Following Syria’s broken tracks from Baniyas to Aleppo

Baniyas, Syria — On a sunny February morning, a long screech of locomotive brakes marks the start of the day at Baniyas Refinery, Syria’s largest oil-refining plant. It is one of the last functioning arteries of the country’s fuel network.

Men in helmets stand on a platform above the train, filling tanker cars with fuel as supervisors from the Syrian Petroleum Company look on - both the refinery staff and the rail workers are vital for keeping post-war Syria powered.

Baniyas, a coastal city of 40,000 on Syria’s Mediterranean shore near the port cities of Tartous and Latakia, is one of the country’s main logistical hubs.

Hussam Hassan, head of train-filling operations for the past three years, has worked at the refinery since 2002. Now in his forties, Hassan has witnessed the collapse of his workplace both during the Syrian civil war, which started in 2011, and its renaissance in December 2024, after the fall of Bashar al-Assad.

“Since the regime fell, activity has really picked up, increasing train frequencies,” he says. “On good days, two or three trains exit the refinery after being filled and head towards Homs or Aleppo.”

He explains how important their work is.

“For workers here, the job is not just routine; it is an essential step to keeping the country supplied with energy. Without these cargoes, it would be much more difficult to supply power plants across the country, as everything would be done by truck.”

Much of the system no longer functions as it once did. Vegetation creeps over tracks, and old passenger wagons sit rusting. Even the rusty orange tankers being filled look outdated.

None of this will stop today’s convoy, destined for the Aleppo Thermal Power Plant, 20km east of the city. The load consists of a 170-meter-long caravan of 12 tanker-wagons carrying 5,000 tonnes of much-needed fuel oil, with one blue locomotive pulling it all.

Hassan is not concerned by the train’s fate once it leaves the refinery, and he has never been on the journey himself.

When asked how long it will take, he points to estimates: “15 to 35 hours”.

Back to the railway ‘Stone Age’

Nidal Abdulkader, director of Syrian Railways (SRC) operations in the Tartous governorate, says the journey will be “gruelling”.

Abdulkader, 49, was a train driver between 2000 and 2011. During the civil war, he was exiled in the north, where he organised the shipment of wheat from Turkiye to the enclave of Idlib.

When he started his new job last year, he was appalled by the decay of Syria’s rail system.

“The war severely damaged the national network, and many sections were completely destroyed by attacks,” he says. “Some portions of the tracks were even looted as people sold stolen iron on the black market, including Assad militias.”

Before the war, a direct line connected the coast to Aleppo, crossing the mountains of Jebel Ansarieh and stretching along the Syrian coastline. That no longer exists; the tracks literally vanished. Now the journey requires a long detour through the south to bypass the mountains.

Seated in his large but dated office overlooking Tartous station, Abdulkader fondly recalls when “passenger trains linked major cities in just a few hours - you could even go as far as Deir Ezzor and Qamishli”, two cities along the border with Iraq. Behind him, old maps of a network covering the whole country hang on the walls, crude reminders of the sector’s lost vitality.

“The problem isn’t only the tracks; good equipment is also lacking,” he says, noting that the locomotives date back to the 1970s, and their engines have not been updated since the early 2000s. As for the oil tankers, they have leaks.

Everything needs “constant care”, he adds.

Abdulkader explains why only freight trains still run.

“No one is interested in hopping on a train if we can’t predict its arrival time,” he says.

“It will take time to catch up”, he admits with a smile, but he is determined to overcome these difficulties one by one."

Leaving Baniyas

By noon, the tankers are full, and the train is ready to depart. After weighing the wagons one by one, the shipment is handed off to the crew of locomotive number 708. The loco cab is the only place available to sit on the train.

Crammed inside, the three-man crew share just a few square metres of space. The steady rhythm of the rails and the low hum of the engine accompany their conversation.

Like all the locomotives still operating, 708  was built in the Soviet Union and dates back to the 1970s. Everything, from the dashboard to the stained windows, is from another era, and the largely metal interior offers little comfort.

A small circular stove allows the crew to keep cups of tea and traditional mate coming, helping them stay alert. The atmosphere is relaxed, and a small speaker plays the classics of Lebanese singer Fairuz.

