"Three Years"

"Three years.
Three years of isolation.
Three years of torture.
Three years of constant pain.
Three years of prison under Saddam Hussein.

Out of the eleven of us that were captured, tortured and imprisoned I was the only one who came out alive, praise be to God. And for what you ask? Why did I have to face such hardship? Such misery? Such fate? Why was I sent to prison, you ask? Well let me tell you.

When I was 15, I was put into prison in Iraq because of the anti-tyranny, anti-Saddam graffiti my friends and I plastered over the walls of Basra. We got away with it for a while, until my friend had written "Saddam will not last, Long Live Khomeini" on the wall of his neighbor. He was then taken in by the police, tortured and interrogated until he gave the names of eleven of us; eleven of his closest friends. After he had given the names, he was executed, like the majority of prisoners.

When I was taken in, the suffering they inflicted upon me was incomprehensible by anyone who had not gone through it themselves. I was abused. I was tortured; physically and psychologically. I was starved. I was kept awake through out the length of the night; waiting for the next beating, the next abuse, the next form of pain that was going to be inflicted upon me for simply disagreeing with a murderous tyrant who threatened the lives of my people. Through out the day we were given little food, and sometimes none at all. We were hardly given any water. Ramadan, the month that was supposed to be joyous and celebrated, was the worst for us. We were given one glass of water for the whole day and the tiniest bit of food; unable to satisfy even the smallest of creatures. I remember drinking a gulp at futoor and attempting to save some for suhoor, but it was all in vain as I was constantly thirsty. Many of the people in the prison died due to the lack of water, food and the poor hygiene. I was one of the lucky ones to have lived.

My father passed away shortly after I was released. He had been grieving for me during my time in prison and had refused to eat. This had in time, resulted in a fatal gall bladder problem. He had undergone several operations in attempt to fix the issue, but they had all failed. I will forever live with this guilt; if I wasn't put into prison for such a silly thing my father would not have died the way he did.

These memories will never leave me and I continue to be reminded of them every day." -Jamal Mohsin (IRAQ)

"That's The Sound of The Candy Man"

"The summer of 2013 I had traveled to Jordan as I do every summer to visit my family. As daughter of Palestinian refugees who were exiled to Jordan, seeing my family was a tradition instilled by my parents who didn't want me and my siblings to grow up never knowing our grandparents. This summer, was different than all other summers I had gone before though.

The conflict in Syria had been raging for about a year. And the effects of the conflict were prominent in Jordan. Masses of Syrian refugees had escaped war torn Syria to Amman, and other parts of the country.  I didn't notice at first. But when I did, it was a shocking call to reality.

I had been sitting on the steps of my family home, which directly faces the street. My family’s home is in well off district of Amman, Dabouq, clean and well known. My grandfather had worked his entire life in factories as a Palestinian refugee until he had saved up enough to buy the land the house is built on, when land was still cheap in this area years ago. As I had sat, with a book in my hand, absorbing the rays of a warm Jordanian sun, I heard a clanging knock on the gate. I peered up to see a man, middle aged, looking awfully tired. He wore a white construction hat,  and I knew that he must be one of the workers who are always being hired to build or beautify a home on this street.  I ventured over to the gate, and without opening, asked how I could help him.  When he spoke, I was surprised to recognize the dialect of Arabic my best friend who is Syrian speaks. He explained to me how he had been working all day in the heat, and that the sun would set soon and he needed food so that he and his family could break their fast. I don’t think I answered at first. What was processing in my mind, that this was a Syrian refugee. That he had labored all day while fasting. That he didn't have enough to even bring food to his family. I said, sure absolutely, it would be my honor. He held out a plastic bag to me. I didn’t register that he wanted me to throw food into a plastic bag for him until a few seconds after he gave it to me. Oh my God, no way, I thought. I went inside to my mother and told her what had just happened. My moms eyes widened. She went into the kitchen, and packed up some of that night’s iftar that she had been cooking all day into little plastic plates, which she sealed up carefully with tinfoil. Then she placed all these plates of food into the plastic bag. She insisted on coming down with me, so in a matter of seconds, she threw on a black abaya and scarf and we descended down the stairs, through the garden, to the gate. The man still stood there, smiled when he saw us and greeted us warmly. I don’t even remember what my mother said to him, I just remember seeing his eyes fill with tears when he looked into the bag.

