Our first trip was supposed to be from Amman to Istanbul to Washington, D.C. They stopped me in the Istanbul airport and sent me back, saying that the Syrian regime had filed a report on me through Interpol. Then I tried to fly directly from Amman to New York, but faced the same issues. The third time, the U.S. embassy gave me a waiver visa. My wife and I finally got to Virginia, where I already had family living.
I immediately applied for asylum. That was like eighteen months ago and I’m still waiting on my application. No response. Just waiting. My wife at least got a number showing that her application was received. She got authorization to work and found a job in her field, graphic and website design. But I haven’t received anything. I sent all my information three times. But no response. I’m just stuck here. No passport to return. No authorization to start working. Just stuck. My status is nothing.
Since the last election, we think, “Now what?” Everyone is scared. People are thinking, “If they kick us out, where will we go?” We’ve started hearing about people being left nasty messages on their doors. Things like “If you’re Muslim, leave this neighborhood.” My friend has been living in West Virginia for more than five years. His wife has worn a headscarf her whole adult life, but now has decided to stop wearing it. She was very sad but, in this environment, felt like she had to take it off.
The worst part is that people ran away from their own countries because they were being threatened. They come to the United States to feel free, to feel democracy, to feel like they can achieve anything. Now their vision of the United States has changed.
But still, I love this country. So far, my wife and I haven’t faced any problems. We hope that won’t change. I’ve actually been amazed by how nice people are. You walk down the street and people just start talking with you about how their husband or wife did this or that. I love that. It’s just like back home in Daraa.
In the beginning, some things seemed very complicated for us. In our country, everybody works with cash. In America, we started to learn about debit cards, credit cards, credit history, credit scores. Another thing that was new to us was when you go to a store and they ask for your email and then start sending you advertisements. Like thousands of emails from Home Depot, my God.
Early after I arrived, I rented a car. I drove to a green light and turned left. A police officer stopped me. I said, “But the light was green.” He explained that I needed to wait for the arrow signal. I had no idea. We don’t have arrows on our traffic lights in Syria.
So now I’m always waiting for the arrow. The guy behind me might be honking and honking. But I will wait for the arrow.
Hadia, therapist (Damascus)
Twelve of us Fulbrighters from Syria came to the U.S. in 2010. No one had any intention of staying. We were happy to have this opportunity and then go back home.
And then the revolution began. I tried very, very hard to get all the details I could from my cousins and my brother, who were in Damascus. I had this thirst to know, so I could pretend that I was living through their stories. Maybe someday it will make sense to me why I wasn’t there while all this was happening. At school people kept telling me, “At least you’re safe.” That word, “safe,” drove me crazy. I wanted to scream, “You don’t get it! This is a historical moment. I need to be there.”
My mom and brother both got visas to visit the U.S. for my graduation. My mom was planning on staying only a month. But while she was here the regime started bombing the Damascus suburbs, just minutes from our home. We kept postponing her return ticket. We never thought that she’d stay this long. As Mom always says, she came with one suitcase and never said goodbye to people.
At that time, my brother was working with a charity bringing food to besieged areas around Damascus. Many of his friends got arrested, because providing bread was like a crime. When one person is arrested, they go through his phone and take everybody else they can. There were only three days left before my brother’s U.S. visa expired, so we insisted that he come here, too. When he arrived, you could see in his face that he was a traumatized person. He spent all his time online trying to follow events, connect people, raise money for medical supplies, etcetera.
Winter came and I told my mom, “Lets go shopping and get you a coat.”
She said, “I can’t believe that I’m going to buy things while people are dying in Syria and have nothing to wear.”
I’d say, “We have to. It’s Chicago and it’s cold.”
She’d say, “But I have all those coats in Syria.”
It’s the small things like that. They become like rocks on your chest and you feel like you need to push through them, one by one. You can’t buy a sandwich without thinking, “How much is this sandwich? If this money was sent to Syria, then . . .”
My role is different from people on the inside, but I need to do something. I have a responsibility to tell the story. To talk about what is happening on the other side of the world.
Part VIII
Reflections
Abu Ma‘an, activist (Daraa)
We know that freedom has a price. Democracy has a price. But maybe we paid a price that is higher than freedom and higher than democracy. There is always a price for freedom. But not this much.
Ghayth, former student (Aleppo)
Today, the word “refugee” is used in a horrible way. It’s something either to be pitied or blamed for everything. Overpopulation? It’s the refugees. Rents going up? It’s the refugees. Crime? It’s the refugees. If you label people refugees, they remain refugees for the rest of their lives. For that reason, the organization I work with here doesn’t use this word. Instead, we say “newcomers.” After a while, they are no longer newcomers—just members of society.
As Middle Easterners, we’re trying to show people who we really are. I’m not an angel and I’m not a devil. But I will do my duty. I didn’t come here to take anything away from you. I want to work with you.
