Silent Solitude

A month ago, my grandparents came to the United States to stay with us for a while. They are originally from Syria. They have lived all their lives in Syria. It’s where they grew up, it’s where they raised my mother, and it’s where they want to return. When they were here, I noticed that they rarely talked about the situation in Syria. They usually sat and watched the news with my dad, and my grandpa would occasionally make a remark here or there about the unfair rulings of Bashar. For some reason I imagined that when they came here they would use every given right to curse out at the regime, but they mostly watched the videos with saddened faces. One day, I decided I wanted to show my grandma one of the videos that showed the streets of Homs filled…filled with chanting men and women all demanding freedom. I was myself too intrigued in the video, the voices were captivating, the fervor was eminent and the courage was radiating. While I was watching the crowds jump up and down, chanting eloquent verses…I expected my grandma to comment. But nothing. I waited a while, and then I looked at her face from the side of my eye. I could see a tear streaming down her face. I could see despair in her eyes. I could see sorrow. I could see fear. But I could also see hope. I pretended I didn’t notice her crying as to not make her uncomfortable. She then raised her hands to the sky and prayed to God that he protect the innocent families. Slowly I felt the tears drop down my own face. This was my grandmother’s home. This was my father’s childhood. And now I was watching it burn in flames…from my ipad…in my house…in America. I then realized why my grandparents didn’t always curse out at the regime. It was because the story was in their heart. They knew that talk was cheap and that passion was stronger. They knew that God was greater. They knew that time is not on the oppressors side. Syria was in their hearts not because it was simply “their people”…when my grandma made that prayer that day, she prayed for all the oppressed. All the hungry. All the poor. She felt it in her heart. And we must feel it in ours. Then, we will be heard.

One Year Ago: Syrian Revolution

One year ago I barely knew where Baba Amr was. I used to think people liked Bashar. One year ago, I didn't really know the true meaning of what it meant to be free. Now, as a whole year has passed since the revolution started in Syria, the streets of Baba Amr will always be images etched in my mind. Bashar will remain a worthless animal, and freedom will forever be something I appreciate, after seeing how courageous the Syrians were in order to achieve it inshAllah.