“No one’s ever put the food in plates before” he said in a quiet voice. I really had to hold myself back from getting emotional then and there. He thanked us graciously and left, and when I broke my fast on a date a few minutes later all I could think was ‘Alhamdulliah’ , thanks be to God.

This scenario happened many times after, sometimes the same man, sometimes other refugees. One night, I was sitting on the marble veranda with my young cousins when I heard the sound of a toy whistle. My cousins Dana and Omar heard it too, and they recognized it immediately. “Thats the sound of the candy man” they squealed in excitement. Sure enough, at the gate I saw multi-colored lights laced up on a bar that was hoisted on the shoulders of a relatively old man. The bar had tiny bags of cotton candy tied onto it. My cousins rushed to the gate and I followed closely behind them. The old man smiled, took the bar off his shoulders, and offered each of them a bag of cotton candy. One bag only cost a few Jordanian ‘irshes’ or quarters. I paid for both, and I noticed a small Syrian flag pin on the mans shirt. “Are you Syrian, uncle?” I asked politely. He smiled, a smile that reminded me of my grandfather’s smile, who was actually sitting in his garden on the other side of the house at the time. “Yes I am, ya binti”  he replied warmly. I told him that I wished all the best for his people, and his reply to this day is something I’ll never forget. “We all just want to return, but I am glad that while I am here I can make children smile”. Then he left, the sound of the toy whistle echoing in my ears. I well and truly lost it when he left. My grandfather, sitting in the garden, could hear me crying. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a selfless optimistic person in my life , someone who had to escape the violence of their country only to come here and have to work a foolish job to make a living, yet still make the best of it, still be thankful, still make little children smile. And I returned to cry on those stone steps where a few weeks ago I had encountered my first disenfranchised Syrian refugee, and thats where my grandfather found me. The moon was still high, I could hear my cousins playing, and my parents and uncles were still not home from the Ramadan night prayer, taraweeh. These small series of events inspired me to go visit the Syrian refugees in the North of Jordan a few days later.

My dad and uncle went with me. We drove through the winding valleys of Jordan. We stopped by a complex called Circuit City, but decided that donations would be futile here since the residents of the complex got a room for each family and an allowance of ten dollars a week to buy food for their families. So we drove a bit farther north until we reached the city of Al-Ramtha which is so near to the Syrian border that you can actually see the smoke of the war on the horizon. There, through a small Islamic organization, my father and I gave refugees who had literally just arrived from Syria money, as they had come with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Al-Ramtha is interesting. Many self proclaimed revolutionaries there, many shabihs as well. Politics wasn't really discussed,  and people kept their political sympathies to themselves. My father delicately had asked people who he had given the donations to what their viewpoints as Syrians were and almost every person gave a different answer. But they could all agree, they wanted the violence to stop and they wanted to return to their homes and lives as soon as possible. To see the young children who were smiling and playing on the streets, the old woman who begged on the sidewalks and praised you with blessings when you sat next to them and helped them out and heard their story was a life changing experience.

Now, its 2015 and the war in Syria is raging on. Sometimes, when I turn on the news, it seems so hopeless to me, and I remember all the people I met in Jordan. I wish the best for them, I truly from the bottom of my heart do. People always tell me that I was too young to have seen such suffering but I think it motivated and inspired me. The people of Syria are forever in my prayers, and the refugees who’s narrative seems to be lost in a sea of violence are in my heart. I hope that they do not face the plight of what my people, the Palestinians faced. I hope that generations are not born outside of Syria and raised in refugee camps. I hope, that soon this will all end. That  everyone I saw and every refugee in  exile returns to rebuild Syria and create a future that will outshine the past." - 17, Syria

"I Dare You To Call For Help"

"It was just another 'normal' day for me. I woke up in the morning wishing this day wouldn't be like most other days; filled with the fear and anxiety of being a target of these terrorism attacks that have been so frequent recently. After I got ready I said goodbye to my mother, and as usual the tears she was trying so hard to fight back were noticeable by not only me, but all my siblings. But that was just the 'normal' beginning of just another 'normal' day.

