My Syrian Diary
Part I
Marah, as she’s chosen to be known, lives in a city under siege in Syria. She
was 15 years old when the uprising began. She writes under the pen name
“Marah” to keep her family safe, yet her stories of life in a city at war and
under siege would be familiar to so many other young Syrians. Writing
despite risk of being found out, despite the lack of food that threatens the lives
of her family and neighbors, despite the crippling anxiety born of constant
uncertainty, Marah’s voice is one not often heard. Drowned out by media
reports of extremists, armies, and governments, her letters cover everything
from dreaming of rare treats like oranges and bananas, being proposed to by
an older family friend, to the death of her father and its affect on her family.
This is the first in her series of articles.
https://diary.thesyriacampaign.org/diary-of-a-young-syrian-girl/#
https://deeply.thenewhumanitarian.org/syria/articles/2014/04/15/mysyrian-diary-part-1
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------My city was once magnificent.
In spring, it bloomed. We used to wake up to the sound of birds chirping and to
the fragrant scent of flowers. Today, spring is here again. But what kind of
spring is this?
We now wake up to the sound of falling bombs.
Every day, we open our eyes to our bleak reality: to the mortar shells that bring
fear, death, disease and destruction. It has robbed us of our loved ones,
destroyed our special places, hurt our close friends. Take my neighbor’s
daughter. At just seven years old, she has lost the ability to speak after a rocket
landed close to our street.
Today, my city’s familiar face has been replaced by the suffering of its
residents: the young boy who has been exposed to chemical weapons and is
unable to receive treatment. An old man feels powerless after he lost his legs. A
young man wears black sunglasses as if to hide a severely scarred face that
frightens children. A young woman is now blind after doctors couldn’t extract
the shrapnel from her eyes because they lacked the proper medical equipment
and medication.
The shelling has turned my city into a ghost town of decrepit buildings and
charred trees. Even our animals weren’t spared. You often see a limping dog, a
dead cat or a bird mourning its destroyed nest.
The bombings have not only altered my city’s face, but also fundamentally
changed its people.
During the hardest times, when bombs fell from the sky, we dreamed of bread.
We rationed our food intake to one meal a day, depending on whatever greens
we could find for sustenance.
I remember well the day cattle food, or fodder, was smuggled into the city. We
milled the animal feed to make dough. It didn’t take us long to get used to the
bad taste and weird texture of our new “bread.” It brought us a semblance of
happiness with the little olives, juice or yogurt – Syrian food staples – that we
had. Our only concern was to eat. One can never get used to sleeping on an
empty stomach.
Our collective will to eat meant we started getting creative with the cattle feed.
We cooked it as if we were cooking rice or wheat. We became so accustomed to
it that we almost forgot what chicken, meat and fruit looked like.
One of the hardest days was when we heard that a car carrying fruit and candy
had entered the city. At first, we were beyond thrilled, but our happiness was
fleeting. The exorbitant prices for the items on display meant no one could
actually afford them.
That day, a young boy with holes in his shoes squeezed his mother’s hand as
they passed by the fruit car. He begged her for an apple. Holding back her tears,
she promised to make him “fodder cake” when they got home. Similarly, a
father ignored the car carrying the goods and picked up the pace as he dragged
his daughter, who was demanding a banana or an orange. Who would believe
that the availability of fruit would be worse than the lack of it? Is it not a child’s
right to have an apple, a banana or a small piece of candy?
In this world, we have been stripped of our rights, starting with food. We try to
entertain ourselves to forget our hunger, but there is no power and it is difficult
to be without electricity after our lives once depended on it. I feel as if I’m
living in the Stone Age. We wash our laundry by hand and burn wood to keep
warm. In this new world, everything we know is gone. We miss the things we
took for granted, like TVs and laptops.
Nowadays, the children refuse to stay indoors. My younger brother gets bored
quickly, so my mother keeps him busy by delegating him the task of breaking
firewood. His small hands have become thick and calloused. He executes his
chore with anger and an air of rebellion. He now lives with a prevailing sense of
deprivation. His feelings, along with mine, have altered without our knowledge
or will.