At the controls is driver Abu Mahmoud. He will lead the first leg of the journey. He and the train chief, Hussein, are both over 50 and have spent their entire lives working for the SRC. Abu Mahmoud’s assistant, Mohammed, is a newcomer by comparison. At 37, he stands out, wearing a turtleneck sweater and well-polished boots. He is from a small village between Homs and Tartous and spent eight years in the army up to 2018.

He explains why he joined the army.

“At the time, the regime told young people on the coast: ‘You have no choice, there’s only the sea behind you. It’s either the army or death’,” he says.

“That’s why I enlisted, and also to earn a salary,” he adds.

After military service, he joined the SRC.

“I would not have opposed staying longer, but after eight years, you were usually demobilised,” he explains.
All three men are from the coastal region, which is predominantly Alawite. They admit to having felt apprehensive about the new government, particularly after the March 2025 killings targeting the Alawite community. Syria’s new leader, Ahmed al-Sharaa, is Sunni.

But Mohammed says, “Our mission is still the same, and we continue accomplishing it regardless.”

“People need to get used to change; it will inevitably take time to trust politicians again,” he adds.

Hussein and Abu Mahmoud nod, and through the window, a large statue of Hafez al-Assad lying on its side comes into view.

Despite their fears, they also see the train as a way of overcoming social divides.

“I am an Alawite, I could choose to sit at home and do nothing all day because I am scared, but I’d miss the locomotive, not making myself useful and enjoying the landscape,” says Hussein.

As the train approaches stations along the route, Hussein calls their staff with his cellphone. One employee then stands at the platform’s edge and hands over handwritten instructions to the locomotive driver as it passes.

Familiar with the process, Abu Mahmoud barely slows down, nonchalantly extending his arm through the window to grab the paper.

“These papers allow crews to receive the latest information on the state of the network,” he says. “They will, for example, give us an indication of a portion of the tracks where we must slow down, or if there is a problem on the road.”

This system makes up for the lack of electronic signalling.

“Everything is done manually,” Abdulkader explained the day before.

Before the war, everything was automated, but electrical installations have fallen into disrepair, and resources are too scarce to repair them.

The same is true with level crossings. Employees operate them manually, and are responsible for stopping motorists who sometimes cross the tracks unpredictably.

Past Tartous, the train heads away from the coast, continuing towards Homs. On the right, the snow-capped peaks of Mount Lebanon come into view.

Suddenly, Abu Mahmoud frantically sounds the locomotive’s horn, swearing and shattering the calm inside the cabin, which is bathed in the day’s last rays of sunlight.

Hussein and Mohammed grab the walls, bracing themselves.

Seconds later, the train slams into a vehicle that had ventured onto the tracks, resulting in a violent crash of crumpled metal. Despite hitting the brakes, the train, moving at 60 km/h and with its heavy cargo, could not stop in time.

The car is wedged at the front of the locomotive. Its sole occupant, an old man, lies motionless at the wheel.

Hussein and Abu Mahmoud jump down to assess the damage. They are soon joined by locals alerted by the horn sounding repeatedly, and the unusual sight of the train stopped in the countryside.

Remaining calm, the crew explains what happened to a group of men standing around the locomotive. The priority is to extract the driver as quickly as possible. Together, they smash the car’s windscreen and pull him free. Unresponsive but still alive, he is taken to a nearby hospital for treatment.

“He’s a miracle survivor,” Abu Mahmoud whispers.

As a driver, he has seen these types of accidents many times.

Not an isolated case

Similar crashes have become almost routine on this line.

“There’s not much we can do,” says Hussein. “If someone decides to cross when a train is approaching, they’re putting themselves in danger.”

“There should have been someone manning the crossing,” Mohammed adds.

The following day, another collision involving a different train occurs on the same stretch. An overcrowded van crossed at the wrong moment, killing 11 people.

Since the fall of Assad in December 2024, a third of railway employees in the Tartous governorate have been laid off due to budget cuts, further undermining safety for both crews and residents.

The loco’s brakes were damaged by the crash, and it cannot continue. With his work day over, Mohammed sets off for home nearby, following the tracks and slowly disappearing into the darkness.

Abu Mahmoud and Hussein will head back towards Tartous by car, less than 50km away. First they must wait at the small station of Semer Yan to hand over their train to a relief crew with a locomotive dispatched from Homs to continue the journey.

The rescue crew

Once the oil shipment is handed over, the train journey resumes at around 8:30pm, three hours behind schedule.

