As we reflect on the fall of the Assad regime, and join our Syrian comrades in deep witness of their years of struggle—the liberation of prisoners from death camps, the reunification of families, the possibility of return for exiled Syrians, and all the complex ranges of emotions being held—Mizna presents an essay by Syrian theatre professor and artist Sami Ismat, reflecting on the future of Syria, its diaspora, and the broader Bilad al-Sham, through mediations on architecture, literature, and the collective-oriented values underpinning these artistic traditions.

—George Abraham, Editor-at-Large

“But the immense neglect and physical destruction of these places along the societal fabric puts doubt in whether the new free Syria, with its new and varied diasporic community, can reclaim a healthy and thriving society with a collectivist living philosophy. It is a challenge that requires utopian imaginings as well as forms of expression and commemoration of the sacrifices and displacement faced by the people.”

—Sami Ismat

The Levantine “Bilad al-Sham” diaspora has been facing waves of forced and often violent displacement that carry much loss and grief. As with many diasporic communities, the “Shami” diaspora is neither monolithic nor static. The vibrancy of this particular diaspora has allowed it to thrive in many diverse regions, extending to both of the Americas. In the search for connection within an increasingly isolated and individualistic society, a pervasive sense of collectivist nostalgia takes hold: a longing for a past that exists only within memorabilia and in past personal experiences, specifically, a profound longing for the architectural splendor of historic Levantine cities.  The new Syrian diaspora is a prime example of this phenomenon, with the romanticization of cities like Damascus, Homs, Hama, and Aleppo emerging as a defining feature within the diasporic consciousness. While ample documentation focuses on the destruction aspect of Syria and the crisis under the fallen Assad regime, this essay will examine forms of expression among Syrians about how the architecture of lived spaces reflects the collectivist-oriented nature of the Levantine “Shami” people.  While there are a variety of iconic figures, such as Nizar Qabbani, who historically wrote about Damascus, this piece will instead shed light on those who expressed cultural identity with ties to architecture under the shadow of the recent Syrian crisis during the past 14 years. 

To understand where these forms of expression stem from, we need to examine the type of longing common among the new Syrian diaspora. The type of longing that extends beyond mere aesthetic appreciation or recognition of the historical value of architecture; it reflects a deep-seated connection to our cultural heritage, rituals, and lives. Syrian architect Marwa Al-Sabouni eloquently articulates this sentiment in her book The Battle for Home: “architecture offers a mirror to a community, and in that mirror we can see what is wrong and also find hints as to how to put it right.” ¹ Through this lens, we not only behold the beauty of our architectural legacy but also discern the underlying challenges and injustices that afflict our society. Al-Sabouni is not the only author to reflect upon this idea. Suad Amiry’s memoir My Damascus vividly portrays the significance of a single house in early 1900s Damascus, underscoring the role of architecture—specifically the courtyard house—in shaping the lives of the elite Syrian Baroudi family. This focus on a single house that cannot be revisited encapsulates the deep feelings of  “hiraeth” that permeate the Syrian diaspora. Hiraeth is a Welsh word that lacks a direct English translation. At its root, hiraeth conveys a deep homesickness for a bygone era that can never be fully reclaimed; in Arabic, it would be best described by the phrase “الشوق إلى أماكن ضائعة” which translates to longing to lost places. The word hiraeth is referenced in an interview by Syrian American artist Mohamed Hafez, who expands upon this concept with his work that visually attempts to express what has been lost and stored in the diasporic memory. Since the onset of the protests in Syria in 2011, followed by mass displacement and exile, hiraeth has become a constant feeling in the collective consciousness of Syrians as they hold nostalgia and trauma in their memory.

