A Life Left Behind

Voice: Joanna

From: Hama, Syria

Hello! It’s your Hamwi neighbor :)

I was born and raised in Hama, the city of Norias. Growing up, some of my happiest memories are with my cousins, specifically the weekend sleepovers at my grandma's house. I remember the thrill of picking toot (berries) off her balcony and the juice staining our fingers. My uncle used to take us to the Dekaneh, the store across the street from his house to get bags of Derby chips—the most iconic Syrian snack. I remember piling into the car, all six or seven cousins crammed on top of each other—no seatbelts, no car seats, but somehow, we always made it safely to our destination. I vividly remember those late nights when three generations would gather around the Subah (space heater), roasting chestnuts and sharing stories. I remember walking to school every morning, knocking on my neighbors’ doors before the sun had fully risen. We’d head out together, our backpacks bouncing on our backs, chatting about everything and nothing. The neighborhood was ours, and the world felt so safe. I miss that sense of security, that feeling of being part of something so whole, so protected. We’d always play soccer after school in the neighborhood courtyard, aka El-7ara. I don’t have any pictures of those days, no physical reminders of the life I once had. But those memories—of running to school, laughing with cousins, of the smell of fresh toot and the sound of my grandma’s voice—those memories are with me every single day. And even though I’ve been away for so long, a part of me will always be in Syria, in the life I left behind.

As much as I loved the carefree days of my childhood, I also carry the weight of something heavier. I was only 13 years old when the bullets reached our doorstep. I remember lying in my bed, in the pitch-black darkness from the power cuts, trying to fall asleep while the sound of bombs shook the windows of my childhood bedroom. I can still hear my mother’s voice, soft and comforting, trying to soothe me in a way no mother should ever have to. “Close your eyes and imagine yourself at Disney watching the fireworks,” she said, trying to pull me away from the harsh reality outside. But no amount of imagination could shield me from the fear and uncertainty I felt. That girl had no idea how quickly everything could change. When we left Syria in 2012, we thought it would only be for a month or two—just long enough for things to “settle”. But as the years passed, and the situation in Syria only grew more complicated, I’ve come to realize that it might never be the same again. It's so bittersweet. My cousins that I grew up with are now married. Some with kids of their own. Some of my younger cousins were born after I left Syria, and they’re growing up in a world I don’t know. It makes me sad to think that I won’t be able to share the same kind of memories with them, but I still carry the old memories close to my heart.

I miss Syria. I miss my room, my home, and the feeling of stability. Syria is where I grew up, and no matter where life takes me, I will always carry those memories with me—of family, of laughter, and of a life that was, for a time, as perfect as a child's dream.