We are entering our fourth year of Syrian revolution. Some people are probably wondering now why I still call it a revolution. Because one thing which the mighty epic of the people in Syria has taught me: not to accept the statements and presumptions from others about us. Not to approve on the stereotypical thought of what is going on and what we really are by adopting the callings, names and analysis of what is happening to us. Not accepting the justifications of why most humanity do not care, nor the different rot masks used to hide the ugliness and pretend that things will be solved before Syria is totally become a wreck.
I really don’t know what to talk about anymore, what to say, what to do. Not just all have been said and done, but all have been suffered and did the best, scarified and prayed, cried and accepted compromises. Yet, it is never enough as many insist to look at us while their eyes are shot. Do we still need to have faith in humanity anymore? If so why we are not considered worthy as humans.
The death wheel swirl steadily into our fourth year, I am empty of words, I sat today and forced myself to exhume what have been left inside my inner scream for a while. Silence prevails in me. Is my voice more effective than the sound of a growling stomach of a starved Syrian? A sound that is persistent and loader than arms. Is my words more effective than the lost gaze of a child saw the gates of hell open before him?
Remembering the first days of the revolution, the most beautiful faces I ever saw in my life. The most angelic voices sang for freedom and dignity. The mythical humans that gave it all for others to live. It was a journey to the core of the human soul, where God and Satan inhabit. It is not me to say if the journey worth losing all as my losses were insignificant compared to a Syrian homeless orphan child exploited in a refuge country. But it is my concern to ferociously defend this child, and his weeping mother, and his detained and tortured brother, and his raped sister, and his murdered father, and his bigger brother that decided to fight to get with his own hands the lost justice. Those who knows me know that I am not neutral in matters of rights, dignity and justice. In the Syrian case the monster is clear and obvious, no mistake about that.
If things finally resolved, does the world expect us to celebrate in jubilation and thank the mercy that came upon what is left of us? Will we be happy when we finally turn from numbers to actual living beings?
I am haunted with silence these days each time I think of my Syria. What more can one say?
In the upcoming three days, we will commemorate the end of our third year and entering our fourth year. Syrians will have the same controversy about the exact date of the uprising: 15 or 18 of March. But it doesn’t matter to me, I commemorate the memory of the martyrs from the first young men killed in Deraa city, to the inhaled soul of a Syrian killed as you read these words.
Time became more loathed as it devouring my voice leaving me mute.