Photo courtesy of Mohamad Hafez

 Prior to diving deeper, it is important to acknowledge that the described feeling captures a significant aspect of our diasporic experience. However, the feeling of longing for lost places alone cannot fully capture the breadth of our emotions and experiences of diaspora. Syrian-American storyteller, lyricist and poet Omar Offendum, reflecting on his experience at the Shangri La Museum of Islamic Art, Culture & Design, articulates the intricate complexities of emotions evoked by encounters with Syrian architectural heritage at the museum. Offendum shares: 

To be honest I was a little bit hesitant at first about digging deeply into the feelings that are evoked when I walk into some of these spaces, I am so far removed from their original context, [at] the same time there is another layer knowing that a lot of these spaces are just not safe anymore in their original context and so you’re kind of happy that they’re this far away from them [the contexts] but that’s a very difficult thing to wrestle with, specifically Syria and the Syrian rooms here. ²

This expression underscores the complex interplay between destruction and beauty, trauma and utopian nostalgic imaginings. Architecture guides our expression and remembrance; we not only honor our past through it but also share our deep longing for lived moments that shaped us within these places. The architecture of the places we left behind helps us preserve our narratives, and it shapes our living philosophy and values, which are collectivist-oriented and based in communal care.  

For many in the Syrian diaspora, the longing for lost places symbolizes a unity they experienced or remember. However, for over 50 years, the (now fallen) Assad dictatorship damaged this unity. The writings of Yassin Al-Haj Saleh expose the contemporary history of the policies of the Syrian regime that led to the loss of a unified Syrian state and people, as the fallen regime created rifts through aggressive nepotism to divide, instill fear, and maintain control through oppressive sectarianism. Al-Haj Saleh in his book The Impossible Revolution states: “sectarianism does not inevitably stem from inherited cultural differences, since those have always existed in every society, but is rather the outcome of social and political privileges. Sectarianism is essentially a tool for governing and a strategy for control.” ³ The regime has systematically developed methods to divide Syrian society through neglecting certain communities and privileging certain individuals, thus creating isolated communities and ruining the ancient social fabric that was based on collectivist morals of sharing and caring for one another regardless of background, ethnicity, or religion. Unfortunately, the Syria remembered by most has been neglected and physically destroyed, and along with that, the civic belonging of Syrians to Syria has been severed among many, including culturally. Those who stayed in Syria have been forced to abandon their basic moral values to get by and survive, or have resorted to becoming informants for the fallen Assad regime for self-gain.

These systemic actions became ingrained and contributed to dismantling the existing networks of social relations and structures, resulting in the degradation of shared cultural values within the average Syrian human, thus guiding individuals toward morally corrupt actions. The harm of these systemic policies and actions moved in tandem with the destruction of the old historic architecture of cities and their intentional urban planning, which was ruined through decades of neglect and indiscriminate bombing. Al-Sabouni provides a detailed account of the regime’s policies and their impact, particularly on the urban and moral fabric, stating that: “The undoing of the urban fabric has advanced hand in hand with the undoing of the moral fabric. And that is written in frightful scars on the face of Old Homs.” ⁴ These frightful scars etched on the face of the city serve as a poignant reminder of the interconnectedness between physical and moral decay under oppressive regimes. Architecture is culture and, upon closer examination, it becomes apparent that this idea holds true not only for Syria but for many societies worldwide, as suggested by Clifford Geertz: “Culture is the fabric of meaning in terms of which human beings interpret their experience and guide their action; social structure is the form that action takes, the actually existing network of social relations.” ⁵