I remember these days to be the most awful, dreadful and disgusting days of my entire life; I just wanted the day to end so we could all go back into the safety of our home, lock the doors and enjoy a little relative serenity before the next horrible day was to begin. This is not how any child should feel about going to school. But this is what we felt about going to school.

When the teacher dismissed us a little bit earlier than usual, I had already packed all my things and ran to the school exit as fast as I could just to get back to the security of my family and my home. I had arrived to the school gate before anyone else had, waiting to be picked up by driver, and that's when I saw him. 

He was my friend's driver so his face was quite familiar, we smiled at each other our usual greeting smiling. Then it happened.

A car pulled over and four men with guns got out of the car. I could not see their faces because they had them covered with a black mask. Next thing I know, I hear a gun shot.

My eyes were sealed shut, and when I finally gathered the courage to open them, I saw a gun pointed towards my face and through the suffocation of fear, I heard laughter in the background.

The man said to me 'he is not dead, but I dare you to call for help. It would be your last day little girl!' Two of the men then stole my friend's driver's car and left him on the floor bleeding to die a miserable, painful death. I froze in my place; my hands in my pocket ready to take my phone out but I just could not muster up the courage. The man's voice was still ringing in my ears; it was as though I was paralyzed with fear, unable to move a muscle without the man's permission. I was stuck there as though time had stopped.

When the rest of the school got to the gate, the man had already passed away. I carry this guilt everyday of my life; always thinking 'what if...maybe they were just messing around with me...maybe I should have taken the chance...maybe they wouldn't of known I had called for help.' For the rest of my life I would hold myself responsible for this murder; was it selfish of me to choose my own life instead of his? After all I was merely a 13 year old girl; what did I know about sacrifice and bravery? I don't think I will ever find the answers to all these questions, and I will have to face the fact that this incident will haunt me for the rest of my life." - Iraq, 22

"This is What a Hero Looks Like"

