-Hijri's backstory isn’t just a biographical footnote—it’s a window into a layered identity shaped by migration, exile, and return. His father, Sheikh Salman Ahmad al-Hijri, was part of the long-standing Druze diaspora that had taken root in Latin America since the late 19th century. These communities, while geographically distant, remained deeply entwined with their ancestral homeland through religious, familial, and political ties.
Al-Hijri returned to Syria as a teenager and earned a law degree from Damascus University. But by 1993, he was back in Latin America, this time on assignment. His permanent return came in 1998, when he settled in Qanawat—one of the religious hubs for Syrian Druze in the southern province of Suwayda. There, his quiet but steady ascent through the Druze clerical hierarchy began.
Everything changed in 2012 with the sudden and mysterious death of his older brother, a moment that propelled al-Hijri to the post of sheikh al-‘aql, the highest spiritual authority in Druze tradition. His elevation coincided with Syria’s descent into civil war. At the time, Assad’s grip on power was slipping fast, and he leaned heavily on the loyalty of minority groups—particularly the Druze—to help stabilize his crumbling regime. Al-Hijri answered that call with full-throated support.
His public endorsements of Assad were unequivocal. “Bashar,” he once said, “you are the hope of the nation, of Arab unity, and of the Arab world.” He went as far as urging young Druze to take up arms for the regime, effectively dragging a historically neutral community into a bloody, grinding conflict.
Fast forward nearly a decade to 2021—and the winds had shifted. A tense phone call with a Syrian army general, in which al-Hijri was reportedly insulted and belittled, proved to be the breaking point. The slight wasn’t just personal—it was political. Al-Hijri severed ties with the regime. His followers took to the streets of Suwayda. The regime, true to form, cracked down with force, exposing just how little moral legitimacy it had left.
From that moment on, al-Hijri’s rhetoric took a radical turn. He openly accused the regime of extremism and likened its military operations to ISIS-style brutality. In a stunning about-face, he declared that reconciliation with Damascus was off the table. In doing so, he effectively crossed the Rubicon—placing himself in open opposition to Assad’s regime, and putting both his influence and his life at risk.
Then, in May 2025, came the bombshell. In an interview with The Washington Post, al-Hijri stated flatly: “Israel is not the enemy of the Druze.” It wasn’t just a rhetorical jab—it was a direct challenge to the foundational myth of the Syrian regime, which has long relied on anti-Israel messaging as a tool of national cohesion and authoritarian control.
Al-Hijri went even further. He dismissed decades of official slogans about “resistance to Zionism” as irrelevant to the real needs of Syrians. His message was blunt: survival, dignity, and security for the Druze come before ideological dogma. That stance struck at the core of the regime’s legitimacy, which depends on framing every internal failure as the result of some external threat.
Not everyone rallied behind al-Hijri’s new direction. Prominent Druze clerics like Sheikh Hamoud al-Hanawi and Sheikh al-Jarbu issued counter-statements emphasizing “national unity” and rejecting what they described as sectarian adventurism. The Council of Elders of the Unitarian Druze community released a statement reaffirming its commitment to Syria’s territorial integrity.
What’s unfolding, however, is more than a clerical dispute. It’s a generational fracture—a clash between old-guard religious leadership forged in the Syria of the 1960s and 1980s, and a new Druze generation shaped by war, repression, and disillusionment. Younger Druze, many of whom have seen friends detained, conscripted, or killed, are demanding a new path—one not tethered to the hollow slogans of a failed state.
Sheikh Hikmat al-Hijri may not have all the answers. But in a country where dissent often ends in disappearance or death, his voice has become a rare symbol of courage, defiance, and a community at a crossroads. Whether history will remember him as a revolutionary figure or a tragic dissenter remains to be seen. But one thing is certain: Syria’s Druze are no longer silent, and their spiritual leader has given them something the regime can’t manufacture—an alternative.
Between Past and Future: The Unlikely Crossroads of Sheikh al-Hijri and “Suwaydasuela”
Sheikh Hikmat al-Hijri’s story isn’t just the biography of a religious leader. It’s a mirror reflecting the existential struggle of an entire community—its crisis of identity, its fight for survival, and its political evolution in a nation torn apart. Al-Hijri has come to embody a transitional era: too secular for the orthodox clerics, too outspoken for the backroom politicians, and far too dangerous for a regime that tolerates no competing centers of power.
Today, al-Hijri stands at a pivotal juncture. His voice grows louder—not only in Suwayda, but across Latin America and within international corridors of power. His life bridges East and West, exile and return, silence and defiance. And the central question is no longer whether he’ll survive as a leader. The real question is whether he can convert his spiritual authority into political clout—without losing what made him powerful in the first place: the trust of ordinary people.