Photo courtesy of Bayt Al Fann

*

While it’s undeniable that Syrian people, like any society, have their share of beautiful traditions, rituals, and values with all sorts of complex variations, including negative implementations, the last decade for Syria in particular has witnessed a notable disconnection from a collectivist-oriented approach that center communal values of sharing and caring for the collective. Such values that have an intertwined connection with our architecture—specifically to the courtyard houses—which make up the core of what a traditional Syrian home is and serve as a space for co-existence and participation in communal rituals based on values of caring and sharing. Renowned Egyptian architect Abdelwahed El-Wakil famously says, “I always say a house without a courtyard is like a man without a soul. The courtyard is the soul of the house. Not only this, it is the protagonist, because the rooms are built around the court.” ⁶ On a wider scale, this concept is even common in underprivileged rural communities in Syria and smaller homes where many members share one common room for everything and spend many hours of the day in it. The latter statement does not intend to romanticize poverty nor to endorse living underprivileged, but rather to describe that these living spaces in all their variations have a commonality that create a sense of critical closeness where one’s actions and values must adhere to the collective in a space as an everyday living situation. Al-Sabouni’s book underscores the intrinsic connection between the lost collectivist morality and the architectural heritage of Syria. Similarly, Amiry’s semi-fictional memoir provides a transparent portrayal of Syrian society, focusing on the rich architectural tapestry of old Damascus from the late 1800s to the present day. In her narrative, Amiry masterfully intertwines the story of Syrian society with the grandeur of the elite Baroudi family home. From the intricately designed living rooms to the serene sleeping quarters, every aspect of the architecture serves a collective purpose, with each room meticulously crafted to accommodate specific rituals or activities at designated times throughout the week in the family’s life. ⁷ The sociologist Émile Durkheim coined the term “collective effervescence,” which is described as a constant emotional commitment to a group and its moral framework, with rituals serving to uphold and strengthen bonds. ⁸ There is a seamless weaving between architecture, ritual, and communal life in influencing societal values that center on collective identity.

Within these lived spaces, Syrian families confronted a myriad of challenges, be they economic, political, or personal. The courtyard concept of these homes taught generations and served as a vibrant reminder of the shared bonds within Syrian families that translated to the larger society. For in these courtyards, the calls to prayer from mosques mingled harmoniously with the tolling of church bells, underscoring the religious and ethnic diversity of Syria. Amiry’s familial narrative further emphasizes this diversity, with her grandmother being indigenous Palestinian and her grandfather of Turkish descent, with the grandfather’s infidelity within the narrative highlighting the complexity of individual lives against the backdrop of communal coexistence. This collectivist environment inevitably confronts any ill actions sooner or later, as Amiry’s story leads the patriarch of the family to lose his grandeur position within the family. Despite these imperfections, personal struggles, and questionable individual choices, the urban fabric of old Syrian cities genuinely exuded a welcoming generosity, ethno-religious diversity, humbling care, and a confrontational sense of accountability that is nearly inescapable, epitomizing the social cohesion of Syrian society at large for generations. 

But the immense neglect and physical destruction of these places along the societal fabric puts doubt in whether the new free Syria, with its new and varied diasporic community, can reclaim a healthy and thriving society with a collectivist living philosophy. It is a challenge that requires utopian imagings as well as forms of expression and commemoration of the sacrifices and displacement faced by the people. Being trapped solely in past feelings and nostalgic memories poses a danger of getting stuck in an over-glorified past that is removed from the current reality. The work of Mohamed Hafez finds this balance, through his miniature architectural sculptures, which mostly feature homes from Syria. Hafez has showcased his works internationally, using memorabilia, pictures, and audio recordings of people’s lived experiences. Hafez complements the visual intricacy of the sculptures and the stories within them by adding in atmospheric sounds of the places. The artwork is both motivated by the concept of hiraeth or long lost places, and is centered around storytelling that attempts to bridge the beauty of the lost past to the present, but without ignoring or forgetting the scars from modern Syrian history

Hafez’s artistic journey began with his personal experience of loss, which evolved into a profound exploration of the narratives of refugees. The “UNPACKED: Refugee Baggage” project involved the meticulous sculptural recreation of rooms from the communal home environments that refugees (not exclusively Syrian) were forced to flee. Collaborating with Iraqi-born writer and speaker Ahmed Badr, in capturing and editing the real stories of these displaced families, Hafez and Badr approached this project in an ethnographic documentary style, giving a tangible meaning to the visual sculptures. ⁹ Each miniature sculpture in this series is framed by a symbolic suitcase, representing the emotional baggage and memories carried by refugees into their diaspora. Ornate objects are intricately woven into the architectural design of old Syrian homes and serve as visual symbols of cultural heritage and containers of history for entire civilizations.

