My birth was a unique one. My mother fled in order to deal with the shame. She felt the contractions and withdrew to an uninhabited part of the Syrian steppe, preparing for the imminent birth. A sharpened stone to cut the umbilical cord – this is how my uncle told the tale of my coming into this world. «She clasped you to her chest and breastfed you with tears in her eyes,» he said. «She would cry, and smile.» Over the course of her lifetime, it was a language in which my mother became fluent.
From shame I was born; from rape I was conceived. Perhaps my name, Nader (which means rare), matches the way that I was brought into the world.
When my mother returned to her family she hid me with her brother, who had accompanied her on her secret journey of shame. My uncle made up a story to protect me from the young boys and the gossip of the men and women. «He’s an orphan we’re bringing up,» he would say, about my upbringing. Early on, he sent me what resembled a school. I learnt with passion. I liked the letters and numbers. To me, letters were paradise and number a world of puzzles. I lived, played and grew up among these letters and numbers. My uncle discovered my love of books; he would see me practice dictation and engage in creative writing, copying the text of the books.
I grew older. Before others, my mother treated me like an orphan, but once alone, she would cry, and laugh. She would hold me to her and play with me like a toy.
I grew even older. I became a young man. I remember that I would try to listen to the radio stations I could pick up, and read pamphlets. For me, my country was a substitute for my father. I would sing the anthem «Syria my beloved» as if I had written it.
All of a sudden, the Arab Spring was born. It had a natural birth, like that of children – from a womb, after a period of labor. It was first born in Tunisia, and I was happy. The virus spread to Cairo. I was happy, and I joined the phenomenon; I wished that it would come to Damascus. The Arab Spring reached us, and it was a disaster. It was a dark, bestial and desolate spring. In northern Syria it emerged as something dark; it resembled the embers after a fire. It was no longer possible to live there. Death was everywhere, a daily visitor to villages, towns, streets and alleyways. Killing took place, by amateurs who were holding rifles. These weapons – in opposition to each other, and changing hands - killed the «spring.» It died and everything became meaningless, except survival, for a few grim days. The people with the weapons were merciless and were similar in the way they killed.
Like the Bedouins, there was little trace of us, and like the light, we began to disappear from where we lived. We survived time after time but on one occasion, the shrapnel from a rocket was the lot of my mother and it was my lot to bury her with my own hands. I refrained from placing any tombstone; may she remain an unknown victim forever. It is my right to retain her in my heart, and so it was. Wherever I was and wherever I might be, my mother Amneh remained with me in my heart, protecting me.
One day, my uncle introduced me to an influential person. «He can get you to Lebanon,» my uncle said. «I can’t, and I will remain here.» The «person» was an armed man who led an armed group of young men and boys. I didn’t pay much attention to his personal traits. His manner of cursing and feigning bravery didn’t interest me. «Don’t worry, he’s the wiliest of all the smugglers,» my uncle would say, and then put money in my pocket, along with a letter. He asked me to read it after I crossed the Lebanese border.
I slipped into Lebanon. At a dirt crossroad leading to Masnaa, I opened the envelope and read the following: «The man who got you into Lebanon is your father.»
Everything became blurry, and I felt like vomiting. I wanted to go back. I didn’t know what to say. I would forget that I existed every time I moved away from the border. The men and women in the convoy were moving cautiously, fearful of being caught by the police, who would return us to where we came from. At dawn, we arrived at a dirt road that ended in the refugee camp.
This was the alternative for my homeland; I became a citizen in a country of tents, with no territory, flag, or people who know you.
What can I say about my stay in Lebanon? I remember the bitterness of being displaced, and the burden of being here. We became numbers. We’d wake up to a new count, and go to bed with a new accusation made against us. I had known mud in my childhood. I knew about sleeping in the open, because we were poor and on the run. I knew the small discomforts that would end with my mother’s hug, and my sleeping in her lap. I could put up with all of that. But being poor in your own homeland isn’t a curse. The curse is being poor when you’re not in your own country. Lebanon has received people, but part of it has us like rubble.
