The future of my story

My future is scattered all over the pieces that are remaining of Syria; to which I belong. In my eyes, Syria used to be this glass ballerina hidden inside my soul like a treasure in an locked chest: only goes outside for my eyes to gaze upon it as it revolves around itself and shines small bursts of light. 

This glass ballerina fall and broke to thousands of pieces, some pieces are so sharp they will cut my fingers as I try to pick them up and their glass will shine like blood diamonds. The damage is done; the ballerina will never revolve around itself, with her leg stretched in a forever pose; her head, beheaded by the fall, stairs as me asking me to re-figure her. Her arms, dismembered from her beautiful body, are laying hopelessly on the floor. 

Stereotypically, I always thought of Afghans, in my head but never out-loud, as nation-less people. Their part of the world is destroyed, their history revolves around their struggle with terrorism, American invasion and Qaida. their nation, their collective pride in identity and nationalism is limited to their own pride in themselves. When I met an Afghan person, and I rarely did, I would feel sorry for them. Their passports are limited, their hopes for a better future in their own land is nearly impossible; and hoping to leave the country will put them right down on a list of refugees in this country or that country.  

With the state of my country, Syria, and the conflict that is becoming more and more destructive, not only by the clashes on the ground and their effect on people, families and politics; but also to the collective human pride of a nation. I am starting to wonder; what is the future holding for me as a person carrying a Syrian passport: How will the collective understanding of the world see me under the stereotype of my nationality? Am I to sit, someday, silently, in a cafe in some downtown area of an aggressive city; smoking a lonely cigarette and talking to passersby about a country that used to be. 

The abyss is opening its mouth up to swallow my nation: it started to nip on the pieces of my ballerina, to eat away at her headless body and her dismembered stretched leg. Like sand in the wind: my memories of Damascus, Aleppo, Lattakia and Homs are dispersed away into the unknown; and replaced with videos of destruction, memories of dead faces with open eyes that always stair at you at night, right before you fall asleep. 

People speak of politics afflictions, of religions, of sectarianism, of coalitions that will decide the future of this country: But will there be a country left after all of these talks. I have been hearing talks for the past 20 months; where did that leave us? It left me as lonely and insecure about my country. 

My boyfriend, when he is not looking for a job here in Beirut, spends his day looking at photos of Damascus; trying to keep the memory alive of a city he was born, lived all his life in it; and now he doesn’t know what to do with these memories. They haunt him: and haunt me with him. 

It is sailing time from now on: but there is no lighthouse at the edge of the land.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. blog follower
    Nov 14, 2012 @ 21:22:19

    have you considered publishing in a mainstream website, beside your blog? u have a very interesting take on things and from a certain perspective. have you tried to submit your articles to “” for instance?


    • SamaSays
      Nov 15, 2012 @ 07:19:03

      Thanks for your interest. I’m a published author in Arabic. This apace is my little honest area where I don’t have to think twice before I write anything.
      Thanks for the suggestion, thou, I appreciate it.


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