In Hafez’s artworks, the memories of the recent Syrian diasporic communities (since the protests of 2011) are powerfully brought to life through this audiovisual medium, externalizing nostalgic memory and allowing it to express itself, but without ignoring the painful losses, sacrifices, and destruction in these spaces, which are rendered visible and feel viscerally innate. Each miniature sculpture serves as a snapshot of a forcibly abandoned life, surrounded by the turmoil of army vehicles, cracks, or bullet holes. These evocative representations become reminders and windows into the rich tapestry of heritage, identity, and collectivist-oriented living that centers communal sharing, caring, and confronts us to be accountable for our actions. Across generations, diasporic communities somehow tend to find a shared sense of belonging and understanding, transcending geographical boundaries and trauma to form an imagined community rooted in a complicated past and a cultural nostalgia. 

Photo courtesy of Mohamad Hafez

*

The exploration of the Syrian diasporic memory reveals the rich intertwined nature of architecture’s role in shaping the social/cultural aspects of the Syrian identity. Authors like Marwa Al-Sabouni and Suad Amiry provide invaluable insights into the significance of architecture as a reflection of societal values and communal life. Through their works, we witness how the destruction of physical spaces mirrors the unraveling of moral fabric within Syrian society, exacerbated by the fallen regime’s policies that exploit sectarianism for control, ultimately eroding the social cohesion that once defined Syria. However, underlying this devastation, there are glimpses of a shared consciousness and a resilient preservation of collectivist values that is driven by the utopian and nostalgic imaginings granted by the new Syrian diaspora and the Syrian revolution. The new Syria needs projects like “UNPACKED: Refugee Baggage” that meticulously recreate the environments and narratives of displaced Syrians who sacrificed much and are trying to find the means to reconnect with their roots, bridging the chasm between past and present, exile and belonging, in a Syria liberated from the fallen regime and its corruptions. These artworks become vessels fostering a sense of solidarity and pride in the struggle endured by Syrians dispersed across the globe, attempting to reconnect with their cultural heritage and to work with the local community that remained inside Syria to build a new society inspired by its architectural history and modern struggles. 

Author acknowledgement: While this essay primarily centers on the experiences of the new Syrian diaspora communities, it is imperative to acknowledge the broader historical contexts, including the enduring impacts of colonialism and other catastrophes in Levantine history. Further research could delve into how colonial legacies persistently shape diasporic identities and architectural heritage. Understanding how colonial interventions molded urban landscapes and architectural styles in Syria and the Levant can unveil profound layers of meaning embedded within these spaces. Nevertheless, the subjectivity of collective memory does not diminish the notion that, in the face of complexities, displacement away from our architectural environments brings solace and strength. Hope for a brighter future can be found and expressed in various other forms, such as art and literature, to uphold our sense of belonging to collectivist-oriented moral values. 

Sami Ismat is a Research-Practitioner in Performance & Theatre from Damascus, Syria. Currently, he is an Assistant Professor at Columbia College Chicago. His interdisciplinary artistic practice integrates performance art, devised theatre, documentary techniques, ethnographic research, filmmaking, and choreography. Sami has collaborated internationally as writer, director, creator, performer, collaborator, and consultant on diverse projects spanning major theaters and museums to street performances and unconventional spaces. Additionally, Sami is a semi-professional soccer coach, currently serving with Edgewater Castle FC.

His research explores Syrian identity, diaspora, and Arab representations in performance, including investigations of Islamic art and ritual. Through performance, he examines the dynamics of presentation and representation, particularly concerning war-torn landscapes, trauma, loss, grief, memory, and collective cultural consciousness.

Sami’s publications include several theatrical production reviews in Arab Stages journal, “Deconstructing Myths via Performance Strategies” in Deconstructing the Myths of Islamic Art, anda forthcoming book chapter, “Postcolonial Dramaturgies and Dialogic Practices: Embodied Approaches to Contemporary Theatre Dramaturgy” in Decolonizing Dramaturgy in Global Contexts.

