my favorite tailor

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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…

my childhood questions about war to be solved

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On this cold evening, there’s still time for memories and some good oriental music (Naseer shamma). So the scene is like this, my laptop is in front of me, the sound of oud is near and tender, the sound of war is far a little bit but not as far as the sound of peace, I am staring at the white ceiling with a blank mind. Then this image of my memory popped up :

When I was a little girl there were that Chinese cartoon movie I liked very much and watched it over and over again. It starts with the daily life of a little family , two little girls and their parents.  They were naughty happy girls, until the war came to their city .. I remember how I watched this movie every time with tears filling my eyes for these girls. When the war came they had to leave their home which was taken by the enemy and I can see in my head now the part that made me always cry when the little sister died of fever because they couldn’t find a doctor or medicine for her.

Oh God! While I’m staring at the ceiling, listening to oriental music I recalled this Chinese movie that I used to watch FIFTEEN years ago .

At that time I always imagined these girls as me and my sister and maybe that’s why I cried too much watching that movie. I thought if war ever came to my country I’ll never leave my sister because she might die like this in the movie, if she dies I will die too. And I thought; what do people do in war , how do they live, can they still watch cartoon ? oh I wish war doesn’t come here because I love cartoon too much and if I had to leave I won’t be able to watch .

I am smiling now, cartoon and my sister were all that mattered at that time.

I still don’t have a full answer for that little girl that was me, but I know I won’t die when someone I love dies, I continue living stolidly , I wake up every day , look around , recognize where I am, and recall in my mind that they’re not there anymore ..  but dear little girl you may watch or not watch cartoon and that won’t matter much.

Dear little me, you may listen to music in war, you may sing, you may runaway, you may lose people you love, you may cry and be torn apart, you may die a thousand time and revive again, you may hide your head under the pillow when the clashes get closer.. you also may choose to stop feeling, you see a dead body and don’t show emotions but still cry when you watch a sad movie. You surely will become another person .. a stronger from the outside and fragile inside,

Dear little me, you will always have a tear waiting in your eyelid to be dropped, And you will always choose to keep it for you know you will need more tears in the future.

But keep it in your mind sweetie, you won’t die unless you choose to die, and this choice is always available.

displaced Syrian child

displaced Syrian child