In northern Daraa, southern Syria, where dry fields stretch across the land and villages lie scattered among war-scarred hills, smoke rises from a deep pit on the outskirts of Ghabghab. The ground trembles as people rush out in panic. Shouts mix with the clatter of shovels, and dust covers faces staring into the unknown.
On the morning of 16 September 2025, nothing could be seen but grey ash swirling over a pit more than thirteen metres deep. After long hours of digging, rescuers pulled out one man alive. Three others came out dead. They had all been chasing a rumour of a “buried treasure” said to reveal itself through fire.
But the tragedy that shook the small town was only one chapter in a larger story; the story of a whole generation in Daraa searching for salvation beneath the ground after every path to life above it has been closed. Here, young men dig not only for gold, but for a glimmer of hope to stop the long bleeding, even if it costs them their lives.
From the Fall of Power to the Fall of Lives
Since the collapse of the Syrian regime in December 2024, Daraa has sunk into a deep void. Authority has vanished, law and order have disintegrated, and the land has become a torn map of broken dreams and spilled blood. This security vacuum has opened the door wide to a wave of illegal excavation. Fields, orchards, and even old houses have turned into a network of open pits.
According to local activists, seven people have died, and two others were injured between December 2024 and the same month of 2025 in incidents linked to treasure hunting. “In Jabab, the ground swallowed two young men in a pit over twenty metres deep. In Muzayrib, the soil collapsed on two diggers, burying them alive. In Yadoudeh, a young man died when a bullet from war debris exploded in his hand. And in Ghabghab came the latest chapter; three bodies from one pit.”
Every pit in Daraa is no longer just a hole in the ground; it is an open grave for the dreams of a desperate generation.
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Hunger Is Stronger Than Warnings
On the outskirts of Nawa city, Walid Abu Khaled, 49, stands holding his shovel like a man clinging to his last chance at life. He tells +963: “Looking for artefacts isn’t an easy choice, but it’s the only way to survive. There’s no work. If I find gold, it will end poverty for my children and their children. Maybe we destroy the region’s history by digging, but hunger drives me and hundreds like me to do this.”
Unlike Walid, Abu Yamen doesn’t see digging as a passing adventure but as a trade he was forced into. He says: “Because of unemployment, me and a group of lads started digging for old artefacts or ancient coins, gold or bronze. We dig around old military sites that used to belong to the fallen regime. It’s true the regime took most of what was underground, but there are still Turkish, Roman or Jewish graves here and there.”
He goes on, recalling some of his findings:
“We’ve found small things, a bit of gold, some old coins, some antique pottery or beads made of precious stones. The prices aren’t high, but every little thing we find gives us the push to keep going, hoping one day we strike something that saves us from poverty.”
But, as he adds, digging comes at a price. “We’ve been trapped a few times when pits collapsed, but thank God, we made it out. We never all go down together, two or three stay above to help if something happens.”
Then he reveals a deeper wound: “All those old military sites used to have a lot of gold. The regime stole it all. We saw the helicopters land, load up, and fly away when we were kids. We never knew where they took it, but we knew they were carrying gold from the archaeological sites. Every ancient place in rural Daraa had a military base next to it; that’s no coincidence.”
His words shed light on another truth, that digging here is not only a search for money, but also a political act born of anger and injustice, as if this new generation is trying to reclaim what was once stolen from them.
The Double Danger: People and Heritage
Local activist Ahmad al-Hourani sums up the scene in one sharp sentence:
“Every pit in Daraa today carries two faces of tragedy; a human one and a cultural one.”
He explains to +963: “On the human side, we are losing young men in the prime of their lives. They go out hoping for a living or a dream of wealth, but they come back as corpses. They leave behind grieving mothers and children with no support, as if the cemeteries hadn’t had enough of war’s victims.”
“On the cultural side, the disaster is just as grave. Each careless strike of a pickaxe can destroy a whole archaeological layer or shatter a pottery jar that holds the stories of civilisations that once lived here. The value of artefacts is not in their gold weight, but in the context they come from; their link to place and time. When they’re pulled out without study, we lose the thread that connects us to our history, turning heritage into mere goods on the black market.”
He concludes, his voice heavy with sorrow: “The danger is double; young lives buried in pits, and history buried with them. It’s a layered tragedy where the present and the future both disappear, and the land itself becomes a graveyard for dreams and memory.”
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Memory Is Buried Too
Researcher and historian Nidal Sharaf describes what’s happening as an “assassination of memory.” He tells +963: “Every stone pulled out without study, every piece sold on the black market, means losing a chapter of our history. Illegal excavation doesn’t only kill Daraa’s sons, it kills its memory stretching back thousands of years. When these artefacts vanish, we lose the chance to understand our present and our future.”
“These diggings don’t just steal artefacts; they destroy the historical context that allows us to understand ancient civilisations. Losing an artefact means losing part of our collective identity. Sites like Bosra al-Sham and Tell al-Ashari are living proof of our culture and existence. Destroying them means erasing a piece of Syrian identity itself,” he added.
Sharaf called for urgent action: “There must be community programmes to educate locals about the value of these treasures and to restore what has been damaged. International bodies and governments must also act to stop the trade in stolen Syrian antiquities and recognise this heritage as a shared human responsibility.”
On paper, the law is clear. Legislative Decree No. 222 of 1963 gives the Directorate-General of Antiquities and Museums exclusive rights to excavation, with penalties of up to 15 years in prison and heavy fines for violators.
But in reality, the law has no teeth. There is no police, no oversight, no accountability. When tragedy strikes, as in Ghabghab, it’s the locals who fill the pit with their own hands, afraid others might fall in; a scene that sums up the absence of the state itself.
Chasing a Mirage at the Cost of Life
Between crushing poverty and myths of hidden treasure, between stories of small finds that raise faint hope, and laws too weak to protect either lives or history, the phenomenon of illegal excavation is spreading like an open wound across Daraa.
Here, the dream of gold has turned into a collective nightmare; young men buried in their own pits, memory sold on the black market, and a land stripped of its history.
It is as if Daraa lives the same tragic scene again and again: a mirage that lures, a pit that swallows, and a history that vanishes.
And the questions remain hanging in the air: How many more lives will be lost? And how many more chapters of history will be buried before this chase for illusion finally ends?