1. Marwa Al-Sabouni, The Battle for Home: The Memoir of a Syrian Architect, (London: Thames & Hudson, 2017).
   ︎
2.  Omar Offendum, Omar Offendum Shangri La Artist-in-Residence, Video, October 9, 2018, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YaFRQZs32x0.
   ︎
3.  Yassin Al-Haj, The Impossible Revolution: Making Sense of the Syrian Tragedy (Chicago: Haymarket Books, 2017). Pg. 23.
   ︎
4.  Al-Sabouni, The Battle for Home. ︎
5.  Clifford Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures, 2000th ed. (New York: Basic Books, 1973). ︎
6. Caravane Earth. 2022. “Documentary: Architect Abdelwahed El-Wakil.” YouTube video, 30:14. Posted November 25, 2022. ︎
7.  Suad Amiry, My Damascus, (Northampton, USA: Olive Branch Press, 2016). Pg. 37. ︎
8.  Émile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, trans. Karen Fields (New York: Free Press, 1995)
   ︎
9.  Mohamed Hafez, Unpacked: Refugee Baggage, 2017, Mixed Media, 2017. ︎

The post Beyond Ruins: Exploring Architectural Nostalgia in Syrian Diasporic Art and the Resilience of Utopian Imaginings appeared first on Mizna.

In this debut poetry publication by Syrian-American mathematician, musician, and writer M. Hakim, I am reminded of the ways grief acts on language in the most intimate details. In our exchange for editing the poem, Hakim described the ways punctuation is governed not by traditional grammar, but by associations of grief: sentences pairing with each other like ghosts to former inhabitations, spectral residues of once-restricted sites like Qasioun, the gifting of an oud, and the speculative resonances between this poem and Nizar Qabbani. With the fall of Assad opening more space for Syrians and the diaspora to return to their land, to tell the stories held hostage by regimes now past, it is with deep reverence that Mizna thanks Hakim for trusting us to publish this stunning poetry debut.

—George Abraham, Editor-at-Large

walls with ears
looking with eyes that aren’t mine
am i the enemy of the enemies of my father? 

—M. Hakim

the tart air from Damascus 

الهواء الرماني من الشام

i have dreamed of Damascus as long as i have dreamed

the rose
the jasmine and ful
 the stone black and white
memories of those who live only in my own memories

silence
walls with ears
looking with eyes that aren’t mine
am i the enemy of the enemies of my father? 

i have dreamed of Damascus as long as i have dreamed
the distorted dreams of exile and longing

will i hear the voices of an angel in the straight street
                                 was she carried away by the Barada when it flowed?
                                                if i sleepwalk up Qasioun
                                                               will she be there with the oud
                                                                                    she doesn’t remember bringing for me?
                                                                                                   will the storyteller start at last without fear?
                                                                                                                        will the cells of my blood become green?

what will you do to me, Damascus?

M. Hakim (b. 1991) is a Syrian-American mathematician and musician from Texas, now based in the northeast.

Cover photo from Wikimedia (Creative Commons)

The post “the tart air from Damascus”—New Syrian Poetry appeared first on Mizna.

In these three poems by academic and poet Mohja Kahf, Syria is written not only as the site of violent abduction and imprisonment but also as a diverse country suffering from Arab and Sunni supremacy.

—Layla Faraj, editorial assistant

If you know anything, tell Maimouna

if you met someone who’s been in prison

and may have seen them, tell Maimouna

You can’t mourn; to mourn is to desert them.

They might still be alive, they are.

—Mohja Kahf, Tell Maimouna

Tell Maimouna

They weren’t on the list 

They weren’t on the list of the dead,

the one released July 2018 

of thirty-seven hundred prisoners killed 

years before, without notice to their families.

Maimouna’s brothers were not on the list— 

Iqbal and Suhaib, early twenties

when they were detained November, 2012 

About yay tall. Thin. Thick brown-black hair.

Lifelong intentional nonviolence gives their faces

a certain innocence

If you know anything, tell Maimouna

if you met someone who’s been in prison

and may have seen them, tell Maimouna  

You can’t mourn; to mourn is to desert them.

They might still be alive, they are. 

Suhaib will need that notebook with the clasp

I’m saving for him. I’m stowing the Racine

volumes; Iqbal will need them when he starts teaching

French literature. Their place is saved.

Lives wide open. Unfinished. 

You keep talking to them in your head, 

bargaining against the gnaw,

against mass graves, 

before the spinner in your brain 

yields to sleep. You banish the thought. Banish it. 

Meanwhile, another round of search.

