On a cold winter morning in the countryside of Damascus, Aliya Ali, an elderly woman, lights a small stove and watches steam rise from an old metal kettle. Her youngest son has been coughing through the night, and there is no medicine in the house – only what she inherited from her grandmother: thyme, anise, chamomile, olive oil. As she pours the herbal infusion into a cup, she murmurs that these plants have become her only pharmacy. Years of war have pushed pharmacies further out of reach, and the cost of medicine has become heavier than what families struggling day by day can afford. With every herbal drink she prepares, Aliya recalls her grandmother’s stories about healing, patience, and endurance.
Aliya’s story is not an isolated case. It reflects the lived reality of thousands of Syrian women who have found themselves facing two difficult choices: modern medicine that is expensive and inaccessible, or traditional remedies that are available, familiar, and rooted in memory. In this context, women have shifted from being caregivers within the household to custodians of medical knowledge, gathering herbs and reconstructing remedies passed down for generations.
Historically, folk medicine – often referred to as “Arab traditional medicine” – has been closely tied to everyday life across the region, serving as the primary means of healthcare before the spread of modern medical systems. Women played a central role in collecting medicinal plants, preparing treatments, and transmitting this knowledge orally through generations. Within households and villages, they acted as informal healers, treating common illnesses, easing pain, and caring for children and the elderly.
This role was not merely medical, but deeply cultural and social. Through experience and repetition, women preserved a rich archive of herbal recipes that remains in use today, both in rural areas and increasingly in cities, where economic hardship and the erosion of public services have renewed reliance on natural remedies. What was once heritage has become necessity.
Healthcare Gaps Turn Tradition into Necessity
In a village near Damascus, Umm Mohammad, a woman in her fifties, shoulders the responsibility of supporting a large family amid worsening economic conditions. Since the war began, medicine prices have surged dramatically, and access to hospitals has become a luxury few can afford. Faced with these realities, she returned to the treatments she learned from her grandmother, relying on folk medicine as a practical alternative.
A similar story unfolds in the countryside of Qamishli in northeastern Syria, where Zainab al-Hassan, in her mid-forties, has become the first point of reference whenever illness strikes her family. With no well-equipped health centre nearby and long, costly journeys to the city, Zainab depends on the remedies passed down by her mother and grandmother.
Her home contains small jars filled with dried herbs – hibiscus, fenugreek, chamomile, cumin. Speaking to +963, she explains, “These herbs are our medicine when we can’t reach a doctor or afford treatment.” She prepares cumin infusions for stomach pain, uses fenugreek to combat anaemia, and relies on hibiscus to lower her husband’s blood pressure. Among women in her village, she is particularly known for a mixture of sesame oil and black seed used to relieve joint and back pain, and she freely shares her knowledge with others who seek her advice.
Yet Zainab acknowledges the limits of folk medicine. She recalls a painful lesson when her eldest daughter developed severe abdominal pain. Assuming it was a simple digestive issue, she treated her with herbal infusions. When the pain worsened, the family rushed her to a hospital in Qamishli, where doctors diagnosed acute appendicitis requiring immediate surgery. “That’s when I realized herbs can ease symptoms, but they can’t treat everything,” she says. “We use them because we have no other choice, but serious illness needs a doctor.”
Despite the availability of modern medicine in theory, many women – particularly in rural areas – continue to rely on traditional remedies. This phenomenon cannot be explained solely by the absence of healthcare services. It is deeply connected to cultural roots, economic hardship, educational gaps, and long-standing social practices that shape how communities understand health and healing.
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Women, Knowledge, and Survival
Political economist and writer Dr. Tamara Haddad, based in Ramallah, argues that women have consistently proven their ability to adapt and lead across all spheres of life, even under war and extreme scarcity. In Syria, she explains, women have played a central role in preserving and transmitting folk medical knowledge, particularly in rural settings where they were seen as living repositories of herbal expertise learned from mothers and grandmothers.
In comments to +963, Haddad notes that much of this knowledge was passed down informally – through cooking, childcare, and moments of illness – allowing traditional medicine to endure despite social upheaval. Many women also practiced traditional midwifery, gaining extensive understanding of herbs used to ease pain, control bleeding, assist childbirth, and treat menstrual issues. Folk medicine, she adds, functioned not only as physical treatment but as a form of social care, blending healing with emotional and spiritual support through practices such as herbal rituals, cupping, and traditional beliefs.
Haddad identifies several factors driving reliance on folk medicine today, including soaring healthcare costs, limited access to clinics – especially in war-affected rural areas – and a deep cultural trust in inherited knowledge. Psychological factors also play a role: women often feel greater control over treatments they prepare themselves, while many avoid hospitals due to past negative experiences, overcrowding, or lack of privacy.
Modern healthcare, meanwhile, faces its own challenges, from overwhelmed facilities and staff shortages to insufficient consultation time and uneven service quality. To reduce unsafe reliance on folk remedies, Haddad stresses the importance of targeted awareness programs for women, explaining when traditional treatments are appropriate and when medical intervention is essential. She also calls for integrating traditional knowledge with scientific research, improving access to women-cantered healthcare services, deploying mobile clinics to rural areas, and regulating herbal markets to prevent dangerous or unverified mixtures.
Building trust between women and the healthcare system, Haddad concludes, is key. That trust must be supported by better care standards, privacy, female medical staff where possible, and respectful communication. Only then can folk medicine return to its place as complementary knowledge – rather than a last resort for survival.
