By: Eithar Qassab, Syrian student interested in public affairs.
September 2024

The poster is designed by the cartoonist Amani Al-ali.
Note: This article was written before the fall of the Assad regime, the victory of the revolution, and the liberation of Syria.
In our lives, there is usually a night we can never forget. My unforgettable night was when the lights in our home turned on unexpectedly. It was the middle of the night, and we heard knock on the door. We had been asleep, and my father was up praying. He looked through the peephole but saw nothing but darkness. Feeling uneasy, he told my mother to prepare herself and opened the door. Something heavy trampled on my legs. I opened my eyes briefly before shutting them tightly again, pretending to remain asleep. They were cloaked in black from head to toe, even their skin appeared black—or so my memory shows me.
Perhaps this explains my aversion to the color black. I cannot wear it, look at it, or sit in a dark place. I despise this color, from the dark weapon pointed at my father’s head when the security officers stormed our small house, to their large, black boots that left our home carrying my father away. Yes, it was pitch black, even though everything was lit.
I remember the screams of my six-year-old brother that morning, crying to my mother, “Mama, my sister is lying. She said they took dad.” Before we left for school, he asked my mother, “Mama, when will dad come back?” On my way to school, the street was lined with shadowy cars on both sides. I felt that they were watching me, ready to take me if I made any mistake—though I had no idea what mistake they were waiting for to snatch my life away. I knew who they were; I knew everything. They had taken my mother’s father in the 1980s, and he never returned. I felt pain in my leg where their boots had stepped on me. I walked that dark path to school, and since then I have walked many more dark paths through the years.
From a young age, I held a sacred place in my mind for the family. I loved the warmth of home, the noise of family members, and gathering around a shared table. My family consisted of five: my mother, my father, my brother, my sister, and me—the eldest. When I was ten (shortly before the Syrian revolution began), my father was arrested. Protests soon swept through the Syrian cities, one after another. Every time a demonstration passed by, I would chant silently in my heart, afraid to endanger my family—after all, we had already lost so much.
Once, I snuck out under the pretext of running an errand and joined a demonstration in our neighborhood of Salah al-Din in Aleppo. I returned home as it passed near us. The demonstration ended when I heard the sound of gunfire; two children were killed. Not long after, the bombings began. We left our house, then the country, without my father. As we crossed the border, I wished he were with us. The horror of leaving was nothing compared to the nightmare of prison. For this reason, I can never bring myself to read prison literature or even own a book on the subject. My memory, rich with details, cannot bear imagining what might be happening to my loved ones in those cells.
The hardest nights began after that, in exile. We had nothing. Even our house in Syria was destroyed. How can a family go on without a father, and without a home? How does it stand on its feet again? Amid all this, I was not well, nor do I remember anyone being well. My escape from it all was my dream. My mother had always encouraged me to pursue it. Since childhood, I had wanted to study medicine and believed I had the ability. I returned to school and graduated with nearly perfect grades. I then sat for the university entrance exam, but after several attempts, I was unable to gain admission to medical school. It felt as though a ship that was supposed to save us had sunk before it could reach us after all these years of waiting.
But no matter. Life offers no room for despair. My parents had always taught me that education is a gentle power and a path to honor in this world and the next. So I enrolled in a health sciences college, which was connected with the Faculty of Medicine, though it was not my preference. If given a choice, I would have pursued a humanities route. But that was not a viable option because, as they said, “It doesn’t put food on the table.” Additionally, I had received a scholarship for the health sciences program, and I had nothing. I did not even have the luxury of choice.
As I began university, Turkish hostility toward Syrian refugees began to escalate. I was repeatedly harassed by students and even by some professors. Beyond being Arab, I was Syrian. If one was seen as valueless in their homeland, they are more likely to be seen as valueless abroad. Many times, I considered leaving university. I was suffocated by it all, living in a city far from my family—adding another layer of exile to my exile. But how could I abandon my studies or change my path? How could I let my family down when they had waited for years? I could not ignore my mother’s voice echoing in my mind, urging me not to return empty-handed.
Oh, how I wished to be in Syria, with my father. If he had been with us, I wouldn’t have borne the weight of responsibility for my entire family. I would have studied what I loved and become what I wanted. Instead, every time I saw someone speaking to their father or talking about him, sharing meals or even arguments, or being surprised by him at the end of the day, it pierced my heart. Nothing compares to having a father.
Years passed, and I reached my final year of study, only to be shocked by the termination of my scholarship. The university imposed fees ten times higher than before, claiming equality for all students and hoping to appease the rising wave of racism against Syrians. Although we had earned our scholarships and places in university on merit, I could not afford the fees and was expelled.
Once again, here I am—still refusing to wear black, still trying to navigate through these murky paths toward a life I can live in a warm home with my entire family. Perhaps, someday, I will get all my stolen homelands back.
By: Eithar Qassab, Syrian student interested in public affairs.