Abu Mahmoud has been replaced by Motaz Hassan, an SRC veteran. At 61, he has been a train driver for 43 years. He only left his job for four years, from 2011 to 2015, at the height of the civil war when trains stopped running.

At his side are Simon Yacoub, 52, and Ali Khatib, 48, his assistant driver and train chief.

“Our role? Drinking mate!” they joke as Hassan drives through the pitch-black night, chain-smoking cigarettes.

In reality, Yacoub acts as a lookout, scanning the tracks for obstacles Hassan might have missed, such as people or cars getting too close to the tracks. Khatib is responsible for the cargo — he handles the administrative side of the journey.

Hassan competently leads the way. While passing small towns, well-timed blasts on the horn warn everyone close to the tracks.

“I could do this route with my eyes closed,” he says with a grin, a mane of white hair floating in the wind, and a face lined by the efforts of his long career.

The night shift

After we reach Homs around midnight, the crew changes again, and the night team takes over. Driver Ahmad Hamami, his assistant Jalal Mahminou, and cargo chief Wassil Bitar all have at least 25 years of experience. They will drive through the night to reach the Aleppo Thermal Power Plant at dawn.

Inside the cabin, mate, mainly consumed on the coast but less so in northern and eastern regions, has given way to an abundantly sugared tea. The three men are from Aleppo, their accents and drink preferences giving them away.

In the darkness, the train crosses the Orontes River and skirts Hama before heading north across an arid plain, the monotony of the landscape broken only by the occasional sleepy village.

Around 4 am, Hamami pulls out a small bag of fries and some slices of bread. It is time for a quick meal. The portable stove is used to warm hastily made sandwiches.

“Our working conditions are very poor,” Hamami says.

Of the three, he is the only one sitting comfortably in the driver's seat.

Mahminou sits on a broken chair he brought on board, and Bitar has tucked himself near a corner of the loco’s dashboard.

Bitar complains about the working conditions and pay.

“We lack proper breaks,” he says. “Our working days easily exceed 14 hours, half of it at night, and we receive a ridiculously low salary compared to our efforts and the importance of our mission.”

SRC employees earn $100 a month, with crews receiving about $8 extra per day spent on the train. Given the low frequency of trains and the hardships, they never do more than three journeys per week.

Their jobs are dangerous, owing to the poor quality of the tracks and the high risk of accidents, not to mention the extreme weather conditions endured during long winter and summer journeys in old locomotives that cannot protect them from the cold or heat. These difficulties are compounded by the health care system crippled by the war.

Have they ever thought about organising themselves or going on strike?

All three laugh at this idea.

“My goal is to be part of the solution, not to create more chaos,” says Hamami.

Moving forward nonetheless

At dawn, after a night on the move, the chimneys of their destination come into view. Hundreds of electric poles surround Syria’s largest power station, making it look like a forest rising out of the desert.

The power plant remains the main electricity provider for Aleppo, even though those who can afford them have invested in solar panels. The fuel brought by the train will soon be unloaded and burned, with the released energy producing electricity.

In the final kilometers before arrival, a sense of duty fulfilled is evident on the team’s faces. Bitar allows himself a brief nap as sunlight fills the cabin, and Hamami looks out the window, admiring the scenery and the citadel of Aleppo in the distance.

Once the tankers are emptied, the train heads back towards Aleppo, just 30 minutes away, for a well-earned rest.

At around 8:30am, the train pulls into Aleppo. Just before reaching the city’s central station, Hamami, Mahminou and Bitar watch as commuters and motorists make their way to work.

The crowds, though imposing, cross densely populated areas in near indifference to the train. Only a few children wave as the locomotive passes, and Mahminou answers with a cheerful blast of the horn.

Almost 24 hours after leaving Baniyas, the journey ends. For some of the rail workers encountered along the way, the next journey has already begun, or soon will. For many, it is a cycle defined less by distance than by endurance.

“Despite the difficulties, all these years I’ve been working for my country, I’ve never thought of quitting,” Hamami says.

Speaking for his colleagues across the country, he suggests what keeps them going.

“Syria needs us to recover, and we need it as well,” he says. “From our position, every town or village we pass through that has electricity makes us proud, because we know it is partly thanks to our sacrifices.”

Invisible to most, Hamami and his colleagues keep the country moving — as essential cogs in a Syria trying to rebuild itself.

*The crew on the first leg asked that Al Jazeera not use their surnames.