This is what we learned in the revolution. We learned how to play our part. We worked so hard for this revolution, and it was so innocent. And then it turned into a war and everyone got involved in stealing it. Good leaders with good reputations were assassinated. The FSA was reduced to a matter of funding. If the funding was from Qatar, they had to do what Qatar wanted. If the funding was from Turkey, they had to do what Turkey wanted. This happened because the war dragged on and on.
Many people aren’t happy with the refugees coming to their country. Maybe we came illegally, but every other door was shut in our faces. What do they expect us to do? Isn’t it enough our government destroyed us and we lost everything? We would prefer to stay in our country. If you don’t want refugees, help us make peace in Syria.
Sami, graduate (Damascus)
My family supports the Assad regime. Especially my mother. She’s a true Christian believer who goes to church every Sunday. She loves her country and wants to stay there. I think my mom knows that the regime is oppressive and violates human rights. But at the same time, she has this nightmare that if the regime falls, we’re doomed. She thinks, “We know that the regime is bad, but it’s protecting us, and we shouldn’t criticize it.”
I’m also a believer, but I don’t think that way. The regime isn’t protecting Christians, it’s only protecting itself. Assad isn’t protecting Alawites, either. He’s exploiting Alawites. He’s manipulating the issue of minorities. He wants to stay in power and minorities are one of the cards that he can use.
I criticize rebels who kill and I criticize the regime. There was an explosion in my neighborhood and children died. I posted pictures and wrote, “Stop the war.” I was showing sympathy toward people who died in an area that does not support the uprising, so my friends who support the uprising saw me as supporting the regime. A few days later, there was the chemical massacre. I posted pictures of the people dying there, too. My friends and family questioned my actions.
I’m not a traitor. I love Syria. But I believe in human rights and I can’t feel like
I belong to a society that oppresses women or children or people from other ethnic backgrounds. That oppressiveness is a part of Christianity, not just Islam. Arabs used to produce science and algebra and now we’re famous for killing. We should take responsibility in order to improve ourselves. If we change the regime but don’t change our broader culture, the same regime will come back, just with different people.
Khalil, defected officer (Deir ez-Zor)
The revolution will not give up. You think I’m going to return to Syria and say that Bashar al-Assad is my president? Impossible.
But personally, I’ve reached a point of despair. Despair with the opposition leadership, despair with the patron states. The crux of the problem is that every country—Saudi Arabia, Qatar, the UAE, etcetera—is supporting its own group. Many countries have interests in the country, and they’re all woven together like threads in a carpet.
We don’t know where any of this is leading. All we know is that we’re everyone else’s killing field. The only way I can understand this is that these other countries don’t want the crisis in Syria to end. They want to scare their own people from demanding change. They want to send a message to their own populations: If you make a popular revolution, you’re going to wind up like Syria.
Most of the calls I get are from Syrians desperate for aid of one kind or another. What can I tell them? Many times, I don’t even answer the phone. There is nothing I can do for them. To be honest, there are times when I wish I could forget everything. There are times when I want to take my wife and kids and go somewhere and just raise my family.
Marcell, activist (Aleppo)
I belong to the revolution generation and I’m proud of that. We tried our best to build something. We faced a lot, and we faced it alone. And we faced it with the minimum of hatred toward others. But we lost control. We don’t know anymore what is useful. Here in Turkey, I work more than ten hours a day, and at end of the day, I wonder, “Did I accomplish anything? Is it going to change anything?”
To me, the revolution is like a child with special needs. I believe in it and can’t abandon it. Yeah, it’s nothing like I dreamt it would be, and in some places, we’re the new dictators. But to me, it’s like he’s my son and I just should have taken better care of him.
Most us right now are disappointed and depressed. During the first three years, our motive was positive change. For the last three years, our motive has been guilt. Those who are dying are the poorest. You can’t lessen their suffering, so you at least want to return to Syria and suffer with them. No one, not even the refugees, can celebrate mere survival. If I make a purpose out of simply surviving, does that mean that my mother died for no reason? That my friends died for no reason?
Syrians aren’t really talking about this sense of guilt. They talk about Syria. Syria, Syria, Syria. No one talks about himself or herself. I’m afraid that I’m forgetting who I am. Sometimes I find myself writing “she” when I should be writing “I.” As if I’m telling someone else’s story.
This year I’m going to try to go somewhere and find some space to become a person again. Right now, my friendships are political, my work is political, my reading is political, my writing is political. I went on a date, and the first question the guy asked me was, “Do you think the opposition will go to the peace talks in Geneva?”
I don’t want to be only a political thing. I want to be able to laugh, tell jokes, enjoy music. To be a person with dreams, hopes, love. I have a lot of anger at the world and I want space to heal. I want to find the space to be me.
Ayham, web developer (Damascus)
I still believe that what we did is right. Sadly, what we did turned out horribly.
