Russian President Vladimir Putin and Syria’s interim leader Ahmed al-Sharaa held their first direct talks since the fall of the Assad regime in December 2024. In what may be a historical first, Moscow simultaneously hosted both the sitting and ousted Syrian presidents: al-Sharaa in the Kremlin, and Bashar al-Assad in Moscow City, where—according to Zeit—he resides in an apartment under the protection of Russian security services. What’s more, for the first time in Russia’s modern history, Putin shook hands with a man who, per a 2017 Defense Ministry report, was meant to have lost it in a strike by a Russian jet.
The meeting went ahead despite the cancellation of the Russia-Arab summit, where al-Sharaa had been slated to appear alongside other Middle Eastern leaders. Clearly, both sides were so keen on bilateral discussions on the summit’s sidelines—and had prepared so thoroughly—that they refused to scrap the trip. That said, one could interpret this flexibility another way: the summit itself, beyond its role in showcasing a «multipolar world» and the futility of sanctions, may have been conceived merely as a pretext for such face-to-face talks. With the event’s irrelevance amid the Gaza peace deal, all the window dressing fell away, allowing focus on the core issue—preserving Russia’s physical footprint in the Middle East.
Among Russia’s bureaucrats and security hawks, there are holdouts against deals with former «terrorists.» Yet it’s plain that Putin pays such resistance no mind, if he even registers it. For him, engaging al-Sharaa isn’t just about retaining a Syrian logistics hub for shipping arms and gear to Africa; it’s also a chance to embody realpolitik on the global stage and signal openness to mutually beneficial pacts. For al-Sharaa himself—now dubbed a «Syrian counterpart» by Russian state media—the Kremlin talks carry risks at home, amid lingering radicals in his inner circle, and abroad, given his recent meeting with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy and his bid for Western backing.
That said, it would be a mistake to chalk up al-Sharaa’s moves to shortsightedness or inconsistency. On the contrary, his activism suggests a savvy grasp of the need to shed militia-era inertia and play a longer game. Russia, for all its past backing of Assad, remains a player with whom Damascus can forge tangible checks and balances—not mere hypotheticals. Memorandums with wary European or Asian powers are one thing; extending pacts with Moscow, eager to cling to its bases, is quite another. And this «quite another» isn’t so much hypocrisy or double standards on the part of Syria’s new rulers as a pragmatic imperative: tools to curb Turkey’s all-encompassing—chiefly military—incursions, ease tensions with Israel, and bolster leverage in talks with the West.
Bound by the Same Chain
The buzz around the summit underscores Moscow and Damascus’s mutual stake in the talks. This time, the Syrian side studiously avoided ambiguous talk of «rebuilding trust» or «compensation.» Through a discreet, anonymous leak to Reuters, Damascus merely hinted that Assad’s extradition might come up in the Kremlin discussions. In truth, the topic lingers on the fringes of the Russia-Syria dialogue, but Damascus must trot it out periodically to appease domestic audiences.
The Russian side, meanwhile, showered unexpected praise: Putin hailed Syria’s recent parliamentary elections as a «major success» paving the way for «societal consolidation.» Even among those sympathetic to Damascus’s current rulers, though, the vote’s legitimacy raises eyebrows. It wasn’t fully universal: of the 210 seats in the People’s Assembly (parliament), 140 were filled by electors from local electoral colleges, while al-Sharaa directly appointed the remaining 70 under the transitional constitutional declaration adopted in March 2025. Among the 1,578 candidates, some commendable figures—doctors and teachers—did make it through, but the loyalist electors’ chief aim was to project an air of democratization and redistribute power in ways that suited Damascus. Evidently, the Kremlin champions legitimacy on the world stage only when it suits its interests. In Syria’s case, Russia isn’t being inconsistent: it never publicly flagged the Assad regime’s electoral farces during the civil war, when it held three parliamentary votes (2012, 2016, and 2020) and two presidential ones (2014 and 2021) on regime-held turf.
Al-Sharaa, flush with international contacts yet starved for real support, likely appreciated the Kremlin’s courtesies—especially after the spring massacres of Alawites on the coast and summer clashes with Druze in the south, which drew the predictable Western outcry. The ex-field commander, who once fought alongside al-Qaeda in Iraq and Syria, even cracked a quip about the «long staircases in the Kremlin» that he’d climbed without tiring. As Putin chronicler Andrey Kolesnikov observed, al-Sharaa «showed his best side» and came across as «a capable sort of guy.»
