A voice of a voiceless

An internal monologue for a refugee, a simple woman who faces discrimination, hatred, and cruelty of humans everywhere…

In this part of this city, in these 200 m2 specifically, you stand in a miniature of Syria. You move around and you can easily hear Syria in different ways and accents, smell it from the carriages of street hawkers selling beans or Sahlep, even taste it; taste the poor part of it… even the dust in the street tries to resemble that in the streets of old destroyed cities.

Wherever you look you will see women in black, Brown, or whatever dark colors they find. Yes this is who we are; we are scared of colors, we feel exposed, Black helps us disguise and keeps us as invisible as we have always been.

It is very noisy in here but I can get myself out of this noise whenever I want. I learnt this technique when I was a child; every time my father would shout or beat my mom I would sit in the corner and sing in my head a song I used to hear from those children who went to school. The song says “those chicks! How cute they are! They are turning around their mom” so that I don’t hear my mom cry, and in times like this I do the same thing but with different songs, I don’t hear any of these women complaining about waiting for several days or since the early morning, I can only hear the song in my head and think of my own problems. I have enough of them!

I hear other women saying that you have to know how to write your name in order to get your assistance. I wish my father (RIP) hears this, he always thought he was protecting us by not sending us to school. He thought I will be more useful in my husband’s house; if only he sees the look on people’s faces when I say I am forty and I don’t know how to write my name! They look at me as if I was a savage coming from some forest. I don’t have the urge to change that look they have. I can’t read or write, I wasn’t sent to school, it is not my fault but then it is my father’s my village’s my people’s fault. What change does this make! In their mind it is either I am a savage or my people are! I don’t care as long as I will find a way to convince them that whatever I write is my name, I would cry, I would beg, I would even act dead, I will not go back home empty handed.

Oh look at my toes, they look funny. I had to take off my socks because we didn’t expect it to rain while waiting. They were wet, they made me cold. I put this nail polish four weeks ago when Ahmad (my little son) slept for thirty minutes during the day. I thought of impressing my husband but he didn’t even notice. Every day when he gets back from his work in construction I feel that another part of him is dying. I hope that seeing his five children growing up creates a strong motivation for him to go on… I can’t help the idea of being alone, I was never allowed to depend on myself, it is even weird that this assistance was sent under my name! I don’t understand why they would give it to the woman while there is a man in the house… they are usually in charge of everything outside the house.

Again I wish my father was alive to see where we are now and see how different life would be if I was sent to school or learnt to do anything to make a living. Will I repeat the same mistake with my daughters? I will try not to!! Probably to a level…  For different reasons; because we are refugees, because we are poor because I can’t afford food on the table. Maybe it is our destiny to be the invisible.

The security guards are annoyed of this number of people; maybe five hundred people are waiting. They count us and give us numbers, perhaps they don’t know that each one of has a story, a life, maybe a love, and a home that were left behind … this is not something we have chosen…

Enough! I have a headache… I need to stop thinking and go back to the song in my head… to the silence there… to being someone in the crowd, someone insignificant, meanwhile I will only imagine the smile on my children’s faces when I come home full handed, this will keep my knees stronger, to stand for the next eight hours.

refugees

 

 

The world is a dangerous place to live in

There’s always a plan B when Plan A doesn’t work, but is there a Planet B, if our planet is ruined?

Most of the people don’t think about this, even I didn’t usually think about it. And then I was awaken on the sound of an explosion, I saw black clouds rising in the air, at that moment I realized my life is going to change forever. Then, along those three past years, doors for outside my self were closed and other doors that led deeper inside me were opened.

During this time I saw my country turning into a hot spot, then into a headline in all international newspapers, then into a main interest of the humanitarian societies, who knows maybe in a few time I will see it in Hollywood horror movies .

Image

La Madeleine á la Veilleuse
Georges de La Tour

Syria…

A country that doesn’t have many records to be proud of, but the first known Alphabet in history, the oldest inhabited city, most of the oldest churches, one of the oldest written laws, nothing new to be proud of but a nice small peaceful country.

Actually I was proud of my old city, I was proud of being a “Muslim” who celebrates Christmas , who can doubt anything that’s supposed to be believed in, I was proud of being raised as a free spirit, proud I can draw and sing, I can love.

Sometimes we need to be proud, to belong , and today I was reading an article and found out that Syria now has a new record:

THE MOST DANGEROUS PLACE IN THE WORLD.

Hmmmm. Well nothing to be proud of. : /

Aw wait, I live in the most dangerous place in the world!! That kind of makes me feel better, my depression then is normal. I’m not sick , and guess what, I am a strong woman : P

Being able to write while listening to  music and shelling sounds is a blessing, and I am lucky to be a strong lady and live in the most dangerous place , to spend the best years of my life in the most dangerous place is an opportunity that most of the world’s youth can’t have …

And I am lucky that I knew how it is like to live in a normal place where going out with friends is something you don’t usually appreciate, and being home safe is something you don’t notice.

Lucky…. Yes lucky : (

Lucky I realized when Syria is destroyed there’s no Syria B other than refugee camps. Will there be an ear to listen or an eye to read ?!

every thing I said about being lucky is a lie, don’t believe it.