"The year is 2004, and Iraq was making headlines for the first time since the 2003 invasion. Outside it was your usual rainy southern November, but inside what would happen that year would stay in my memory forever. As an 8 year old, who has been in the United States practically her whole life, my Arabic was decent, but I spoke english and Arabic. Nonetheless that did not stop one of my white teachers from asking me
“Do you know Arabian, I mean I know your family is not from here”
“Um yes.’ I responded shyly.
“I need you to translate, we have a student who just came from Iraq we cannot understand a thing.He is in the ESL room”
At the thought of the word, all I imagined was bloodshed thinking back to the news I had just watched that morning with my father on AlJazeera. Nervous, I walked over to the classroom.
Sitting in a desk all by himself, the teacher pointed to him.
I walk over, with the lowest “Salaamu Alaikum” I have ever said in my life. He was almost in tears, and I was always weak to tears.
“Inti tehchi arabi” he asked me if I spoke Arabic,
“Ah ana behchi arabi”
“areed ahli. “
I need my family, he told me in tears.
“Abchi la ahli” I cry for my family.
The teacher gave me a look but I did not even want to look, or translate what he had said. In that moment both my Arabic and English was weak. I just wanted to hug him. But I just stood there.
“Ma fee sakan. Ma fee ahel. Abchi” No family. No house. I cry.
“Ma fee soora. Ma fee ahel. Gataloolni chi haja” There are no pictures. No family. They killed everything.
When he said they killed, he pointed to a poster of an American soldier on the board reading 
“This is what a hero looks like.”
My blood boiled. An innocent child my age, with parents like me, and a life, lost everything. Somebody dressed in a uniform which he labeled himself as a soldier, honorable, and praised, killed a whole family. Then it occurred to me. This boy was alone. Just like Iraq was alone.
“Ena erfeektek itha itreed. Ma ita’ayet. Ena hon”
"I’m your friend if you want. Do not cry. I am here."
From my accent, he could tell I was not Iraqi but that did not matter to him. It was time for me to go and take a test, so the teacher escorted me back to class.
“Did he speak to you?”
“What did he say?”
“He is something we call a refugee.”
Refugee. I only ever heard that word on television or from my mom speaking of how my uncles and her were considered refugees, although she held a Palestinian passport.
I did not answer my teacher only asking her to sit back in my seat and write my test.
For the rest of the year since that day, he would ask to see me. I would even skip gym class to go into his ESL class. When he was not laughing at my inability to speak Arabic like him, I tried teaching him english. He would speak of Iraq. The street markets. The mosques in Baghdad. He would wonder where are his friends were openly to me always bringing me to tears. The year ended, and we promised we would stay friends forever.
Forever did not last long. The new school year started, with Hurricane Katrina. My family and I evacuated to New Jersey and lived there for a while. My thoughts stayed with him. But then we came back to New Orleans, and third grade went on along with every other year with him nowhere in sight. For a while I forgot about him until a few months back. I remember him telling me about the beauty of the mosques and churches of Iraq and the Iraqi people, and as I was scrolling through my Tumblr, I saw these mosques with a picture of a child who had once again become a refugee from Syria. An Iraqi turned to seek refuge in Syria only to become a refugee again in his own country of Iraq. That night I remembered that fateful day ten years ago when I met him.
I never did see him after that, and I cannot even remember his name. But every day I hope that I see him at university orientation, the grocery store, Eid- Salah, just so I can thank him. I wanted to thank him for teaching me what humanity meant at seven/eight years old. I want to thank him, for the first time of me meeting an Iraqi, making it memorable. I want to thank him for showing me the beauty in hope, which he held onto despite having his whole family killed, and being a refugee in the so called land where you can pursue your happiness. I just want to thank him because when I remember him, I remember that the millions of Palestinian, Syrian, and Iraqi refugee children have a story like he does. It did not matter to him that I was not Iraqi or that I did not understand what war meant, all that mattered was I was a human willing to be a friend.

It costs nothing to be human, and still until this day I think of him, and remember Iraq, the forgotten one with beauty that exceeds war and bloodshed. The land and people who still stand strong.

It costs nothing to have an ounce of humanity.

I wish he knew, although I forgot his name, I remember him and what he did to my life." -Anonymous

Behind the Eyes of Every Child, There is a Story that we are Currently Writing

"They tell me that Syria is not my country and that I should not ask about it. They ask me why I choose to wear a Syria bracelet along with my Palestinian one. My simple answer is 'because Syrian lives matter.' As days pass by, and it's almost been four years since the start of the Syrian revolution; Syria seems to become the topic of discussion and foreign policy while Syrian lives are forgotten. They are portrayed and plastered through out the media as mere numbers and statistics. It's as if it's a competition of who can report the biggest number. The Syrian people are more than just a number or a product of conflict as countless media reports make it seem, and regardless of what the political stance you stand on, Syrians are being caught in the crossfire. According to the United Nations, Syria is the "biggest humanitarian crisis of our time." So why are we turning a blind eye to it? With over 3 million refugees and counting, living in dire conditions, we as humans owe it to one another to raise awareness for each other. As a Palestinian who does not know when the next time she will be able to enter her home is, or if she will be able to return, I acknowledge that what is happening in Syria is a nakba (a catastrophe). Syrians are going through their very own catastrophe just as Palestinians have gone through theirs. If we do not open up our hearts and remember that the daily numbers coming out of Syria are more than just numbers, they are names and lives, we are failing to remember that there is a generation of Syrian children who will grow up to never forgive us, and rightfully so. I will not remind you of Palestinians in Yarmouk refugee camp besieged by regime forces in order for you to have sympathy for the Syrian people, because there is no difference between Palestinians or Syrians or Iraqis; our blood is one and we are all humans. The borders created long ago, drawn by a crayon in different colors do not define the empathy I have for my Syrian brothers and sisters. I refuse to deny them of their liberation, and I see them in me, and me in them. As I sleep peacefully at night, Aleppo is a different story and that, I cannot get past. There are Palestinian and Syrian parents wishing for a safer future for their children and we cannot just be reactionary. Our action must not be when news is only current, rather always. We are the politics and we must own up to our own narrative but for the millions of Palestinian and Syrian refugees, for the over 160,000+ Syrians killed, for the thousands of Palestinian and Syrian prisoners in regime and Israeli dungeons, let us for once put our humanity before our geopolitics and although this was not a story please remember that behind the eyes of every child, there is a story they are going to tell that we are currently writing...." -Anonymous

