A place I called Home

The flat in the background, 3rd floor on the right, is our flat in Syria. This was the house my father grew up in, learned his faith, served the community, qualified as a doctor, married my mum and visited whenever we returned to town. Every other summer we would return here to visit our family and friends. Its neighbourhoods became my playground and its people my friends as I learned to navigate the ways of the Damascus markets.
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Now it all stands ruined and abandoned, a ghost of its beautiful past.
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I remember sitting on the balcony and watching the school kids playing during break time. Occasionally, My cousins and I would scale the walls to play on the basketball court they had there. Now, its just rubble and lost memories that remain.
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It is difficult for me to describe what this is all feels like…
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Take a look outside. Absorb every detail of what you see; the colour of every leaf, the contrast of the light and shade, the stream of sunshine across the rooftops, the whistle of the wind blowing through the trees…
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Now close your eyes and imagine it all gone. Death, destruction, ruin.
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It’s difficult to describe my emotions when looking at these pictures, but that’s the closest image I can paint. These pictures represent my childhood, the safe-haven I boasted about to friends. I remember playing on the streets of Syria at 2am without a worry in the world. Safety like that seem implausible today.
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It is difficult to absorb that all this has gone. Its even harder to know that it may never come back again. Yet all this is nothing in comparison to my brothers and sisters who are left abandoned in the refugee camps…
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It’s difficult living a normal life pretending everything is ok. It could have been me that was just another number on nobody’s news… It’s time to stop pretending I guess…
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3 years on, the peaceful neighborhood I grew to love seems lost in the past. Oh how I pray for peace and safety to return to the land I love Syria. Do not forget our country in your prayers in Ramadan.
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