Our home was located on the Damascus highway. When I was a child, I was told that the road was called this because it led to Damascus; it was always busy, full of cars, buses and trucks, some of them with Syrian license plates, but I never once thought about going to Syria.
I confess – I never once wanted to go to Syria.
Later on I moved from Araya to Jounieh and then went abroad for a few years, and Syria became even more distant. The only time that I went to Damascus was in 2009, to cover a two-day event. Those two days didn’t change much when it came to my feelings about Syria and its people.
I confess – for me, Syria and all of its people were reduced to that soldier who would stop me at the checkpoint to my village and in my country, to search the car and ask for my papers. I would answer defiantly, and revenge would be taken, in the form of a longer-than-usual search.
In my head, all Syrians were equal to the Arab Deterrent Force that we were “hosting” in my uncle’s home on the floor above ours; this ADF, however, suddenly turned into an occupying force.
To this I can only add the painful feeling of injustice and impotence vis-à-vis the oppressive behavior of Lebanese security agencies during the era of Syrian tutelage, and this behavior affected journalists as well.
Because of this I left Lebanon and remained distant from my family, husband and children, and everything I love, as I searched for stability and a margin of freedom, as well as a dignified life.
When the Syrian revolution erupted all of my previously-held notions disappeared. When the war began – and my colleagues can attest to this – I became Syrian.
A long time before the term “Je suis Charlie” emerged, I would repeat for anyone who was listening, “I am Syrian.”
I write about the beautiful news of Syria with passion and love, while Syria’s tragedies crush me, haunt me, and never leave me. I have memorized Syrian geography; I practically know the name of every village and town, and love them all.
Today, I wish with all my heart that I could visit Syria.
I confess – before the war, I didn’t know many Syrians. I’m sad because I only “discovered” them because of the war.
I should correct myself here: I knew and would follow a number of Syrian intellectuals, whom I met via the An-Nahar newspaper supplement. But for me, they weren’t “Syrian.” They were the group of people who have no country or nationality, a group of people who speak their mind and move people’s consciences, and then move on.
After the war, because of my work in the media and my contacts with Syrians inside the country, I discovered many heroes: they’re the ones who haven’t been ruined by the war, and have not been overtaken by extremism, or destroyed by hatred.
In Lebanon, I met other Syrians. I find a true delight in watching friends and colleagues “discover” Syrians themselves, and listen to the conversations that took a long time in coming: about traditions and customs, or politics, or Lebanese and Syrian cuisine, religious groups, or Beirut and Hamra street.
I have discovered many intellectuals among them - not because they are well-versed, but because they are modest, spontaneous and reserved, choosing their words carefully when they discuss the history of relations between our country and theirs. They are intellectuals because of their politeness, quiet voices and patience when it comes to all of the discrimination and difficulties from which they suffer in Lebanon.
I discovered that to the extent that I sympathize with Syrians who dream of achieving democracy and freedom and who are struggling for this, I also understand those who defend President Bashar Assad, because they see no alternative except extremism. We too, as Lebanese, are divided and we fight for our ideas and die for our dreams.
I discovered Syrians who live in refugee camps, small rooms and makeshift homes. They are also patient. I experienced the Civil War in Lebanon and my home was on the front lines. My village experienced one of the massacres of the War of the Mountain. I know people who were kidnapped, who suffered, and who died. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen the kind of pain that I’ve seen in the refugee camps of Lebanon, and I haven’t seen such patience before.
I’m also surrounded by people who don’t share my opinions. Some of them are oblivious, which preventing them from focusing on anything other than the burden posed by the refugees. There are fewer job opportunities, while security tension is rife, representing the repercussions of the conflict for our country. There are those who are fearful; they are afraid of extremism, of chaos, and of the other, to the degree that the human aspect is lost in such a situation.
But of those around me, some people have reconciled themselves with their selves, and with their past. There are those who know that crime is not a feature of a certain people or nationality, and they know how to distinguish between a person and what a person does. There are those who are embarrassed by border procedures whose price is paid by those clinging to life.
Around me are people who love Lebanon without hating everything that isn’t Lebanon.
Therefore, I don’t feel frustration or despair.
Peace will be built by those who dream, and by those who are patient.