As Young as a Flower

Once, my friend said to me: “When I read your writings I can’t help but laugh, because I feel like you’ve been through a lot, but when I look at you I see that you are still so young, you’re as young as a flower.”

That term made me think; how do we measure if someone is as young as a flower, or as old as thorns?

Is it through those flipping pages of a calendar, and through the years that are running past us like an hourglass that lost its rhythm? Or is our age determined by the number of battles we have undertaken with the unknown? By the number of wins or the number of our defeats? Is it measured by the moments of joy that passed by our souls and we barely paid attention to, or by the amount of sadness that invaded us like a skilled warrior; leaving nothing behind?

There are a million ways to measure our age, but regardless of that, I am sure that I have surpassed the age of being a flower. Since I left my country, I have become as old as thorns.

-Samah

Hind’s Toys

When we decided to leave Syria and come to Jordan, I started going around the house packing our things. While doing that, I noticed my daughter Hind, who is 8 years old, holding a small bag in her hand. “What’s in the bag?” I asked her. She said to me, “These are my toys!” I asked her to leave those behind as we have a long way to go and we need to walk long distances; we can’t have a lot of luggage. Hind cried and cried, trying to convince me to take her toys, but eventually she left them at the house.

When we left, my husband refused to come with us and decided to stay behind. Whenever Hind would call him she would ask about her toys. One time he said to her, “How about I give your toys to the children in our neighborhood?” She refused telling her father that we’ll be back home soon.

A few days later, my children and I were watching the news and saw a lot of horrific images of what’s happening in Syria. Hind called her father right away and told him, “I saw all the destroyed houses, and children’s toys strewn around the rubble. They built a new refugee camp here in Jordan, so this means that we won’t be coming back soon. You can give my toys away now.”

-Hanadi

ثلاث سنوات مع سوريا

يحمل شهر آذار من عام 2014 الذكرى الثالثة على بدء الأزمة السورية، وبعد مرور 3 سنوات، ترك أكثر من مليوني سوري بلادهم حيث يوجد في الأردن ما يقارب 580,000 لاجئ. في الوقت الذي يقوم به العالم مناقشة الحالة الإنسانية في سوريا، ما الذي يفكر به السوري في الأردن؟ تقوم منظمة أرض-العون القانوني على تدريب صحفيات مجتمع كجزء من مشروع تنموي يعمل على بناء قدرات السوريين في الأردن، وخلال هذا الأسبوع قامت 5 من صحفيات المجتمع في المفرق وإربد والزرقاء وعمان بسؤال مجتمعهم عن ما يدور في خاطرهم وأكبر آمالهم و أمنياتهم. تحدثوا عن القانون والتعليم وإعادة بناء سوريا والشعور بمرارة اللجوء. اقرؤوا قصصهم هنا

ثلاث سنوات مع سوريا

With Syria, 3 Years In

March 2014 marks the third anniversary of the Syrian crisis. Three years into the war, more than 2 million Syrians have fled their country, with over 580,000 seeking refuge in Jordan. As the world deliberates about Syria’s humanitarian crisis, what are Syrians in Jordan thinking and feeling? ARDD-Legal Aid has been training Syrian citizen journalists as part of a development program that builds Syrians’ capacity to speak for and support each other. This week, we sent five Syrian journalists out in Mafraq, Irbid, Zarqa, and Amman to ask their own community about their hopes and thoughts. The interviewees spoke about law, education, rebuilding Syria, and how it feels to be a refugee. Read their stories below.

With Syria, 3 Years In

وطن الخير

ذات مرةٍ لفت نظري أطفالٌ من بلدي على شاشة التلفاز وهم تحت الحصار الخانق، وعندما سألهم المذيع ماذا يشتهون وما هي متطلباتهم، فرد البعض بأنه يشتهي الفواكه والخضار، والبعض قال أريد الخبز، وقالت طفلة: “أريد دجاجة”…

 آهٍ على وطن الخير، وعلى أيام جميلة مضت، كم كانت الولائم واللقاءات بين الأقارب والجيران تعج بما لذ وطاب من أطعمة وأشربة وحلويات، أما الآن فوطن الخير يعجز حتى عن إيصال رغيف الخبز لطفلٍ جائع، لكن ليس ذلك لأنه لم يعد في وطني خير، بل لأن هناك قلوباً متحجرةً برداء إنسانٍ تمنع الطعام عن هذه البراعم التي لم تزهر بعد.

 كم تمنيت أن أكسر الشاشة وأخرج منها كل هؤلاء الأطفال، وأن أقدم لهم كل ما يشتهونه.

 أعجز العالم عن إيصال رغيف؟ أم أن منظر أطفالك يا وطني أصبح عادياً ومألوفاً وكأنه حكايةٌ أو مسلسلٌ تعدت حلقاته المئات من القصص المؤلمة والمفجعة، وأصبح مشاهدوه مجردين من الإنسانية؟

 – أميرة

The Country of Good

The other day when I was watching T.V., I saw the children of my country under the stifling siege. The reporter proceeded to ask them about what they want the most right now. Some replied that they are craving fruits and vegetables, some said they want bread, and one little girl said, “I want a chicken”.

