As I listened to Wael Kfoury (a famous Lebanese singer I equate with John Mayer) all I could remember were his eyes. Not Kfoury's but a Syrian man. The piercing brightness that burned right through me. That vibrated brighter than the neon orange vest the sanitation district handed him upon being hired. It greatly clashed with the dark navy toned dirty raggedy jumpsuit he wore, and the deep shadowy face of his, tanned from years of working beneath the scorching Syrian sun. Somehow I thought it may be the only one he owned. But he wasn't just one. He was thousands. Thousands of "waste management workers" (to call them politely because honestly and unfortunately, all they were considered in Syria were just poor people with a cheap vest and cheaper income).
Upon every trip I knew I'd see him. And him. And him. With the bloodshot eyes. Thoroughly dry cracked lips. And barely a voice. Of all the men I encountered on the streets of Syria, these were the politest. The humblest. The most respectful. And if you know what it's like to walk through the streets of Syria as a woman, you'd understand. They never begged or asked for anything, not verbally anyway. I mean two years later and I still remember how his eyes wrenched my soul. When I handed him the 300, 400, or 500 pounds it always felt like never enough. And I would climb back up the three stories of our green building to cry secretly in my Syrian bedroom. The room I now may never see again.
Now almost two years after the revolution and massacre have occurred, he...they, are all I can think of. The men in soiled jumpsuits, orange vests and the Arabian checkered scarves on their heads. Once upon a time they picked up the trash that lazy careless Syrians deposited so apathetically on the jagged ancient streets. Now what has become of them? The families I knew he tucked away my 500 pounds for? Did they survive the various snipers? The impromptu bombings? The missiles? And the now introduced chemical gases?
Hundreds of Syrians have fled. Those who had the means and the money were able to quickly salvage their goods and head to the Gulf, Europe or America. They have no knowledge of whether or not the home they grew up in still stands. But families, like those of the men I remember, they had no means or money. All they could salvage were themselves and their family members. No inheritance. No saved money underneath mattresses or foreign bank accounts. Everything was getting expensive in the past few trips I took to Syria, and I wondered how they were surviving then. But now, everything has changed.
The memories of the impoverished that I encountered in Syria kept me up till 4:00 AM last night. Kfoury kept singing and the strings of the violin were vibrating faster than my heart as I remembered how just a mere two years ago I enjoyed the ignorance of an innocent Syrian December breeze with only bliss in sight. I would open my bedroom window, but only after closing my door because my grandmother would flip out and exclaim how absolutely cold it was; and yet I never felt the chill. And I would sit atop the window sill and admire the perfection of what little I could see. A glimpse of a purple and red sunset. A snippet of the nightlife that was beginning to come alive in the strip mall across the street. The red dome of the small mosque beside the courtyard. A neon light turning on in the children's ward of the hospital three feet from my room. I heard the infants cry very often, and when I would look down I'd see the nurse, dressed in a white coat and a soft powder blue scarf on her head, coming to soothe the baby. I heard the constant sirens, kids in the street, the famous horns of cars (the soundtrack of the Middle East), and the occasional wedding ceremonies hosted throughout the alleyways of Damascus.
It's all changed now, as I hear the news and read the Facebook feeds of my remaining friends and relatives in Syria. They explain how changed the sounds of Damascus have become. The way that gunshots, explosions, and mysterious booms fill their dawns, days and evenings. They are always reminding each other to kiss every family member a strong farewell before heading to schools (whichever have remained open), or work (whichever still stands), or travels (whomever still can) because no one knows for sure if there is a return. Many never did return home.
And I go back to those eyes. So small yet so meaningful. And I realize, it's all for him. All because Syrians, Arabs actually, finally gathered the bravery to stand up to this awful lifestyle they've been forced to live. The dehumanizing poverty that's left them in shambles. The almost 1984/Hunger Games fear of speaking, because there always was a big brother. The starvation and inflation. The twisted educational system that literally makes or breaks a person's future.
