The hapless world of Syrian children

Syrian novelist Najat Abdul Samad writes: “When I am overcome by weakness, I bandage my heart with the patience of Syrian women in adversity.”

A few days ago, as I sat to listen to one of my favourite radio shows (CBC’s The Current by Anna Maria Tremonti), I heard the voice of an 11-year-old Syrian boy transmitted from within Syrian borders to my home in Calgary, Canada — a Syrian boy telling his personal account about a war that has torn a once beautiful Syria into pieces.

In the interview, the solemn-hearted boy explained that both his father and 18-year-old brother had been “taken” for many months, leaving him with a very heavy load to carry on his young and undeveloped shoulders as the newly designated “head” of the family. He talks about his current work in the black market, selling gas so that he can provide for his sisters and mother.

He reported that a day earlier, a shell had fallen in the courtyard of his home. While his family was once terrified, “just paralysed,” of the shelling and strikes, they have now “gotten used to it; it’s become normal; an everyday thing”. He went on to say: “I’d be out walking and seeing strikes just hundreds of metres from where I am.”

This boy also shared his one wish with his listeners: “I want things to go back to normal.” Yet he insists: “But I won’t leave Syria. I want to stay. I can’t leave my family. Where will I go? And I am sad about my dad and brother. I haven’t seen them for ten months.”

As he spoke, I closely listened to his Arabic in the background and I told myself: “My God, this boy sounds more like a 60-year-old man!” This is a child who has been denied the joy and innocence of childhood.

His hardhearted fate has deprived him of ever again feeling that tantalising pleasure of standing carefree at the street corner and admiring the neighbour’s daughter as her imagery flirtingly meandered through his veins. His worries are now much older than his years and his burdens are much heavier than most.

I have no desire whatsoever to discuss political sides for I deeply believe that all sides are practising the cruellest and most savage forms of inhumanity and most ironically — all in the name of God or a country.

Indeed, it is acutely disheartening.

But today I wish to reflect on, and to try to feel the pain of, that boy whose voice penetrated my heart and pierced my soul.

My son, Aamer, happens to be of the same age — Aamer, whose worries involve Fifa World Cup matters, a Christmas wish list and whether or not he can try his luck again and ask for a third pair of DC shoes.

Aamer, and for that matter everyone — young and old — needs to hear the voice of that 11-year-old Syrian boy, a voice that pounds at the heart and shakes the soul, awakening every cell in one’s dormant conscience. For this boy happens to be a real boy who once liked to play football with his friends, but who has now lost both his playmates and his childhood overnight; his pain is real and it is immense.

The last thing on his mind is football and he most likely owns only one pair of shoes that are too small for his fast-growing feet. He is a boy who, like mine and yours, might have once dreamt of becoming an aviation engineer or perhaps a dentist or an artist, but in reality, he will most probably never have a chance at realising his dreams.

If only I could have a chance to speak to this boy, I would tell him that his voice has changed me in ways that he cannot imagine. I would tell him that regardless of his name, whether Ahmad, Ali, or Joseph, and despite the fact that we do not know one another, we happen to have one thing in common: A deep sorrow for a lost homeland, for we are both Syrians.

I would tell him that his words have dwarfed my “problems” into the size of specks of dust when juxtaposed to his endless dark sky of pain. I would tell him that he touched me in ways for which I will forever thank him and that he is much wiser and much more patient than I could ever dream of becoming.

I would tell him that he is the deepest embodiment of the definition of resilience. I would also share with him my only wish this Christmas — for a miracle to happen, rescuing our beloved Syria and its children from the ravenous teeth of this heartless civil war.

I happen to tuck Najat’s quote beneath my pillow every night. It has become my weapon to fight the weak and dark moments in life. Tonight, as I revisit her powerful lines, I will add a few more words to them: “When I am overcome by weakness, I bandage my heart with the patience of Syrian women and the resilience of Syrian children in adversity.”

Ghada Al Atrash holds a Master's degree in English.