“Where
are you from?” he asked with a thirst for exoticism. I hate disappointing
people but I tend to do so whenever I answer that question. “From here, Surf
City.” He was let down, I could tell. “But actually,” I started, bringing back
the spark of hope to his eyes, that maybe, just maybe, his original
stereotypical assumption was correct. “I was born in LA but we moved here over
20 years ago.” Disappointment again.
I was at
a mixer for young business professionals attempting to raise awareness on both
my writing career and our now official nonprofit organization A Country Called Syria. “So is that
where your family is from then?” he eagerly asked after I gave him my business
card. I smiled and nodded, “Yes.” He tilted his head and softened his
expression. “It’s awful what’s happening there, I just don’t get it.”
To be
honest bro, I don’t either. It’s been a little over three months since my
return from our impromptu trip to Syria and I realize that of all my “visits”
there, this was the first time I experienced Syria. Even during my six-month
stay almost six years ago, I got to explore the place of my roots but I never experienced it.
Not that
I ever really forgot the piercing encounters of those six weeks turned three
months in Syria, lately however, I’ve been having a great deal of flashbacks,
specifically of the families I met at the shelters.
A family
friend arrived from Syria today and it was so refreshing yet so strange to see
her because it instantly transported me to the memories I witnessed two seasons
ago. Staying with us, my room was by default converted into hers for the week.
As I cleaned it thoroughly this morning, emptying out drawers and closet space,
I felt a sense of heightened attachment. How am I going to give up my room for
ten days? My bed? My drawers? My space?
I
grabbed my laptop, my makeup box, my hard drive, my notebooks and a few other
essentials and headed two feet over to my brother’s room (a.k.a. what used to
be my room before he came into this world). The extra bed was now crowded with
my belongings and I stood there for a solid 30 seconds staring at what items I
had prioritized to bring along and which ones I had agreed to “leave behind.”
Then I thought of the other Dania, the one I met at the shelter in March—a beautiful
17-year-old high school junior living in a classroom-turned-apartment that
housed three families separated by blankets on clotheslines as borders.
Imagine
the lack of privacy. Strike that. Imagine the nonexistence of privacy. I had
originally slightly resented the idea of sharing a room with my brother because
of the loss of privacy and space, then I remembered Dania, halfway across the
world sharing an entire room with her parents, siblings, another set of parents
and their children, and then an entire other family.
This
thought gave me goose bumps as I started organizing my tiny collection of
belongings. “Alhamdulilah,” I said aloud, grateful to God for the blessings
that I’ve been showered with. Not only do I have an entire house that is our
own, but I am also literally only crossing two feet of borders and easily have
access to my room during the day to grab whatever else I need, unlike a
majority of refugees who can never go back and get what they forgot in the
bookshelf by the closet. But this was a reminder to keep things in perspective.
This was a wake up call to answer the question that almost everyone asks me,
“Why don’t they just all leave?”
I hear
that often, especially when people find out I still have plenty of family members
remaining. Besides the fact that Syrians are now the most despised of people,
being disregarded and put on low priority in the eyes of every nation,
prohibiting them from even entering their countries, there’s this reality, this
notion that surprisingly many seem oblivious to and that is the fact that this
is home. Just like California will
forever remain home to me—SoCal specifically. Who wants to wake up in the
middle of the night, go through all their belongings to select only the few
that they can carry and leave?
And
leave where? Only God knows—whether it’s the sands of another unwelcoming place
or the waters that may house their sinking graves, they just go, but only when
times get desperate, like when the house they were living in has been demolished.
I heard of stories about families that came home after work or school and found
there was no home, just rubble.
Syria is
almost entering its sixth year of this and I remain baffled at the world’s
silence and I cry often wondering if we’ve reached a point of helplessness.
Governments have tied our hands and so all we do is post and share. This was
one of the essential reasons of why we founded A Country Called Syria, an organization with the mission to educate
the greater public on the rich history and culture of Syria, as well as its
valuable contributions to the world. We want to give people the opportunity to
connect with Syria on a deeper level so that they recognize the gravity of what
is being lost. Not only is this the core of civilization’s history (like did
you know that Damascus, the capital of Syria, is the oldest inhabited city in
the entire world?), but its people have brought to the world a great deal of
trades and treasures. The very first linear alphabet in the world was
discovered in Syria and from it came Latin, Greek, Arabic and English; which
later enabled the documentation of musical notations.
A great
fountain of talent resides within the blood of Syrians, the blood being spilled
on an hourly basis, and the world doesn’t even know it. There was this one shop
we went into one afternoon in Damascus. A beautiful handmade carving caught our
eye in the window and we rushed in to ask the owner about it. We wanted to
bring back so many artifacts to share the beauty of Syria and its talented
people with the world at our exhibitions and this one was breathtaking. He smiled
and said, “I’m sorry, but this one’s not for sale. It’s my last one and the
factory where we made it by hand is no longer functioning. I can’t make anymore
so I can’t let this one go.”
I wish
he was the only one to tell me that but the fabric shops, the paint shops and
the wood shops all notified us that what we see is all that remains. Between
factories being bombed and factories being threatened into closure, work is at
a standstill. That wave of helplessness runs deep and it has seeped into the
veins of even the children on the streets of Syria that one day, in front of my
grandparents’ home, a young boy around 10 or 12 tried to slit his wrists. He
had gotten tired of the life he was coerced to live for no reason; the life of
begging on the streets with busy cars in the morning and then begging in front
of the restaurants at night. A huddle of concerned Syrians gathered around him
and stopped him, but then that was it. Everyone was on their way after making
sure he didn’t follow through…this time. There is no place to send him,
especially not during a time of war. It’s become a world of every man for
himself, living a life of unpredictability.
At the
moment we’ve been brainstorming ideas for projects to make a change, something
to break this helplessness for Syria and we welcome ideas and volunteers.
Something is currently brewing and we are eager to share it with the world once
it comes together, but in the meantime, I urge everyone to carve some time out
of their day to visit our next exhibition and events, which will be launching
October 1st 2016 to December 21st 2016 at the California
State University, Fullerton. Details to come so follow us on Facebook/Instagram:
@ACountryCalledSyria and Twitter: @ACCSyria to get all the updates.
And
always remember, please pray for Syria and pray for the world.
Peace & Love