Of All People, Why My Father?

"I was only five years old when I had been first introduced to the brutalities of war and oppression, and it had all started with my dad offering to take me swimming. Before we got into the pool, my dad, of course, took his shirt off. That was when I noticed a huge scar on his back that I had never seen before. I wondered what it was and finally got the courage to ask him about it. I ended up getting a reply from my father telling me he had fallen down when he was a kid. I didn't believe him. Something did not seem right with the story.

That night when we got home, I asked my mother about the scar, hoping that I would get to hear the truth about the scar from her... It was at that point my whole life would change. My mother sat me down and tried to explain to me this on going "war" that was happening in my homeland between Palestine and Israel. She explained to me how my father had been arrested and beaten for not letting Israeli soldiers into his house, which is how he got the scar on his back. After hearing this, I was filled with rage, anger and hatred. Why would these people hurt my own FATHER? The person I looked up to in life. The person who was always there for me. My own father. Why were they taking over my land ? Why couldn't they just leave? At age 5, the concept of war did not make sense to me. All I knew was that I was angry and wanted to see the people that dared to hurt my father.   

 That summer we went to Palestine. I was 6 at the time, and upon arriving to the Israeli airport,  put into a room and interrogated for hours about my family and where I was going by soldiers. It was then, at that moment, that I had put 2 and 2 together. These were the people that had hurt my father. These were the people that were taking over my land for no reason. These were the people I had anger and hate for. I asked the Israeli soldier that continued questioning me why he hurt my father and left him that ugly, brutal scar. The soldier had no words for me and told me he was bringing me back to my mom because he was "done asking questions." I was 6.     

As a child, you should not have to force yourself to understand something as brutal, heartless and violent as war. Something that even adults can not begin comprehend. But as a Palestinian child, you are forced to grow up before you are meant to. You are forced to have your childhood stripped away from you. And you are forced to see and hear things that will go on to live in your head forever; no matter how hard you would like to forget..." -Sabrine Abed, 18

"At the top of the Mount I stared out at picturesque Jerusalem, and I knew where I was. Home. "

