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were a funny looking bunch. I stood out because of whom I was. But I was able to blend in a little bit because of our outrageous uniforms. It was quite laughable how I had moved from a tacky pink shirt to a tacky blue apron. I couldn’t decide which of my getups was worse.
And as we see the breakdown of a nation, everyone (including myself) should never forget the humanity and dignity of the Syrian people.
The day I realized my classmates had become my feisty friends, was a touching one. More than halfway through my time in Syria, I had gotten pretty comfortable with my role in class as “The American.” Things had finally started going my way: I was practically fluent in shammi, classes were going well, and I wasn’t standing alone during recess. There were still these two girls who always gave me dirty looks though, and never really talking to me. They were the ones that were asked to move aside on my first day at Bawadir. It is quite ironic how fate taunts us. One day, I was sitting with my friends in the front of the classroom chatting about my drawing ability when suddenly I felt them glaring at me. One of the girls pointed at me, “Why are you guys talking to her? She’s new and different.” I was shocked. No one had ever been so blunt to me. Before I said anything, the friends surrounding me cried in outrage. “We like her! Go away! What do you want?” Again, shocked! No one in New York ever did that for me. They grumbled and left. This continued for a few days until finally they came around and apologized. They had grown tired of being isolated from the class. I smiled and said it was okay. This story seems like a cliché -out of a Disney Channel Movieexperience, but I swear it happened! I’ll never forget the girl who spoke in my defense. Her name has long escaped my memory now, but her actions have remained in my mind. A Syrian girl considered the feelings of an American girl. It was truly a moment reflective of what it meant to live in another country; one doesn’t connect with a culture, but rather with the people. From those days going forward, I was able to get by. My memories of Bawadir are now scattered, and it is difficult to remember every detail. Some days, I recall small, random details. Every day, I had spent a 25L coin to buy chocolate filled croissants from the courtyard café. I still remember the taste of that large pastry; warm and moist. Other times, I recall my classmates getting noisy when we had “computer class” in the basement; a true treat to us. Back in
2003, computers were not a common household item, even in the States. In English class, we stood and sang lame English songs that I had never heard of. In script class, my teacher beamed at me every time. I can barely remember her face; instead I retained the memory of her sweet smile. I remember the “school store” in the corner of the courtyard where I bought a shabby looking green-plaid pencil case. On another day, I remember our class was scolded for being so loud. It’s as if the scary teacher who reminded me of Ms. Trunchbull from Matilda appeared before us. She started to yell at us, and we all put our heads down. I started to cry out of fright, although I knew I probably wasn’t the one in trouble. A day on the bus has always stood out to me; so much that it is referred to as the “infamous battatus story” in my family. A blonde, blue-eyed boy from my class has always stood out because he was loud and funny. Most Syrians are not loud. On the bus that day, the Mrs. Trunchbull-like-teacher yelled at us again, so we were silent. Then suddenly: “la…la…la…” The bus monitor’s eyes popped out, “Meen’ili gun-ni?? (Who is singing?)” Everyone began to giggle as the tension melted away. The bus monitor said again: “Who is SINGING?!” The boy started to sing louder and louder. The bus monitor stomped toward him and pulled him by the ear. “esh inta? Inta’btigan-ni mithlal battatus? (What are you? You singing like potatoes or something?)” The bus burst out laughing as the tension disappeared into thin air. The boy grinned while wincing from the pain of having his ear pulled. Then he sang “battatus~ battatus~! (Potato, Potato)” The laughing increased. Then the bus monitor giggled. It was simply too much! I mean, potatoes? It didn’t make sense, but it was funny because we all needed a laugh. Just as the bus monitor was about to scold the boy, he exclaimed, “Ah! Shoffy ‘ankaboot hon! (Look, a spider is here!)” The bus monitor shrieked and let go of his ear. He sped away and got off the bus onto his stop. The bus burst into another round of laughter. The bus monitor laughed and blushed as she realized that there was no spider to be found. These memories will remain with me, and however insignificant and random, I cannot forget them, because to me, they are the proof I have for myself that I was let into Syria. Behind Syria’s cold thick surface was its ability to produce warmth and wonder for me. I was let into their private rooms where laughter can be heard. It is a reminder that, however short my time with the Syrians, I was able to learn the language that tricked the Bus monitor that there was no spider on the floor. I was able to experience what it felt like to smile in Syria. I hated being in Syria. But I never hated the people. I couldn’t. ****** This part of my life is very personal for me. But I wanted to share it at this time due to the recent refugee crisis. As the story of the Syrian people spreads across social media, I sensed a danger in the way we perceive refugees. We see the destruction that this war has on these people, we may risk dehumanizing an entire society. Syrians have their own stories, their own past, and their own culture. And as we see the breakdown of a nation, everyone (including myself) should never forget the humanity and dignity of the Syrian people. MARCH 2016 | THE MUSLIM VOICE | 15