Some bureaucrat may finally talk. 

Some new prisoner released to ply for information. 

The mind repeats, there could be explanations, there could. 

Mazen spent seventeen years inside, and he came out. 

It happens. It could happen. It’s only 

been six years. Seven now. Nine. Twelve. 

Searching. Grieving. Guilt for grieving. 

Coping with guilt, and the cycle repeats,

a wound that won’t close. Mustn’t close. 

Search with us. Hope for us 

when we no longer dare to hope.

And tell Maimouna.

Bibúre

We Arab Syrians could learn a word or two in Kurdish

Say, “Sere Kaniye,” or “Mem ú Zin,” or “biji Kurdistan”

Kurdish Syrians already speak two tongues of endurance,

long ago decoded a regime 

that fires on funerals and calls it “counter-terrorism,”

long ago learned the difference between a soccer match

and a march for rights on land their ancestors furrowed

Kurds already knew the difference between a protester and a terrorist

before it dawned on Arab Syrians getting shot for shouting “azadi”

at the only protest we dubbed with a Kurdish name

We could learn to say s’pas

We could learn to say bibúre

Hidebound in Diaspora

Slowly, you forget the stone church where your great-

grandmother murmured Aramaic blessings for the Virgin,

and you start to think all Syrians are like

the Sunni Arab ones at your Manchester mosque 

In the Chicago Syrian doctor’s club, 

Black Syrians too poor to emigrate slip from sight

Post-1965 the U.S. filtered you by class, welcomed

your light-skinned college-boy dad, but left behind

Kurdish farmers in Sere Kaniye—which

you think is only called Ras al-Ayn. You overlook

that Assyrians might feel out of place

among your exiled Ikhwanji neighbors

at your corporate compound in Riyad

Living in Mecca, how often do you face-

to-face Yezidi Syrians? You start to imagine

that Alawites have horns, forget

your teen crush on the coastal girl beach-bred

You no longer daily see ‘Uqqal of the Jabal 

born and reborn. Your kids 

and Syrian Turkmen kids 

in diaspora keep separate kitchen-table languages

It slips your mind that Armenians are home in Syria too

Your grandkids mistake singer Omar Souleyman for “khaleeji”

but think Asala “looks Syrian”

Together, you watch Bab al-Hara over fajitas

from the Dallas superstore, and misremember 

a Syria filled only with people like you

Mohja Kahf has been a professor of comparative literature at the University of Arkansas since 1995 in the English Department and the Program in Middle East Studies. Kahf, author of a novel and three poetry books, had been exiled from Syria until December 8, 2024. Kahf is a member of the Syrian Women’s Political Movement, Radius of Arab American Writers, and Syrian Nonviolence Movement. Mohja serves on the board of Canopy Northwest Arkansas, a refugee resettlement agency. 

The post Three Poems by Mohja Kahf appeared first on Mizna.

As we reflect on Syria’s last fifty-three years under the Assad regime and look to the future of the country in the aftermath of it’s fall, Mizna shares two poems from Syrian poet Banah Ghadbian which speak on past moments of joy and present moments of confrontation and reconciliation.

—Layla Faraj, editorial assistant

Banat Ishreh*

I look at the photograph of banat ishreh, the 

secret oud circle my city grandmother held

while my country grandmother tilled the earth

and think “is this me?” Two unseen,

invisible rivers in time reverse, spin

me to into alleyways and low hanging grapevines

in courtyards, where friends smoke clove cigarettes

kiss pomegranates and suck them open

play tableh, fry loqmet al qadi,

drink sweet cold karkadeh in the summer

by the stone fountain 

I transport to the wet, red clay

of the field where a village of women

press seeds into earth

with the power of their holy palms 

and recite “grow, grow, grow.” 

I peer into the dark eyes of a 

woman in the photograph and I know, in my

heart, her hair smells of jasmines 

* Nihad Sirees’s wrote and researched about banat ‘ishreh — women in Aleppo who had intense relationships with each other and who met in music circles where they danced, sang, and socialized.

Sacred

in the Temple of Jupiter,

a young child slips

his fingers into my bag

& steals a wad of money

while I translate for two

released prisoners from Sednaya

doing a street interview with a foreigner.