"The minute I laid eyes on my homeland I began crying. I had been looking out of the window in the shabby bus seat. The landscape came closer and closer and suddenly green valley’s and olive groves appeared. As the bus became cradled in between the valley’s it felt as if I was being hugged by the rolling hills. There, in a bus, surrounded by those who call me and enemy, I cried and felt my heart about to burst. For the first time in my life, I was not a refugee. As the bus chugged along, I could only stare at the jaw dropping beauty that was Palestine, being tinted gold by the sun. When the bus stopped, I was enveloped by stone walls, the gates to the old city of Jerusalem. The doors creaked open, and my nostrils were suddenly filled with the smell of rich coffee. I stumbled out of the bus and took one step which amounted to all the walking I have ever done in my life. As I began my trek in Jerusalem, I was dazzled by the people, the history, and the beauty surrounding me. Even the air smelled sweet, as if tainted with honey,  
I knew that me being in Palestine was something special. I was the first person to have stepped and breathed in my homeland since my grandparents left their homes in 1948. I knew I had to make every moment here count. I also wanted to leave an impression on the people here, so they would know that those who live in exile have not forgotten the land that raised them. Within my first hour in the Old City, I had given away all my money to beggars who ranged from old women who sat on the side of the streets in their traditional dress to young school boys who pestered me to buy sticks of gum. I smiled at every person I saw.  Palestinian, Israeli, Muslim, Christian, or Jewish, I gave them all toothy grins and watched some return the favor and others look confused. Within the old city, I was absolutely enchanted. Street vendors, spice markets, and hookah shops had people bustling with excitement. Looking up, instead of seeing the sky, one would see the high ceilings of the old walls laced with bright multi-colored lights for Ramadan. Young men played the traditional Arabic guitar, serenading the city with music as old as the walls surrounding us. The scent of coffee and pistachios was overwhelming. It seemed as if everything was perfect, that this was the Jerusalem I had grown up to hear stories about. But nothing perfect ever lasts, and those perfect moments in Jerusalem were shattered quickly
'Hey you' I heard a voice call out behind me and a hand rest on my shoulder. I turned around and found myself face to face to an Israeli soldier. He was looking at me with an expression of aloofness. 'Are you from here?\ he asked me in heavily accented English. I nodded my head, 'Yes I’m Palestinian'.  His face hardened. 'No where are you really from?' he repeated this twice. I looked up at him bewildered and then I realized what he was inquiring about. 'Oh, I am a Palestinian who lives in America. This is my first time back home' I explained openly, taking out my passport as well. He looked hard at my passport. 'Your papers say you were born in America. You are from America then' he said proceeding to put a blue sticker on my passport. I looked him straight in the eye and replied, 'I was born in America but I am from Palestine and this is my home. This is where my father was born, and my grandfather, and his father. And one day my children will be born here. My papers don’t represent the origins of my blood'. His eyebrows went up, but all he did was hand back the passport and disappear back into the line of  armed men who clumped in groups in various areas of the city. Disheartened, I made my way to the nearest gate leading out of the old city when a sparkle of gold caught my eye. I turned my head, and saw that I was right in front of the opening that lead to the holy Noble Sanctuary which housed the Dome of the Rock and Aqsa mosque. I walked through the gates, put on my simple prayer clothes, and did the ritual ablutions. The Dome of Rock was mesmerizing with its turquoise and gold patterns and Al Aqsa was simple with green trim. The marble felt cool against my feet as I walked barefoot into an open prayer space. There and then, I prayed at dusk and my tears flowed as my forehead touched the ground, please God please, let my grandparents pray here one more time before they return to you. Let them see Palestine one more time before they return to you. Night finally fell upon the old city. The streets were alive with juice vendors, and shopkeepers passed out Ramadan sweets to all passersby. I sat on the steps of a home that was built into the walls that encircled the city, and absorbed every scene happening around me. Behind me, the door to the house whose doorstep I was occupying creaked open. I turned around shocked, anticipating an angry owner to tell me off. Instead stepped out an old woman, whose face was drawn with wrinkles like the lines of a map. She wore her headscarf tied at the neck and a bit of her hair showed through the top. 'What are you doing here' she asked in a kind and quiet voice.'I am just sitting ma’am I have been walking around all day, but I can leave if you wish' I replied getting up and brushing myself off. 'No you can stay' she insisted 'I just wanted to see who you were. I could see you from inside my house. You look exactly like my daughter'. 'Thank you' I exclaimed gratefully and sat back down onto the smooth stone tiles. 'Where are you from?' the old woman asked me, her eyes filled with curiosity. My cheeks reddened as I answered 'I’m American'.  Her eyes widened, and a smile broke across her face. 'Ahlan w Sahlan feeki fi baladik' (A sweet welcome to you in your homeland.) My eyes glazed over with tears. My homeland. 'That was the best welcome I've ever received' I told her sheepishly. She replied with 'Palestine always receives its children with warm greetings'.  We finished chatting and she returned into her home. I roamed the streets of the old city for hours, well into the next morning. My mind was in a trance. As dawn began to rise I made my way back to the Mount of Olives where my hotel was located. At the top of the Mount I stared out at picturesque Jerusalem, and I knew where I was. Home."-Anonymous