After the shock of the first few days, I realized that being away from Syria would be very difficult. Obtaining the status of refugee requires you to take part in the game: register with the UN, and then wait, and wait. After this, a refugee card comes, along with humiliation. It’s an alternative to your national ID, your country, and your land. You become completely unknown. Your name is your number, and it’s connected with what comes before it, and who comes after it. However, my misfortune lay in becoming a burden on the UN. I thought that the daily torture and constant threats to receiving food and shelter every day would stop. I became an international citizen, but I didn’t feel comfortable. I would eat by chance, and sleep irregularly, wherever or however I could. I would walk and my steps would guide me to places I would happen upon, in order to find work – any kind of work. But I would not beg. I went hungry on many occasions. I came down with a severe cold. The cold nights were long and the days of extremely high temperature burned me. Like others, I was born an adult, a plaything of the seasons, suffering from the mud and the dust. I looked forward to our daily bread, and rarely managed to obtain it.
I would periodically think about returning. I quailed. Living without a father isn’t a catastrophe. Then, the «humanitarian» assistance became more regular. I hate pity. They were engaging us in pity. The humiliation was renewed; you stand in a long queue to receive your share, or a doctor’s check-up, hurriedly performed. I still remember what the men, the mukhtars and the municipalities did for us - they gave us much. But their «much» wasn’t enough. Our numbers never stopped growing. We were hundreds, then hundreds of hundreds; then, the numbers couldn’t be stopped. We became too numerous for the charitable associations and the assistance provided by villages and municipalities.
I said, I'd look for work, and I found many jobs. I was embarrassed by free meals. I was bold and brave enough to work, to do anything. I don’t like to talk about the jobs I did, for a few Lebanese Pounds. I worked at a gas station. I washed, and I cleaned. I fixed tires. I was a mover, a seasonal laborer. I worked in the fields, and in the cafés. At least I would fill my stomach with bread won by my own effort. When I got a steady job, I once again missed books – or any pamphlet or letter. One time, a man saw me in front of a gasoline station. I was reading, and he noticed this. «Boy,» he said, addressing me. «I have a name,» I said. «It’s Nader.» After calling me by my name he asked if I liked to read. I nodded, and he asked me to approach him. I walked behind him into a large orchard, far from the town. In the middle of the orchard was a house with a brick roof.
He fed me and clothed me, and I took heart when he said, «Sleep here, in a room under the stairs close to where the flowers and the vegetables grow.»
This man – Mr. Nassar – was peculiar. When he would summon me for a discussion, or to ask me something, he would be silent, then clear his throat, then become silent again. He would only speak comfortably when asking me about the book I was reading. Once, he asked me to tell him about what I was reading. I wasn’t good at it, and I stuttered. He said fine, and told me to leave. He didn’t ask me about my family. He never asked me who I was. He considered me a young man from his town.
He was neither generous nor stingy – he was moderate in everything. I would work in the orchard when he would ask me to; then I did so without being asked to. I would only eat when he offered me something. Then, I began to prepare my own food, and would invite him to the feast. There was some kind of a father-son relationship at play.
Two weeks later, he asked me to choose between going to school and working in the orchard. I tried to be clever, and said I would work there after going to school. And that’s how it was. At the end of the school year the French mission conducted an examination and I won first place. Mr. Nassar was pleased, and said, «Get ready to go abroad. I want you to continue your learning.»
What can I say about him? I discovered that he was a retired writer and a bachelor. He preferred loneliness to a family and lived off his pension and a bit of income from the orchard. Was he like a father to me? No. He wanted me to remain distant from him. When I read his books, I crossed the distance that separated me from him. I dealt with him like a friend, albeit with a large age difference between us. Friendship is finer than a father-son relationship.
When I recall him, my imagination gives me only bits and pieces of my own past, but a feast from the time that I spent with Mr. Nassar. Because of him, I forgave the racism of some Lebanese. Their media at times would insult an entire people and their civilization, although most people weren’t like this. Those who exploited us as cheap labor caused a great deal of harm to us Syrians. The harsh bosses and our displacement were unjust to us, as we took over low-paid Lebanese jobs. They turned the poor against each other. A racist, right-wing dirty game.
Mr. Nassar got me a scholarship to France. His relationship with the French was a civilized one. In France, I learned and excelled. I traded letters for numbers and received passing marks in my specialized course of study. After some years I became one of the most talented people in the telecommunications field; I now have a program production firm. I take part in international exhibitions and I’m a guest on tv shows after I visit a ruler or president.
Mr. Nassar is still alive. He has remained with me after he had left this world. There are photos of him displayed prominently in the offices of my large establishment. Whenever a friend visits, I tell him the story that I’m writing now.
Thank you Lebanon, and forgive us if we have given offense, for we forgive those who have given offense. The greatest thing that I lack in life is belonging to a country that has experienced savagery because of religion, politics, ethnicity and sect. Will I go back to my country? Of course, and through Lebanon.