The history of the Druze migration to Venezuela isn’t just a footnote in the Arab diaspora’s global narrative. It’s a political and cultural phenomenon that helped build a transoceanic bridge—linking the Levant to Latin America in a way that has shaped both Syria’s internal dynamics and Venezuela’s state architecture. What began as a search for economic stability has evolved into a full-blown civilizational connection. Today, it even has a name: “Suwaydasuela.”
In the 1950s, Syria was grappling with chronic instability: endless coups, a shattered economy, devastated rural regions, and mounting sectarian tension. Venezuela, by contrast, looked like a promised land. Flush with oil wealth, politically stable, and socially open, it welcomed waves of immigrants—Italians, Portuguese, and Arabs among them.
Adil al-Zughayir, a former Venezuelan lawmaker from the ruling Socialist Party and himself of Druze descent, recalls: “My father came to Venezuela in the 1950s. He was a farmer, and Syria back then was falling apart. Venezuela was booming—and it welcomed us with open arms.”
But it wasn’t just about the economy. For a religious minority that had long faced persecution in Syria and Lebanon, safety mattered just as much.
“Religious tolerance was a huge draw,” al-Zughayir says. “We Druze had been targeted before. Venezuela offered us something rare: a place to just live—without fear, without labels.”
Over time, the Druze community didn’t just assimilate—they embedded themselves into Venezuela’s political core. When Hugo Chávez came to power in 1999 with his vision of “Bolivarian socialism,” Druze and broader Arab diasporas found themselves climbing the ranks of state power.
The most prominent example? The El Aissami family. Tareck El Aissami served as interior minister, governor, and eventually vice president for economic affairs and head of state-run oil giant PDVSA under Nicolás Maduro. His sister, Haifa El Aissami, represented Venezuela at the International Criminal Court. Their rise wasn’t just personal—it was emblematic. No other Middle Eastern diaspora in Latin America has reached comparable levels of influence.
Though Tareck El Aissami is now behind bars on corruption charges, his political journey remains a striking symbol of how deeply the Druze have woven themselves into Venezuela’s power structures.
A Piece of Venezuela Inside Syria
What’s most remarkable—and perhaps most surreal—is how Venezuela seems to have “migrated” back into Syria. In the city of Suwayda, spiritual and demographic heart of Syria’s Druze population, it’s estimated that anywhere from 300,000 to 500,000 residents have family ties to Venezuela.
That’s why Suwayda is often dubbed “Little Venezuela” or, more playfully but not inaccurately, “Suwaydasuela.” You hear Venezuelan accents on the streets. Caracas-made goods fill shop windows. Restaurants serve arepas and cocoa drinks. Many residents hold dual citizenship.
“Roughly 20% of Suwayda’s population has Venezuelan roots,” al-Zughayir notes. “That’s not just a statistic—it’s a cultural and political force.”
During an official visit in 2009, Hugo Chávez himself stopped in Suwayda and declared: “I feel at home here. Suwayda is like Venezuela. And Venezuela is Syria’s brother.”
Over time, the Druze became a living link between the Arab world and Latin America. Unlike other diasporas, theirs didn’t fade—it flourished. Political, familial, and even military ties turned the Druze into an informal conduit between Caracas and Suwayda.
And in a country as politically brittle as Syria, that kind of transnational leverage matters. Venezuelan passports and overseas networks have helped Druze navigate the chaos: fleeing conscription, accessing humanitarian aid, and building cross-border businesses.
But this symbiosis comes with friction. The Assad regime—deeply aligned with Russia and Iran—has grown increasingly wary of the “Latin American factor” in Suwayda. The government sees the ties as a challenge to its authority, especially in light of Sheikh al-Hijri’s escalating rhetoric. After all, this is a spiritual leader shaped as much by Caracas as by Damascus.
With Syria’s statehood eroded and regional powers losing their grip, the Druze find themselves in uncharted territory. Their historical adaptability has now become a liability—and an opportunity. They are no longer just a religious community. They are a transnational political actor. Their identity has transcended sectarianism, and Venezuela has become a central pillar of this new paradigm.
“Suwaydasuela” isn’t a joke. It’s the sign of a new era—one in which a people can belong to two worlds, and carry political weight in both. Sheikh Hikmat al-Hijri stands at the heart of this duality. The future he shapes won’t just affect Suwayda or Syria. It may redefine what it means to be a diaspora in the 21st century.