When they had enough of that suffocating environment, the Arabs took a stand. After centuries of their silence, they remembered their origins of civilization and success, and they rose to the challenge. But the courage and bravery did come at quite a price. Friends that have traveled to work with aid services and refugees have thoroughly described that hefty price. Broken skulls. Murdered infants. Raped girls. Beaten men. The list goes on.
What scares me even more is: What next? Has anyone seen the light at the end of this tunnel? Not just for Syria but for the entire Middle East? We all stood in solidarity with Egypt. Demonstrated our pride in their ability to begin working towards an implementation of democracy. And sure, there will be loads of kinks and bugs to work out of the Arabian system after years of oppression, but this new generation that apparently initiated such a ripple effect, how many of them were looking at the after scene and really preparing for it? You know, after we make the tipping point move, how do we begin building sustainable futures for our country and our people? Everywhere I go now I see the "shaking heads" when they define the current status of Egypt, post democracy and election based presidency. And now, after the most peaceful protest to remove the old dictator, suddenly the death tolls and violence has surfaced. Why? Why?!?!
This only concerns me because I wonder about the other Arab countries. They all found this indescribable inspiration when they witnessed Egypt's success. It was enough to get them going. But what is the point, really, of getting rid of a bad system to ring in the new life with a worse one? I mean...(and yes I know maybe now this may seem like useless ramblings, but I think ahead because that's where we're headed)...I won't be able to tolerate the idea of a "free" country for Arabs where they're still not really free. I wouldn't be able to wrap my head around the image of seeing another abused laborer after the fall of Syria's dictatorship. It wouldn't make sense to me.
I know poverty will always unfortunately exist, but when I envision this fight for humanity and dignity, I envision it's because the less fortunate ones are those who want the ability to actually have access to a better life. Because really, at the start of this, and I will be honest, the rich people there had their legs crossed and said, "Yeah, I'd give this a few weeks, months top, and it will blow over." I heard them say it to me verbally. It wasn't until they suddenly had the carpets dragged from under their feet with the battle closing in on them literally, until their home was destroyed or rampaged by the military that they finally recognized EVERYTHING this revolution entails.
Every trip I'd take, I'd come back with pages of notes titled, "What I Will Do to Help Change in Syria." In my last trip, when I extended it to half a year, I thought I could start planting the seeds to my longer return and finally make those childhood notes come true. I never realized I was going to plant my seeds of hope. I only pray that this hope can be manifested into a success that will bring about stronger and cleaner roots, for today and the future. My metaphorical suitcase is packed and ready to depart at the call of the white flag. But I'm scared. Not for my life (that will end when God has set it to end), but of the hidden agendas and intents. This Arab Spring has sprung out the newest of sensations within the Arab people. Mistrust. Ego. Pride. Such ugly things that apparently were always there but never had the opportunity to awaken till now.
I want to see a successful, peaceful, supporting Egypt. I want to see a free, peaceful Palestine. I want to see the Saudi Arabia that it once was when it encountered the revelation of the greatest miracle over 1400 years ago (oh God I really pray for that one, because recently I've been reading some horrible articles about that desert). And I want to see the entire Middle East no longer be that focal point of head shaking news. A Syria that I can visit easily without issues, and feel like my hands are not tied if I want to write in a magazine, work with the educational system for creativity to enhance their children's skills and not hinder them, implement better waste management and sanitation programs to reduce the pollution and urban damage, help create better social policy and human welfare, work with schools and families to promote healthier human relations, and so much more.
When I finished my M.P.A. (Master's in Public Policy & Administration) I began second guessing its use. I knew my passion was always in Sociology and more precisely gender issues. But witnessing what the Arab world needs, I feel that God was preparing me for an opportunity to benefit others, one day, someday. Here, America, Surf City, will always be my home. I plan to dwell here forever and work here forever. But half of my heart resides in Damascus, and I intend to give it my all as well. Who said you can't be in two places at once? It may be my one lifetime, but I will split it between two homes. Because I never want to see those broken eyes again. I want to see them smiling. Never yearning. Always inspiring and believing in a future that it truly deserves.
