Ask me About my Country
Ask me about my country, the one whose soil I have not been able to step on, nor air I have been able to breathe for ages. Ask me about the land of baby boys with missing limbs and fathers who have journeyed to Neverland, unable to bid farewell to the little girls at the windows. The ones who replace dolls for broken dreams and memories of what once was. Ask me about those girls; ask me of the boys and the fathers and I will respond with a smile, mirroring theirs.
Ask me about my country, and I will tell you of the beauty I call Syria.
Had you asked me of this land years ago, I'd let you know that this was my summer vacation. This was the yearly trip of back and forth between family members. This was my parent's home, not mine. My home was a world of displaying picture perfect models with picture perfect smiles and picture perfect bodies. My home was picture perfect. This place, on the other hand, was not. I could tell you each street and how many stairs in my grandmother's apartment, but it was not a skill I took pleasure in boasting about. This land was weary and full of dust, it had stairs rather than escalators and power that went out once every two weeks. This land did not belong to me, this land was two months of heat strokes and long nights of homesickness. This land was not home.
Years went by as I grew more and more fond of this country where hugs were exchanged and eyes were doubled in size when I told them my age. "You're nine years old? Already? Look at you, you're practically an adult!" However, no matter how warm their embraces were, this wasn't the land of glowing iPhones and flashing cameras. This was not home. Eventually, August managed to creep around the corner. With planes in my peripheral vision I was a pile of dynamite, wearing an ear splitting grin that had been plastered onto my face, never fading, never wavering. I was returning home. I was returning to the land of brand new cars and malls with enough dresses to make the world turn. It was so close I could practically feel my bedsprings across the small of my back, hear the creaking of my bedroom door. I patted cousin after cousin on the back and grinned empathetically at the tears of my grandparents. I mumbled words of reassurance, that I'd see them next year, words thrown so mindlessly, words I can't seem to remember today. I promised myself I would keep my mental image of this world so clear in my mind, to be refreshed the coming summer. I have dreamt of this August morning for so many nights, praying to God I could return. Praying I could hug a little tighter, tell them I would miss them once more.
But then I was gone.
I was home.
In 2011 I heard word of a bombing in Syria. Of course, it wasn't as if I thought twice about it. I had bigger issues on my mind, like whether or not I'd be attending fifth grade camp, or if I would pass my TEKS test. Syria was an unspoken territory among public school students. One too far on the globe to hold even a remote amount of importance. My family could wait until the summer to hear from me. They'd marvel at how much I've grown and how many songs my iPod Touch could hold. Hearing from me now would ruin the surprise. The photo of this land had blurred around the edges, and names of streets began to fade from my mind, but I would take a new photograph this year.
How bad could one bomb be?
At age thirteen, I earned a punch in the throat, delivered by the weight of the severity in the country I once ran from, without a glance back. Picture upon picture flashed before my eyes, telling stories of drowning martyrs and undeserved bullets to once pure hearts. I was reassured constantly by everyone around me that those we love had suffered no pain, that they were healthy and well and sent their best wishes. By this time, the faces in the photograph I once knew like the back of my hand had blurred. All that remained were silhouettes of ghost humans and taxis upon taxis clouding up nameless streets. I pitied each tear that left the eyes of my parents as they watched circumstances get worse and worse, but when the sun rose once more, I was yet again in my world. This was not Syria, there were no bodies on streets and more bruises than healthy flesh on civilians. This was middle school, and there was no time to stress over things that were not harming me. So I kept my eyelashes batting and mouth shut. I could not continuously stress on things that did not belong to me, so Syria became a name I said in prayers and occasionally stumbled upon, but quickly changed the subject. By thirteen I had established the idea in my mind that no privileged person enjoys talking about the suffering of others. Not even if it is a fact, not even if it is something we must talk about.
Not even if they were their own skin and bones.
By the winter of my freshman year, my photo of what once was my summer home had been erased from the gallery completely. Names of people I once knew were barely recognizable, and their faces belonged to adults I had never laid eyes on. Replaced with this photo I promised to hold were mothers weeping over corpses and fathers with red seeping through their white T-shirts. Syria was not the place I had come to years ago, these people were not ones I had ever known. Nevertheless, I continued mouthing words in prayers, praying for the safety of the members I once called family. I thanked God that I had not lost any of them, as the pain it would cause my parents was unbearable.
Months later, I sat in the midst of my family members, wearing an ear splitting grin that had been plastered onto my face, never fading, never wavering. After having been in Turkey for only a week and a half, I felt like I had spoken to these people for every day of the past six years. I learned of the pain they were suffering. Pain that never occurred to me, as I had not seen it on Twitter or Instagram. I learned of their deceased friends, of loved ones they no longer get to hear from. In one week, it was as though someone had clicked auto enhance on the picture I once referred to as a montage of blurs. I could see it again, the streets and the constantly honking cars. I could smell my aunts cooking, could feel my grandmother's embrace.
Syria was my home. It hit me so fast yet so slowly, so soft yet so painfully I may not have noticed it. Home was no longer defined by shimmering gadgets and sold out concerts. Home was not a subject that I beat around the bush when discussing. Home was the land where men fought each day and went home to their children with a smile. Where the people live their lives as if knowing they will return to their Lord tomorrow, yet as if they can live forever.
Syria was my home.
Had anyone asked me of my country years ago, I would have offered a polite smile, with a pink tint arising near my cheeks. I would laugh when they mistook the name for "cereal" and wouldn't correct this error in fear of seeming like too much of an outsider. Then, I'd inform them of basic things, I'd say that it lies underneath Turkey and is home to people I knew in another life. If they really seem interested, I'd tell them of the dying boys and girls, the ones who's names have never reached my ears. Of the men taken to captivity due to the venom found in their words, words I refer to as freedom, yet words I have never heard firsthand. Nevertheless, I'd conclude by thanking God that I didn't know any of those boys or girls or men. That I was eternally grateful that my family was not of those whose stories live long after they do, whispered between mouths and buzzed between screens. I'd do this subconsciously, perhaps out of respect for my parents. For it is they who know and love the children in the photographs and the women in the articles. To me, my family were people in the Middle East who I spoke to once a year and whose English speaking skills made me cringe.
Now, however, if asked about my country, I stand with pride, the pink tint and any other remnant of shame long gone. I grin in joy no matter how many times my eyes lie, with bittersweet battles playing out in their reflection. I tell them of the dying boys and girls, and of the men with snake tongues and eyes forced to grow too fast, but that is not all I say. I tell them of the mothers whose face is composed of bags as she waits restlessly for her children to come home, as if their arrival will allow her heart to stop racing, her mind to stop drifting. It won't. I left them know that my family is safe and thank God for that, but just because they have not made it onto the front of CNN does not mean they are not in pain. They are walking time bombs of cracks upon cracks, doomed to rupture any moment due to death of friends and departure of families. Yet, I tell them, not once did I see them wearing anything but a smile. Not once were they ungrateful nor ashamed of their land, yet they held it in their eyes with everlasting pride, just as I do now. So ask me about my country, the one whose soil I have not been able to step on, nor air I have not been able to breathe for ages, and I will let you know how close to my heart my home still is.
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