home is calling

And again. Theres a place called home that I can’t pinpoint. 
Is it that street I grew up in,

The place i’m in now,

Or the annual holiday loacation my family goes to. Well at least, use to go to.
I never really speak about my home country. 
You see, I don’t clearly remember you but when I look at the photos I have flashbacks of the amazing memories you created for me. I see my uncles and cousins in the photos that have gone forever, the ones your walls watched suffer helplessly.

I may not remember you, but know that even though I may never see you again you are so special to me, my heart has a special place for you that brings back memories only to make me more emotional.
I’m sorry that now all you’re known for is your haunted side with blood covering the streets of your city.

I’m sorry no one ever mentions the positive side of you, the beautiful country you were.

I love you with all my heart. Where do I begin, you are:

strong, brave and an inspiration.

And how can we forget your islamic importance.

You are creating history that we can never forget.

You created strong, unique people that we all admire. 

I pray everday to see you again, to be able to walk on your streets, to eat the tastiest falafel from my favourite store, to relive my childhood memories and to see home again. But home… home doesn’t exist.

Home has to be rebuilt.

Home is dead on the ground in this war torn country.

There are no buildings, only bricks all over the ground.

The thing is, we’re never grateful in the moment we’re blessed. We take home and relatives for granted until we are separated.

I hope one day the new Syrian generation gets to meet you, your peaceful streets and kind people. I pray the new generation get to know you, have a place to call home.

Home, I bet you would have never thought that your children would be seeking for help everywhere even in boats, drowning helplessly to flee something they cannot avoid. I bet you would have never imagined your children all over the world, speaking different languages just because they were forced to leave you. But you watched helplessly. 

I wish I could go back and appreciate every little thing about you. The nights where the whole family would sleep in a room, when the electricity would cut and I would act too cool for the village life. But please take me back to the village life, i miss you.

To the people that don’t see going back to their home country as a blessing, please start to appreciate it before it’s gone.

I hope to see you again, 

I love you, 

My home, Syria


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