I find myself forming a grudge against people who live outside my city. I
wonder, why did this happen to us? What fault have we committed to live this
bitter reality? Why were our childhoods stolen?
Part II (April 23, 2014)
I begin my article by asking for help. I feel like I am lost in the middle of a
rough sea. I don’t know where these crushing waves might take me – to a safe
place or to forgetfulness and loss?
I am very concerned about my education. It’s my greatest priority. I grew up in
a family that appreciated education. They enrolled me in a kindergarten that I
will never forget. It was expensive, but my parents did not mind because all they
cared about was to provide us with the best education from the very beginning.
I excelled in that kindergarten and went straight to second grade. My parents
and grandparents were proud of me and reinforced my self-confidence. Middle
school was fantastic. I drifted with my friends, and thanks to my alwaysconscious mom, who was my savior during that critical preteen stage, I was able
to obtain my middle school diploma.
I loved my school immensely and I loved my teachers – especially my Arabic
teacher. I adored the subject. School, for me, was like a playground or a picnic
that I enjoyed with my friends. My parents never hesitated to provide for my
school; their goal was that I obtain the best education, refine my personality and
arm myself with a degree that would protect me from misfortune.
Then high school took me from childhood to the beginning of maturity and
awareness. As the years went by, my fondness for my friends and my teachers
had grown. I would see my friends during vacations and share all my secrets
with them. My friend Rahaf was the closest to me. After she lost her mother, I
watched her way of thinking change. She became like a mother to her
little siblings.
One year after the beginning of the revolution, the conditions in my city
worsened and the missiles intensified. My father decided that we should move
out to a safer place. His only concern was to protect his family. We moved to a
completely new area and I enrolled in the local school, which was a bad fit. But
we had no other option. I formed some superficial friendships, and during one
semester, I did not even manage to open a book. I thought constantly about my
old friends and teachers, but staying in this new area was mandatory.
Finally, the condition deteriorated in the area where we resettled, which made
my dad decide to return to our old city again. My sister and I were very happy
that we were going home. But when we returned to our city, we were shocked
by the amount of destruction. The schools were all destroyed, and after a while
they turned basements into classrooms so we would be protected from
the missiles.
These new schools were dark with dim lights similar to candles, and were
smelly and had very poor ventilation. They were hardly real “schools.” They felt
more like ponds full of diseases. My father refused to send us to such dungeons,
but my mom insisted that we should go. A new phase of concern started for
them, right there. Do we invest time in such schools that don’t even
have accreditation?
Now I am trying to prepare for Syria’s standardized high school tests, but I
don’t know whether I will pass or whether my score will be officially
recognized. Will I take the tests in my city or somewhere else? Will my mom
agree to let me go? So many questions stop me from focusing on my studies.
My mom refuses to send me out to any other neighborhood because she fears
checkpoints and the risks that a young lady like me might face. I’ve come to
hate the fact that I am a girl.
Can you imagine that my mom, the one who always believed in the importance
of education and planted that belief in me, has suddenly changed? Her excuse
comes down to one sentence: “I worry for you.” I will never understand that
fear or accept what she says. My dream had been to enroll in university, choose
a major I like and then start my career. Can I still do that? I don’t know.
What happened? My mom used to push me forward. I want to study. I desire to
live. I desire what’s beautiful. I miss my teachers and my friends. They have all
left the city. I miss seeing the handsome boys gathering in front of my school.
When I was little I liked dreaming big, but now my dreams are fading away. My
dreams are limited by the checkpoints. Isn’t there someone to help my voice
be heard?
Everyone is busy with the war, and it seems like no one cares. We don’t know
how this will end or how it will affect us. I want life, but not this troubled and
confusing life that I live now. I want to complete my studies. I don’t want to be
a neglected period on the margin. I do not want to lose my dreams. Help!
Part III (May 1, 2014)
In my city, guys and girls have undergone a radical change. Everything has
changed: their opinions, their aspirations, the way they talk, their expressions
and even the way they look.
