Chapter Four- On Belonging. - A Journey Towards Home

Farewell Dimashq

I left Dimashq two weeks ago. The taxi to Beirut was scheduled to pick me up at 6am on a Friday morning, so for my friends, that meant staying up all night to bid me farewell. The drinks kept coming, the music, the dancing, the tears and warm embraces, the snacks and wary smiles, it was my last night in Dimashq, and they wanted to squeeze the hell of our last moments together.

The bar shut at 4am, and we made our way to the closest restaurant to have my favorite breakfast: hummus, broad bean salad and fried eggs. I happened to be leaving on the first day of Eid so the restaurant was just open when we arrived. I had my meal, swallowing hard, savouring every moment. It’s funny how time seems to speed up just when you want it to slow down, but goes excruciatingly slow just when you need it to speed up.

This was a very classic night, and apart from the taxi ride in the morning, the series of events could have happened on any given night. There isn’t a whole lot to do in Dimashq. The creative community had been long driven out of the country, activities are restricted by locality and cost, and the natural environment degraded barr a very few acres of bushland near the coastline.

Regardless, my time in Syria was phenomenal. My connection to land, culture, food and community of old friends and new was rekindled and rebirthed from the depths of my existence. It affirmed my belief that our people are some of the kindest on this earth and that there is an unmatched feeling of physical and mental ease when you’re living the land of your ancestors.

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My time there also validated my father’s decision to leave. I can finally say that I would have made this decision for myself, which was the main reason I decided to go back. In fact, after hearing endless stories of disappearances and restraint, I’m quite certain that I would have either died or been imprisoned if I hadn’t had the chance to leave. My mouth is too big to have survived. I now know that I can never live here again. It pains me to see my people tormented, controlled and gagged. It pains me to see my grandmother having to walk down many flights of stairs to tend to her quickly deteriorating health, with no good doctors left to soothe her pain. I pains me to walk down empty, dark streets as the country struggles with the biggest energy crisis in our history.

As I write, my relationship with Dimashq feels quite toxic. I loathe it as much as I love it. It torments yet pleasures me. It drains yet completes me. It imprisons yet frees me. All I see is lost potential, broken dreams and stolen futures. But much as it hurts me to be there, I’m sure I’ll always find my way back.

A sidenote: It seems I’m not the only one who feels this way about Dimashq. Arabic art and poetry history is packed with examples of creatives expressing their love to this city in their various art forms. In fact, the cover photo of this blog post is a photograph of some graffiti I found in the old city, and the sentence translates to “I’ve never adored a city like Damascus, and I never will”

Two Passports, Unkown Identity

The receptionist at the hostel in Lebanon asked me where I’m from, and for the first time in my life I had to think about it. Should I say I’m from Syria or Australia? He was holding my Australian passport, so clearly, I was “Australian”, but I was speaking Arabic with a thick Syrian accent, so clearly, I was also Syrian.

This started a whole series of questions in my mind. In Australia, I always felt like a foreigner, an immigrant, an outsider. My skin colour and heritage meant that people had two main reactions to my mere existence. The first was of awe and sympathy, accompanied by puppy eyes and most often followed by “do you still have family there” or “did you live through the war”. Initially I used to feel triggered and angry. I’m out here dancing and enjoying my time and here they were shouting over loud music asking whether I was ever shot at. As time went by though, I got used to these questions and decided to simplywalk away from the conversation if I didn’t feel comfortable sharing. I don’t owe anyone any explanations and tragically inspiring stories.

The second reaction that I often get is of apprehension, most likely stemming from internalised racism and the fear implanted in white people’s minds by the media from ISIS and, more generally, people of colour. In either case, it’s safe to say I didn’t feel inclined to discuss my identity and trauma very often, especially when the conversation is uninvited.

But here, at a youth Hostel in Beirut, I felt safer to share, though when I started to, I didn’t feel fully Syrian. My accent was a little weird, I looked like an Aussie with my Teva sandals and Kathmandu jumper and I shared most of my values with the progressive movement in Australia and Europe. So, what the hell am I?

As I climbed the staircase to the dorm room, I thought I’ll never be fully anything, and that’s ok. My passport is not a reflection of my cultural identity and heritage, and it’s certainly not a reflection of my belonging. One of them reflects my birthplace, and the other is simply a ticket to freedom.

I’m a citizen of two countries, yet I belong to none.

But, as my friend eagerly pointed out to me on my last night in Australia, belonging is a feeling of peace and fulfillment and it’s not linked to a particular place, community, or a person. When she asked what home felt like, an image came clearly to my mind’s eye. Home is a cup of tea. Since I left, I’ve had countless conversations with family, friends, strangers I met on the street, Lebanese grandmothers, and Greek grandfathers, and they all made me feel at home because we shared a warm cup of tea. Maybe life is actually much simpler than I’d made it out to be.

Chasing Sunsets

For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved sunsets.
The quite stillness of the air over the horizon, the soft yellow-orange light glistening and chasing shadows, the divine orchestral performance by creatures across the land bidding farewell to the sun, singing and dancing in the hope of its return tomorrow.

In one magical hour, the day turns into night, the vibrant colours respectfully usher the light to its resting place, giving way to velvety, magical darkness.

But after leaving home all those years ago, sunsets started to have a different effect.

As tender and as magnificent as they were, sunsets in that new land made me so deeply miserable. They seemed as vulnerable as the petals of an old flower, tormenting me with a prolonged ending of the brilliant light and warmth of a sun that was rubbing it in as she departed.

This evening, it finally dawned on me. I finally understood what brought about this change. For the past ten years, I didn’t want the day to end, because I didn’t know if it will be my last. I could never count on the world to allow me another day. Because you see, bombs almost always descend in the night-time, and my soul could so easily disappear into the night sky.

The sun going down meant that I had to gamble with my fate once again, and I simply didn’t want to take the chance.

This realisation, as grim and painful as it is, brought immense joy to my heart. It feels like I’m starting to unravell the threads of my life, and thoroughly examining every part before sewing it back together. I plan to search every nook and cranny of my conscious and will not leave a stone un-turned.

Right now, as I sit and write, I’m watching the sun set over the Mediterranean Sea in Greece, and I feel whole. The healing has finally begun. There is no fear, no desperation, no sadness. Just peace. The sun is setting over the sea, and I believe that I shall live to see the sun rise again.