Oh what happened to the country of good, and to happy days that have passed? The feasts and meetings between relatives and neighbors used to be filled with the tastiest food, drink, and desserts. Now, however, the country of good is unable to give a loaf of bread to a hungry child. It’s not because there is no more good in my country, but because there are stone cold hearts disguised as humans, stopping food from reaching those young children who are like sprouts that haven’t bloomed yet.

How I wished that I can break the T.V. screen and invite all of those children out. I would give them all the food that they want so they don’t have to suffer anymore.

Is the world incapable of getting bread to those children? Or is this image of children in my country so mundane now, like a story or a television series with over a hundred episodes filled with painful stories, that the audience has become heartless?

-Amira

Sami’s Tree

The day my brother Sami was born, my grandfather planted a tree for him in our garden; naming it after Sami. It was in honor of his first grandson that he was so joyful about. The tree grew and gave us fruits over the years, its branches giving us shade from the sun’s glare. Sami was growing alongside it, learning and studying until he became a doctor; his giving spirit resembling that of his tree. This was up until the crisis in Syria began. As a doctor he helped care for the wounded, but one day a stray bullet found its way to him and took away his life. All that was left of Sami is the tree carrying his name. The tree continued to give from its fruits, but then winter arrived. In the absence of energy resources to keep us warm we fell into a dilemma; should we cut down the tree and use its wood, or keep it as a memory of my brother?

-Aisha

We Will Meet in Homs

I got a visit from one of my Jordanian neighbors and she was telling me how delighted she is meeting all the Syrians who live in this area. She asked which part of Syria I’m from, and as soon as I told her that I am from Homs she began enthusiastically telling me all the places she knows there. Starting from the Khaled Bin Il Waleed mosque, to the Dababeer Gardens, Dablan Street, the covered market, El Assi River, Qutainah Lake, and the Wa’er Gardens. She talked about the ponds of water in the streets, enthusiasm at meeting new people, hospitality, supplies for the year, and clothes for the Eid. She told me how she found the best shops in Homs, with the best prices and best quality. Fresh fruits and vegetables, all kinds of Arabic sweets and chocolates, and restaurants filled with tourists from all over the world. I closed my eyes for a second while she was describing those scenes; for seconds, she took me back to my warm country. I was so happy listening to her, especially when she told me that she visited Homs more than 4 times a year. I promised myself that as soon as I return to my country, and I’m sure that we will, that she will be the first person I call to invite to my home.

-Um Adeeb

نلتقي في حمص

جارة أردنية جاءت لزيارتي وهي تروي لي أنها جد مسرورة بالتعرف على كل السوريين القاطنين في المنطقة، فسألتني من أين أنا في سوريا، وما أن أخبرتها بأني من حمص حتى بدأت بالحديث المشوق وسرد أسماء العديد من المعالم في حمص؛ بدءاً من جامع “خالد بن الوليد”، فحديقة الدبابير، فشارع الدبلان، والسوق المسقوف، ونهر العاصي، وبحيرة قــُطَّـينة، وحدائق الوعر… تحدثت عن برك الماء في الشوارع، واللهفة للقاء الغريب، والكرم والاستقبال الحار، ومؤونة العام، وثياب العيد، وكيف أنها كانت تجد في مدينة حمص أفضل الأسواق والتجار، والبضاعة بأرخص الأسعار وأفضل جودة، والفواكه النضرة والخضار الطازجة، عدا عن الموالح والشوكولا والحلويات الشرقية الأصيلة، والمطاعم التي تعجّ بالسياح من جميع البلدان، والمثلجات من كافة الأنواع… أغمضت عيني لبرهة وهي تسرد حديثها المشوق، فأعادتني للحظات إلى وطني الدافئ. كم كانت فرحتي كبيرة بها وبما تقصه، وخاصة عندما أخبرتني أنها كانت تزور حمص أكثر من أربع مرات في العام. أقسمت بيني وبين نفسي أنني حالما أعود إلى وطني، وأنا متأكدة أننا عائدون، أنها ستكون أول من أتصل به لأدعوها إلى بيتي.

-أم أديب

A University Memoir

It’s been days since I heard the painful news, my friend.

My heart is still mourning your loss.

If you could only see the bloodshed that came after you had left.

If only you knew the details of how I live after you had left; they all mourn your loss.

If only you knew that my pride and ego were broken with time, they knelt down in front of the atrocities of war; the war that took you away from us for no reason.

And here I am; I abandoned our little village that we used to brag about in front of our friends at the university.

Your little brush and beautiful paintings are no longer capable of describing what has happened to our country.

And here I am today; in neighboring Jordan, and with desperate fingers I write to you what happened, my friend.

I couldn’t even quench your grave with water, for even that was not spared from the mortars’ fire.

My friend, how many dreams did we plant on that bench in our university. We even carved our names into the wood to be seen by future generations.

We waited for the flowers and hope to grow.

My friend, oh how many times did we play there, lived happy and sad moments side by side.

We succeeded, and we failed.

But with your death I realized that all we had planted were memories.

My friend, I will return one day, to kneel next to your grave and pray.

I will return one day to tell you that the ink in my pen was helpless; it couldn’t write the words of love I have for you in my heart.

I will remain helpless to write an obituary suitable only for you.

-Amani