Before, we used to have great conversations. We loved music from the West as
well as local music, and we would race to listen to the newest albums. We loved
movies of all kinds and in all languages, especially the comedies. We were
interested in fashion and design.
We were attracted to anything that was new. We lived a wonderful life. We
made adolescent mistakes.
Now we have turned into old women. Our conversations are all about our daily
suffering. Our conversations are now all about food, electricity, water and
firewood. There is no cell phone coverage and no television. We are deprived of
our teenage pastimes.
Shopping was one of my favorite activities. We used to go window shopping
after school. We used to get excited about a colorful purse or shiny shoes. Now
we get that excited about a rare treat, a dessert – even just fruit. Can you believe
it?! We never expected this to happen!
Even the boys have changed. We used to see them around school, carrying
flowers and wrapped presents, wearing their nicest clothes. Their eyes were
filled with love, happiness and hope. But now, the street around the school is
empty because all the guys are out fighting on the front lines. When we happen
to see them, they usually have shaggy hair and dusty shoes, carrying rifles
instead of roses. If you look at their faces, all you see is worry and frustration.
Because of our horrible reality, they have lost their hope for the future.
We have been deprived of fully living this period of our lives. Everything has
turned upside down. Everyone is depressed. Sometimes we laugh and cry at the
same moment. How did this damned war do this to us?
I feel sorry for myself and for all my fellow Syrian youth. I hope that the current
situation changes so that our souls and dreams might awaken. I’m afraid we will
regret living this period without our rites of passage, not living youth as it is
meant to be lived. Will the war impact us for the rest of our lives? How will we
make up for what we’ve lost? Everything is unknown.
Part 4 (May 8, 2014)
We miss those who have left us. All that remains are the memories we have, the
sense that their spirit is somehow still with us. But what is strange is to be living
with a person you love, yet who feels miles apart.
Since my father’s death, my siblings and I now live alone with my mother. We
try to move forward, but it’s difficult to carry on. We feel weak, somehow
lacking. Perhaps it is because we lost our loved ones or because life around us
has changed drastically, leaving us with new burdens to carry.
I miss my mother, even though she is right here with me. She’s forever working
– in the mornings, she sends us off to school before heading to the market.
When she gets home, she starts preparing a fire to make us dinner. This routine
takes up her whole day. She no longer asks me about my day or my studies. She
forgets to say good morning or good night. Her life is burdened with new
responsibilities that keep her away from me. I miss my mother. I yearn for her
love and tenderness, but she forgets that my need for her warmth is greater than
my need for food or books.
Life’s burdens have turned her into a machine – her sole purpose is to work.
Perhaps my father’s death left my mother numb, incapable of feeling anything,
or perhaps her responsibilities as sole provider are now so great that she has
decided to bury her emotions altogether.
I miss my mother. Often, I slip into her bed at night. She wraps her arm around
me and puts her palm on my cheek, and I feel her warmth seeping into my veins
and reaching my yearning heart. I remember two years ago when she used to
play with us – her spirit vivacious, her laughter contagious. She was the one
who taught me how to play badminton, cards and chess.
Once she was our playful guide and our companion; now she is unable to teach
us anything other than patience and steadfastness. On her one day off, she tries
to bring us together and to instill some happiness in our hearts. But I am aware
of the façade she puts on for us, and that the glimmer of hope in her eyes masks
the terrible pain and sadness she keeps hidden inside. Her first wrinkles have
appeared below her eyes.
Sometimes, I see my mother withering away as she tirelessly works to support
us. Other times, I feel she has neglected us emotionally. But she is the only one
I have left. I am drowning, helplessly trying to hold onto my mother. When you
look at her, you see a body without its real soul. I miss her warmth and her
gentleness, her sincere laughter, and the sparkle in her eyes.
Words can’t express the feelings I have when a neighbor or a friend talks to her
about getting remarried. I lie, telling her it’s her right to get married again, but
my mind and my heart can’t accept what my tongue says. She quickly reassures
me otherwise, saying she will never let her children down by remarrying, as
long as she’s alive.