Later, Syrian Foreign Minister Asaad al-Shibani said no new deals had been struck on revising the military base agreements. Arab media, however, reported that al-Sharaa pledged to maintain Russia’s military footprint and resolve Moscow’s concerns. In return, he sought arms deliveries—including air defenses—maintenance for surviving equipment battered by Assad’s fall and Israeli strikes, plus oil products, wheat, and investments. Kommersant noted discussions on diplomatic pressure to rein in Israel’s systematic attacks on the new regime’s assets.
Such leaks might strike some as implausible wish lists, given the hurdles to genuine trust between the Islamist rulers who toppled Assad and a Kremlin sheltering him, along with hundreds of his top officers and generals. But that’s only at first glance.
For one, since the power shift, Russia had already dispatched tankers carrying Syria’s scarce diesel to Tartus’s shores.
For another, as Deputy Prime Minister Alexander Novak announced, Moscow is poised to resume oilfield operations in Syria. That includes «Tatneft» returning after halting work in 2011 amid the initial protests—a company untainted by wartime collusion with the regime, unlike those tied to oligarch Gennady Timchenko or the late Wagner boss Yevgeny Prigozhin. Talks between Tatarstan officials and Syrian diplomats kicked off in July 2025, ahead of the new foreign minister’s first post-Assad Moscow visit. The catch: deploying oil crews to inland fields—prime spots for extraction—raises thorny issues of security and internal policing, toxic given Wagner’s grim legacy. Still, with goodwill, a compromise is feasible, especially since Russian firms have long scouted Syria’s continental shelf.
Third, reshaping Russia’s military presence has long been on the agenda, but it’s not just about a «new price tag.» Negotiating terms and timelines for Tartus and Hmeimim makes sense now, as the 2017 pacts leased them for 49 years (with automatic 25-year renewals absent objections) at no direct cost to Moscow—beyond indirect regime subsidies for its war win. Post-shift, the bases’ roles have evolved. As Riddle reported, Moscow pulled most weaponry—including S-300 and S-400 systems—back to Russia or Libya, gutting their regional power-projection utility, like hosting strategic bombers short-term. Hmeimim’s airbase remains exposed to small-arms fire from nearby heights, while Tartus’s ships risk an al-Qaeda-style hit akin to the USS Cole in Aden in 2000. Under Assad, the Russian flotilla provided layered defenses, from surface patrol boats to underwater counter-sabotage.
In today’s climate, Tartus sees scant use by naval command. Beyond security threats and the need to escort even freighters with sensitive loads via warships (post the December 2024 Ursa Major attack), Turkey’s ban on military transits through the Black Sea straits blocks rotations from nearby fleets.
Theoretically, Moscow could revert Tartus to its pre-2015 setup: a modest material-technical support point with a floating workshop and outbuildings for sporadic naval visits. But with Ukraine’s full-scale war and the peril of sabotage beyond the Black Sea, dispatching lone surface ships—even with auxiliary escorts and submarine cover—is foolhardy. Without shore-based strike assets like the withdrawn Bastion missiles (pulled in January 2025), such a flotilla poses no «deterrent» to a U.S. carrier group. Russian commercial vessels don’t need the current military pier either; tankers can load at nearby Banias.
Hmeimim’s plight mirrors Tartus’s, save one wrinkle: Damascus still lets Russian forces treat it as a staging airfield for African airlifts, where direct flights limit payload tonnage. Rumors persist that Qamishli’s airstrip might supplant Hmeimim for these runs, letting Moscow cut costs on a slimmer footprint—retaining some presence post-shift. Damascus, in turn, could tout expelling Russians from the coast and closing the book on the 2015-present era, when jets from Hmeimim bombed Assad’s foes indiscriminately, far beyond ISIS alone.
Russia and Syria grapple with a thicket of issues whose resolution could serve both. Yet the real snag is Moscow’s contentment with the agreements’ limbo: a toehold on the ground, Hmeimim for African logistics, and the aura of a heavyweight player. Damascus, by contrast, craves steady economic aid and expects payment for enabling Russia’s «African Corps» to project power elsewhere—rivaling the West and Turkey. With the West holding back big money from post-Assad Syria for now, Moscow can muddle through with one-offs like fuel shipments. But stretching that to 2068, per the old 49-year deal? Unlikely.
