In my friend’s defence, they did not mean to invoke a tidal wave of painful sentiments and memories. After all, most people do not know that I personally experienced the horrific beginnings of the Syrian war that has since spanned for nine long, arduous years. But should past trauma, or the lack thereof, really be the barrier between sympathizing with nations enduring the hardships of war and complete indifference?
This apathy towards strife experienced by others is not an isolated occurrence; it is recurrent in conversations, social media, and main-stream media outlets. It seems that the farther away conflicts are, the less people care. It is overwhelming to discover how desensitized society has become to the repercussions of war. Though, I understand how disheartening it can be to keep up with the news. Even I have fallen into a drawn-out state of despondency over the news of Syria. It seems that every time I turn on the television, there is some new manifestation of oppression, tyranny, and destruction going on in the world. However, I strongly believe that people have a responsibility to seek out balanced information, rather than deliberately avoiding disheartening news. Avoidance ultimately leads to blind ignorance and apathy.
To reiterate, this is 100% my personal experience. It is not disguised by a political agenda nor is it biased towards a certain group. After all, war does not discriminate. Not only has the war in Syria affected everyone there, rich and poor, young and old, but it has also created wounds that those impacted will carry for the rest of their lives. People as lucky as me almost feel guilty for being so far from where our families struggle to make ends meet and to survive.
I was born in Damascus, Syria and moved to Canada at a young age. Near the beginning of my third-grade year, my family decided to move back to Syria. Initially, I was not on board with moving because I loved my simple, routine life and wanted to remain in Toronto. I liked school, and I had a close group of friends, though I was not surrounded by many family members growing up. In fact, I did not really know my grandparents or cousins at all.
When I first moved to Syria, I seriously struggled to integrate. I barely spoke Arabic and could not even write my name. After some time, I was able to write and speak Arabic just as well as my native friends. After about two and a half years, I had become close with my extended family, made a best friend, and I finally started to feel like I truly belonged. Life was good, at least until political tensions began to rise, mainly in the rural areas near the borders. We were in Damascus, the capital, and the general sentiment was ‘well, at least it is still safe here’. It seemed that everyone shared that sentiment except for my dad—he had a vague premonition of danger and wanted to leave as soon as possible. That’s when I began to overhear the heated arguments between my parents. Do we pack our bags and leave? Or will the commotion simmer down?
The decision was made after one crucial afternoon. The day started off calm as I put on my uniform and went to school, just like normal. I remember sitting in computer class, listening to some lesson about Microsoft Excel, when an explosion came. We could all hear the blast, and I felt it to my core. My classmates all looked up at the teacher for some kind of reassurance, but she was already panicking and praying. The aftershock was so strong that it caused the whole building to shake and rumble.
There is a nerve-wracking rule of the thumb that if there is one explosion, two or more will usually follow. A second blast hit, and it felt like it was even closer. All the glass shattered with an ear-piercing crash. Students were sobbing and the teacher was mumbling words I couldn’t make out into a phone. I could not react. I was rendered in shock and I looked over to my best friend, a paternal orphan. She hugged me tight while we crouched under the tables, then thanked me for all the memories that we made together and breathed: “If you make it out, Lein, please tell my mom that I am sorry for leaving her, too”.
The third explosion hit before I could think of a response. My ears rang as tears fell down my face. This is it. I tried to accept it, but I could not justify it in any way. I am only 11 years old. I still have so much to learn, so much to discover, so much to feel and experience.
What happened next is mostly a blur. What remains ingrained in my memory, however, is my dad’s heart-wrenchingly relieved expression as he saw me walking out of the school’s shattered doors. I had never seen my dad as distraught as he was at that moment, with red-rimmed eyes, mismatched clothes, and house slippers.
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That day marked the end of my childhood in Syria. It was time to pack our bags and say our goodbyes.
The Cost of Conflict: A Syrian-Canadian’s Perspective
March 1st, 2020 | By Lein Charkatli
A couple of days ago, a friend and I were talking about a conflict overseas, though I typically avoid talking about politics with others because it can be quite divisive. Since that conversation, I have been unable to shake how my friend consistently alluded to the prospect of war as trivial and potentially even beneficial.
I had to take a minute to compose myself. I get it. From a detached and impartial perspective, everything has a silver lining, and a removed observer may be tempted to point out that there are positive outcomes to war. But as a Syrian-Canadian who has witnessed the grave reality of war first-hand, I know otherwise.
I had spent 3 years learning Arabic from scratch, absorbing intricate traditions, and making lifelong friends. Despite all that, in the blink of an eye, I was on a plane back to Canada—the very country I had cried to return to as I struggled to acclimatize in Syria. In retrospect, I acknowledge that I should have been grateful to flee war safely as a Canadian citizen. I got what I wanted, didn’t I? Maybe in a way, I did, but I never wanted to leave like this. I abandoned my home, my friends, and my family. Even my beloved pet turtles were left behind.
Despite witnessing several frightening incidents of war, I consider myself privileged—I escaped most of the conflict. It’s unsettling to picture what my life would have been if I had stayed through the worst parts of the war. Last summer, I was fortunate enough to visit Damascus and I found it difficult to once again leave the breathtaking sceneries, the creative art, the delicious food, and the ancient sites filled with stories of early civilization. Damascus is the world’s oldest capital, and it never ceases to amaze me. Even relentless bloodshed could not diminish the strength and perseverance of the people.
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An image that I took of Old City Damascus, Syria [2019]
Ultimately, I think that we all need to look within ourselves and realize that we cannot even begin to sympathize with those affected by war without a steadfast heart and a desire to understand. There is a myriad of ways to seek information, whether it be from the media, trusted sources, or even simply through conversation with others. If I have learned anything from my experience, it is to remain hopeful because despair is the enemy of justice. Hope drives us to stand for what is right even when painful reality is distorted by the media. It allows us to speak our truth resolutely, even when it seems like every outside force is trying to silence it. So, while it is important to tolerate diverse and differing opinions, whether they are political or ideological, it is just as crucial to stand in solidarity with those affected by war. It is only with true awareness and allyship that we will be able to maintain the integrity and essence of humanity.