After a recent visit to his family in a crowded suburb outside Damascus, my cousin sent me the letter below. I felt the responsibility to translate

it into English and to amplify his voice in the midst of deafening silence.

On July 21, 2014, he wrote: “In our homeland, we are deprived of everything — of a moment of peace, of the feeling of security, and the basic necessities for existence. In our homeland, we are deprived of sleep, deprived of the ability to dream, and deprived of tranquility. In our homeland, we are deprived of water, electricity and sanitation.

“It was a very tiresome trip passing through an endless number of roadblocks scattered in every corner and at every turn in a pattern that defies any logic or order. As we drove, I began to question the purpose behind these barriers — why were they built? They obviously do not serve as a tactical approach to combating terrorism nor have they succeeded in protecting the homeland, the army, or the people.

“Were they simply erected as a show of power? Were they built to further entrench an ideology, to hammer it into the minds of the people where one is incessantly dehumanised and reminded of his/her worthlessness?

“As we passed by the destruction and abysmal demolition, I felt an urge to scream: For God’s sake, why all this chaos? Was this devastation necessary for change? Was the government, with all its power, incapable of coming up with a programme that embodied our democratic dreams? How did we become so divided, so full of hatred, where Syrian brothers and sisters are now drowning one another in endless rivers of tears mixed with blood? Why could we have not respected one another’s differences? And now, the most important question: Will it ever become possible to hold hands once again, to restore and rebuild?

“After a marathon journey saturated with indignity and humiliation, I arrived at my home outside of Damascus, to my mother and to her warm heart. For long, I had dreamt of the day that I would be in her arms again and imagined it a happy day for me and her; but my dream was far from reality, for I found my mother tired, worn out, and exhausted from living.

“She was sad. She said, in utter hopelessness, that the situation is worsening by the hour, that the basic necessities for survival were absent, and that everything is only getting worse. She told me stories about poor mothers, widowed mothers, and mothers of imprisoned sons and daughter. She spoke of corruption, contempt, discrimination, violence, and hatred. She said that, like me, she couldn’t understand or fathom the reason behind all the deaths and destruction.

“As she spoke, my heart bled for our beautiful Syria: Syria the alphabet, Syria the jasmine, Syria the charm, a Syria that has been transformed into a battlefield for politicians and a marketplace for terrorists, extremists and mercenaries to exchange hatred and exact revenge. She spoke of the sweltering heat and the high cost of living. She described the outbreak of darkness due to the continuous electricity outages. She prepared me for what’s to come during my vacation — electricity on for two hours and out for four “on a good day”. She said that there would be entire days when electricity is on for only 1.5 hours. She reminded me that a shortage of electricity also determined what was to be stored in a refrigerator, hence the absence of milk and meat in our home.

“She admitted that it could have been worse especially when one thinks of those living in the upper floors of Damascus’ high rises and are no longer able to depend on elevators, or of those who depended on electricity to operate their medical equipment. As for the temperature, she cynically said that it did not take the idle fans and ACs into consideration as it indifferently

continued to ascend into the 40s. My mother also cautioned that water was scarce and asked me to keep this in mind while drinking and bathing.

“Imagine that you are in a place, in a homeland, where there is no water or electricity, no internet, no communications, and no nothing! I am very sad for our homeland, one that is regressing by the day where all are desperately looking for any signs of civilisation left, for what’s the use of a refrigerator, an air-conditioner, a water filter, a TV, or a radio when there is no electricity?

“People are living because they have not yet died. Their days are not only divided by roadblocks, but also governed by schedule of electricity, and their lives have been transformed into waiting periods of sweat and exhaustion. Yet it is expected of Syrians to express their frustration in a manner that reflects their education and civilisation. It is expected of us to carry the middle name “Patience”. But patience is also limited, and Syrians are running out of it!

“The bitter reality is that the hands of destruction are strangling our Syria while the world continues to watch the murder scene. Reality is also that the deep lacerations and the many infected parts of our beloved country will not magically heal. The devastation is everywhere, surrounding us from all directions, suffocating our will to live.

“Do you understand what it means to hear the noise of shells and to see them falling from the sky? A few days ago, we decided to sit outside on the terrace to enjoy a cool breeze. We washed the cement with cold water and placed our fruits and drinks on the tables. Then, we heard the deafening noise of a shell. It was horrific. We were immediately on our feet and took cover inside. I am too sad to write more.”

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My cousin’s letter does not touch on the hell ignited by Muslim extremists fighting on Syrian land nor does it touch on the despondent condition of the semi-safe areas that are sought out by Syrian refuges. It does not serve as a political analysis but is simply a letter written by a Syrian with a broken heart.

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