I like to identify as part of "the war generation", possibly as an excuse to justify all my personal failures and flaws. Whether that is a valid representation of my life or not, I am not quite sure. At the end, I am still alive, so are my family and dear friends. They are relatively well and "healthy", as Syrians tend to describe their lives nowadays. This of course, is only true if you exclude all the economic and emotional losses we have been through and the horrors and tragedies we, as an entire country, have witnessed for eight long years. If we ignore the fact that the UN might call most Syrians "refugees" at this point, and that Damascus, my hometown, the city I love, is partially destroyed and indefinitely damaged. Nonetheless, I am personally grateful for all these coincidences that enable me to self-identity today as a “survivor”. This survival instinct often forces me to suppress all the feelings of self-pity I might feel. It makes me try, like many other Syrian survivors, to create a new opportunity for a “normal” life.

Once, not too long ago, we had a somewhat normal life, I remind myself. Now even celebrations become a reminder of lost loved one, the ones who left and the ones that we carry on without. I often ask myself, if Damascus was ever as peaceful as I remember it to be. If running in the Umayyad mosque during Ramadan was as magical as I recall. I cannot release this picture of a vibrant Damascus, wherever I go, I cannot help but look for that feeling of belonging. Perhaps it is fair that I have such an idealised view of Damascus. I was barely fourteen when the war started, thus, all I have left of pre-war Damascus are sentimental and innocent childhood memories which are slowly drifting away.

Most of us “displaced” survivors in the United States and Europe have made our parents and extended families “proud”. We have made them believe that Syrians can actually be successful when given the “right” atmosphere and education. Perhaps this is the reason why I am still in the US, because I do not want my parents to lose that lingering feeling of fulfillment in their lives. The struggle of belonging follows many other young people like myself, who are unsure about everything in their lives. A friend of mine told me at the beginning of 2018 that his only New Year “resolution” is to decide whether to leave Damascus or not. I struggled to understand why he needed an entire year to make up his mind, as if it makes a difference.

I think one of the cruelest acts that this war did was deceive us to believe that we actually have a choice whatsoever. The truth is we do not. We do not carry the burden of the choices we make, because we do not really make them in the first place. We try to deny the uncertainty in our lives, but there is so much we do not know or even remember. Maybe that is good, I think to myself, because things we are certain of inevitably frighten us. The things, we know, heard of, or witnessed provoke pain and evoke a sense of self-loss. Damascus will survive, they say, like it has for the past centuries. The homeland will soon thrive, every nationalist shouts from the comfort of his/her luxurious home very far away. Our hardships will finally acquire a meaning, a purpose. But the real question is: Are we not the “homeland”? Are we not part of what makes Damascus what it is? What is Damascus, with all its glorious historical monuments, if it is finally devoid of its helpless residents?

Almost two years ago, the last time I was in Damascus, I interviewed a woman who lived in the siged part of Eastern Ghouta for ten months, before she succeeded in escaping back to Damascus. The woman was one of the hundreds of civilians who suffered from starvation to the point where-as she described- all the woman stopped menstruating.The conversation we had sparked my curiosity regarding the health issue and I started to research heavily for a reason behind this condition. I researched aimlessly for books, articles, reports that could explain why this happened but could find none.

Does it matter that I could not find a scientific explanation for these symptoms, I wondered, when this woman in front of me is the living embodiment of a humanitarian tragedy that has been presistenly ignored by the rest of the world?

What matters is that this woman was physiologically and emotionally damaged to the point that she could not speak after that particular question, forcing her to end the interview abruptly. Haunted by these horrific memories, she told me she would rather bury those times of her lives, “What matters is that my children and I are healthy now, that is the most important thing”. I honestly do not believe that health is really all that” counts” and that she should be grateful to God now for her safety and the eventual return of her period. Perhaps she should actually attempt treatment for all this emotional damage, I think to myself nowadays. But I realize that attending a private college in the United States has made me a privileged person who thinks that dealing with one’s psychological issues is an ultimate priority. In reality she tries so hard, everyday, to merely survive in this hell of a city. Even if she did seek professional help, will the world’s best mental health and trauma resources be able to fix her fractured soul and erase the horrible things she has witnessed?

I honestly do not know if that is truly possible. I also do not understand how she can find strength even in the smallest glimpses of happiness. But did she and many other victims of this brutal war really have a choice to begin with? Did any of us? We stay home and risk death on a daily basis, then leave to be labeled as refugees. We are internally and externally alienated, and the truth is that most do not have the luxury to stop and think, to grapple with their so called “options”, as the mortar shells put them to bed every night.

As survivors, the things we know frighten us because they emphasis our inability to change anything about our terrifying lives. But yet again, there is always that occasional feeling of comfort we have every once in a while stranding in the old alleys of Damascus. When we admire the resilient jasmine trees engulfing the entire city and its residents. When we buy warm falafel sandwiches from the food cart, as the owner adjusts his ancient radio to find that one evening station which plays his favorite Fayrouz Song.

By Hadia Bakkar

Hadia Bakkar is a junior majoring in political science with a minor in media and film studies. Her many passions include creative writing, journalism, and social activism on campus! She can be best reached at hbakkar@skidmore.edu.

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