One day I'll return

Here I am, sitting (and now writing) in the dark, with B.O.B's song 'Aeroplanes' playing in the background, thinking whether I'd really be able to piece this post together. I've decided to be brave and bold enough to write everything. Everything in terms of who I am. Up until now on this blog, I've kept a part of me hidden. It was only until recently in this past week have I revealed my name as Shireen both on here and on Twitter.

Before my dad fled Syria during the 1980's, he was a business-man in Damascus. He's always had a business mind; I can never imagine him in any other profession. He was always between Damascus and Beirut. My parents still tell me stories of their time in Beirut and how much they've loved living between the two cities. My parents were happy.

I was born in Midan, Damascus. Though shortly after I was born, my dad had to flee Syria. Hearing the stories from my family about the night he fled had always felt surreal but only recently can I encapsulate the true fear of that day. That day changed our lives forever.

Of course I can't remember much of my early years. My dad settled in a small scenic city in the UK. A city which was and still to a large extent is, an all white middle class English town kinda city. When I say small city, it really is small.

At that point, I was torn away from my identity. I never visited Syria for the next 6 years. I had no idea about what being Syrian was like or anything about Syria. We didn't have access to Arabic TV channels. We had no family (apart from my uncle who's a serious workaholic) or Arab friends around us. For many years it felt like we were living in seclusion since here we were outsiders. It was obvious we weren't welcome. On numerous occasions, I often thought what my grandparents looked liked, as well as my aunts, uncles and cousins. I often dreamt what Syria was like. In my mind, Syria was a country of a million lights, with a magical atmosphere and a Disney-world excitement to it.

In 1996, Hafez al Assad released a pardon, which applied to my dad's case. That year, he went back to Syria in order to clear everything up. After a month away, he came back with lots of souvenirs. I was memorised by them: the little coffee cups, an argileh (which up until then, I had never seen before) and a game of barsees. Of course he brought back with him some food. Food like spheeha and fatiyeer jabnee.

That summer, of 1996, was the first summer I went back to Syria. I can't even begin to describe that summer. As a typical 8 year old kid, I had so many questions when I was there. I was curious about everything even though at times people thought my questions were odd. Having had no prior experience or any expectations of what Syria was like, not even a glimpse other than the souvenirs I encountered, it felt like a complete culture shock. I couldn't believe I was kept away from such an amazing culture, yet at the time, I had only scratched the surface. The food was beyond better than I could have imagined (shawromas, falafel and lahma al ajeen spring to mind). That summer was a summer of many firsts.

One thing that stood out that summer, was summarised by questions I asked my dad the first week of that summer (bearing in mind that I had no knowledge of Syrian history at all), "Baba, what's wrong with this man? He looks scary and doesn't he seem arrogant putting all his pictures around the city? Why do they feel the need to look powerful with their military clothing?"

During a presentation the following school year, which I based on 'My first trip to Syria,' I was asked, "What surprised you about Syria the most?" I replied "The people. They are so friendly and nice and the markets are awesome but I don't understand how they can be such crazy drivers. They always angrily beep at each other which wakes me up early in the mornings. I never thought such driving existed until now."

Every year since, we used to spend our entire 6 week summer holidays in Syria, mainly in Damascus, though we would often venture out to Latakia, Tartous, Zabadani, Madaya and Bloudan. Each year I would learn more and more about the country, and slowly my Arabic would improve. I don't think anyone's Arabic could have been worse than mine. Even now, my Arabic is still laughable but hopefully a vastly improved version to what it was. Those summers I've come to view as the highlight of my years. I loved Syria. Despite the connection I felt I had to the country, I didn't feel like I could qualify to be Syrian, how could I be when I felt like I was forced out? How could I be Syrian when every year I felt like a tourist? How could I be Syrian when non-one viewed me as such?

As summers went by, I became more interested in the world around me. I increasingly used to ask my uncles political questions. They'd always tell me to keep quiet especially in public. I wasn't aware of the countless human rights abuses over the past 40 years, and they were sure not to tell me either so I didn't think much of it at the time. My family on the whole didn't meddle in politics. They lived comfortable lives and worked hard without problems so they kept themselves to themselves. They all dream of leaving the country, which infuriated me greatly as a kid, more so now when I would do anything to be back.

July 2010 I graduated from university, full of hope and optimism. Like any other graduate, I was hoping for a great job right away. Buy my own house. Buy my own car. Pay off my student loan. Of course I wouldn't be staying in this small city any longer, who would wanna stay here? (Deep down, I do feel at ease and tranquil here, though its not enough to keep me here). Though none of those hopes materialised. Instead I spent the next months working in retail, which was a blessing in disguise. It was during that time, I came to start blogging. I grew really interested in world affairs. Shortly afterwards, the Tunisian Revolution began. Then the Egyptian Revolution. I was gulping down the news in the gallons whilst at the same time, reading up on Syrian history. The Libyan Revolution followed suite. At the time, I couldn't be more proud to be Arab. I was beyond praying that Syria would see a similar fate. I was angered by what I'd learnt in regards to the massacres over the last 40 years. I was angered by how human right abuses were still taking place under people's noses but no one was speaking out.

Since #Mar15 I felt proud of Syria. I'm proud of the courage and bravery of countless Syrians. I'm proud when I see how united Syrians are especially in protest videos and how peaceful they've been against an increasingly brutal and repressive regime. Since #Mar15, I've felt my identity came pouring down on me. For the first time in my life, I feel truly Syrian. For the first time, I feel like I truly belong to a nation. Since #Mar15 my dreams and hopes changed. More so than ever, I want to be a part of Syria.

I could use a dream or a genie or a wish

To go back to a place much simpler than this

Cause after all the pandemonium and all the madness

There comes a time where you fade to the blackness  

But that’s just how the story unfolds

You get another hand soon after you fold

And when your plans unravel

And they sayin’ what would you wish for if you had one chance  

So airplane airplane sorry I’m late

I’m on my way so don’t close that gate

If I don’t make that then I’ll switch my flight

And I’ll be right back at it by the end of the night