my favorite tailor


It always impresses me how Picasso’s “La guernica” portraits me, and almost all of my close friends who have been through the same path more or less, except we look normal from the outside, the mess is only from the inside. I recognise how fragile my balance is when I can not engage in a conversation about how difficult it is to have your mother visit you over Easter while you have too much to study… my mom can’t visit me, that nice old lady will not see the beautiful red London buses or the stunning architecture. So yeah, I have more time to study; I will not have to be her tour guide in London, I will not take her to the Thames or London Eye. She will not see my room or the garden where I read my books.

My colleague was complaining how she doesn’t have time for her mom’s visit, while all I said was “Yeah, I know it must be difficult”, I showed a fake smile of sympathy and thought to myself, is it my fault that I don’t sympathise or that I get angry at this type of problems? I know that everyone is fighting their own battle, but why should my battle be this difficult? Why can’t I worry about my food not being organic enough or not having my vacation in the best island in Greece or even spending my birthday alone! These are the kind of problems my colleagues complain about on a daily basis, while I stay silent fearing if I talk about what worries me, I will hurt their feelings or ruin their evening. It worries me not to have a place to go to after I finish my masters because my country is not accommodating and is not a “pleasant” place to live in. It worries me not to ever see my mom again. It worries me that I don’t have a place to call home, the uncertainty, the loneliness, the exile of everything and everyone I love, death worries me… life too does… I wish I can just worry about global warming, then I would go every day to protest in front of Westminster with those nice people, but I am too broken to worry about the Earth. I wish I am that sane and sweet, but I am neither. If I am given the choice, I would probably choose to complain about the amount of field work I have to do, that I have to travel 70% of my time despite being paid three times more like that guy I met today, but I know I would be grateful to get a job unlike these people who would seize every opportunity to complain. I am not like them, I am broken. I would like to believe that I am unique because I left my pieces behind and tried to stitch myself nicely. I stitch myself on my own, I am not a good tailor, but I do my best. I do my best to be nice, to sympathise, to understand, and appreciate. I am not always a good tailor, but I am my favourite tailor.

I am sure that to other people in my country, I am like my colleagues who complain about spending their birthday alone. I live in London and I share nice photos on Instagram, oh God! We are all broken, but do I want to be fixed?

No, I don’t…

I am a snail, I am a mountain


one sun set in syria (26-5-2913) – picture is taken by me

the scene started in the bus, me – sitting next to the window, watching the yellow mountains of Damascus. No sign for life in these deserted mountains though I know a lot of insects and plants struggled to live in this yellow dry land, for no particular reason except that it’s THEIR land.

For the first time in these  two exhausting  years , I’m leaving Damascus for a while, my trip is in Syria too but … well leaving Damascus at this hard time felt like a betrayal for “her “ .

It’s Strange how you can feel guilty for leaving your city, treating it as another sad soul in this tragic area. It’s not only a place to live in, It’s literally MY STORY ..

Being you in the time of war is something you must always keep in mind. you should be aware you are not becoming a monster or a fragile butterfly following any source of light even if it’s the light of fire that will burn her wings.

Being you and only you, not that creature they try to mold and create through TV screens and news broadcasts, is the only thing you need to struggle for.

There after three hours the bus stopped.. we weren’t hunt on the road.. it was a safe trip luckily. And there I am , for the first time in 2 years I breath deep, I fill my lungs with air and don’t want to think again.. just want to breath and rest that small brain.

Syria is well known now in the whole world for being the most dangerous place to live in. well in this “most dangerous” place I was blessed to be able to discover I’m not completely damaged,  I still can see beauty , and knew that storms are a part of nature, no storm could ever end the life in any part of this world.

So here I am, writing this post on the beach and listening to Frank Sinatra, moon river – well I know I have an old fashioned music taste- and even when I’m back there to Damascus I will always think of that little snail on the grass that is so slow moving forward but knows exactly what it wants and knows how to protect itself from storms and other bad animals .

I will always put in mind that these mountains were here thousands years ago. They welcomed anything the universe gave, and so they are now green, wild and strong.

And I will say to the world, I am a snail, a mountain and a continuous waterfall ..


an unexpected lovely scene , picture is taken by me