I’m not glorifying us, but for me, it’s clear that the regime is to blame. If it’s the regime’s responsibility to protect our national identity, it didn’t do that. If it’s the regime’s responsibility to protect our national interests, it didn’t do that. If it’s the regime’s responsibility to respect our social dissent, it didn’t do that, either.
One of the saddest things is that when we were raised to worship the regime we were also fed a certain pride. Pride in our culture, in our name. Like when you said, “I’m Syrian,” it carried respect. We work hard. Even the poor enjoyed life. You know, everybody had picnics. They tried to buy decent cars. They gave their kids the chance for education. That was Syrian pride. We grew up singing these Baath Party songs in school. I don’t believe the Baath ideology, but some of its ideals were quite nice in principle. “We are farmers and workers, the youth that never breaks. We are the fighting soldier and the voice of those who toil . . .” Even today, when I sit with my friends and sing those songs, I feel like I belong.
Talia, TV correspondent (Aleppo)
We were living under dictatorship for forty years and we were tired. Tired of hypocrisy. Tired of only getting a job if you have connections. We wanted to know this famous thing called freedom. But now if you sit with one thousand Syrians, they’ll each give you their own sense of freedom. Some women ask themselves, “If I take off my headscarf, will I be free? If I change my religion, will I be free?” In my opinion, that’s not what freedom is about. For me, freedom is living in a society that respects me. Freedom is being able to express myself. Freedom is the chance to do something for which people will remember me.
In Syria, women were dependent on men. The root of the problem was our failed government. There weren’t any laws to protect women. They didn’t know their rights or their worth. This changed with the revolution. People no longer had the barrier of fear, and women no longer feared their husbands. Now a woman can say no and say yes. She can rebel.
When I got to Turkey I sat at home for the first year. My mental state was at rock bottom. I had wanted to separate from my husband for years, but I delayed the decision. Then I got stronger and became financially stable. I was living in a country where the law defended me. And so I left him and the house and everything. All I took was my kids. I started again from zero.
I had worked for a few months in radio, and then a job opened at a major TV network. Ten other people applied for it, and they all had degrees in journalism. I didn’t, but I wanted the job. For three months, I practiced how to speak before the camera. I’d stand in front of the mirror and talk to myself. I would record my voice and say words this way and that way to figure out how to make them sound better.
I did an interview with the manager. She told me she didn’t want to hire me, but that I have a kind of talent that not all journalists have. She said, “Talia, I wish you weren’t this good.” And, just like that, I got stuck in her head. And I got the job.
I discovered that I’m a person who can have an impact on others. It was the revolution that taught me to be impactful in this way. And it was the revolution that allowed me to see people for who they really are. It showed me that every Syrian has a hundred stories in his heart. Every Syrian is himself a story.
Adam, media organizer (Latakia)
One of the most profound things that I learned from this experience called the Syrian civil war is this: Just because you’re fighting evil doesn’t mean you’re good. And just because you’re doing evil doesn’t mean you’re bad. You end up with the conclusion that there is no ultimate right or wrong. It’s all shades of gray.
The process of finding out what a country needs is never clean. Of course, when you’re in a stable country with functioning institutions it’s easy to have a moral code. But just keep in mind that these values are only made possible for you because other people did dirty things to put that system in place. People don’t want to know about that dirty work because it doesn’t fit with their idea of who they are.
I think that’s what people mean when they say, “We’re fighting for your liberty,” or clichés of that sort. As a country, we need somebody to do the wrong thing in order for future generations to have a life that is morally stable and functioning. That way, they won’t have to compromise on morality all the tim
e in small ways, like we had to do in Syria.
That’s what I’ve learned from this whole thing called the Syrian war. For us, people who are not privileged enough to have the freedom to be good people, we have to make some bad choices and do some evil things. That’s shitty, but it is what it is. Ironically, we went out in demonstrations to eradicate corruption and criminal behavior and evil and hurting people. And we’ve ended up with results that hurt many more people.
We opened a Pandora’s box. We had this innocent, childlike interest to see what was inside the box. We thought we’d get a present, and what we got was all the evil in the world. Now we need to close the box again, but it’s going to take a while.
What’s crucial in this whole process is that you don’t matter. You as an individual—your aspirations, your ideas about what is right—mean absolutely nothing. And that’s when you understand why people get radicalized. I completely understand why somebody would join ISIS or al-Qaeda or the Assad regime or the Kurdish groups. You are in dire need for a narrative that can justify this futility. There has to be a point. So you become radical. This suffering has to be for a reason. Otherwise it’s too painful.
Now I’m working with an NGO that helps the free media and press inside Syria. I’m trying to help journalists say what they want to say. I see my job as trying to support these people who want to make their dreams come true. But I think I’m too old to dream now. In a month and a half, I’ll be twenty-nine.
Husayn, playwright (Aleppo)
I try not to talk about politics anymore. Things are no longer clear. It’s hard to know what’s right and what’s wrong.
We Crossed a Bridge and It Trembled Page 17