The prisoners’ eyes hurt from seeing sunlight

for the first time in seven years. My English

is simple & my Arabic is bulky. The gods

stand as judges & interpret

the situation. The child runs away,

money in hand, & I am not angry,

standing in a house of grief.

“The ancient harps of the

temple strike the beat

of a sorrowful song.”

Later, a man brings meals

to the square for the swarm of 

hungry children & in a terrifying

haze, fourteen people

are trampled. The city is

filled with blood. 

 Dr. Banah el Ghadbanah teaches Comparative Women’s Studies at Spelman College. They are the author of La Syrena: Visions of a Syrian Mermaid from Space, which the Independent Book Review called one of the best books of 2023. They are published in Afghan Punk Magazine, Poetry Northwest, the Women’s Review of Books, and more. 

The post Two Poems by Banah el Ghadbanah appeared first on Mizna.

Raindrops by Mazen Halabi originally appeared in Mizna issue 8.1, in the summer of 2006. In 2025 his work remains one of the numbered works written by or about Syrians to be published by Mizna. While Halabi’s story was first published before the Syrian revolution of 2011 against the Assad regime, and is now running in the aftermath of its fall, his work remains relevant and insightful. Raindrops is a story about youth: its sarcastic and playful moments, as well as the aberrant and painful lessons learned when growing up under a violent regime.

There are two main conditions to storytelling: necessity and safety. We at Mizna hope that 2025 will be the year of safety and storytelling for the Syrian community in all its religions, ethnicities, generations, and identities. We start this hope with Halabi’s story, and extend our hope to all Syrians whose stories are surfacing after decades of extreme violence, censorship, and fear.

—Layla Faraj, editorial assistant

Thunder drummed in jubilation as our tires tangoed with the city’s cobblestones, and we rode like Khalid and Abu Obiedah, banging on the city’s gates, claiming Damascus as our own. We were her boys, and she gently embraced us, pulling the cover of rain over to protect us. Our clothes, drenched and heavy with rain, clung tightly. We were soaked to the last inch of our bodies. We wore soft, innocent smiles. Not a word was uttered.

—Mazen Halabi

RAINDROPS

A winter storm blanketed Minneapolis over the weekend. It painted the city, decorated the trees, and greased the roads. It promised a pretty hectic rush hour come Monday morning. I knew I had to be in the office early, so I left the house earlier than usual. I avoided the main highway and took the city’s side streets. The drive was slow, slippery, but I moved along. I usually spend my commute speeding through the four-lane highway, going through my list of phone calls and mentally recounting my appointments; but that morning I got to see the city waking up, driveways getting shoveled, delivery trucks following their routes, and parents bundling their children up before jettisoning them off to school. Stopped at a traffic light, I noticed a teenager throw a snowball at a friend’s window, yelling for him to come out: “Mikey . . . Mikey . . .” A boy raised the window on the second floor of the English Tudor, poked his head out, and in a half-whisper, so as not to not wake up the rest of the family, answered, “I’m coming.”

These children, painted on a canvas of snow, brought me back to Khaldoun, a boy I met my first year of high school in Damascus. Khaldoun used to come by our tile store every day before school. He would rest his foot on the sidewalk, ring his bike bell a few times till he got my attention, and then tap his watch with his two fingers as he mouthed from a distance, We’re late. I would usually finish up the order with the customer, grab my satchel, and kiss my dad’s hand as he patted my head and murmured, “Allah yerda ‘aleik, God bless you. Come after school—we’re busy tonight.” Then I would jump on my bike, and we would zigzag our way through the dusty city alleys to get to school on the other side of town.

Our school was on the rich north side of town. An old building, like most in Damascus, it embodied history in its columns. It was a boys’ school with a good reputation. Most of the students had to have some kind of waasta, or connection—know somebody high in the government—to be able to get into the school. Khaldoun and I knew the custodian, Abu Mahmoud, an old guy from our neighborhood who told us how to get in. On the day that we filled out our admission applications, he told us to use the address of the apartment in the building across the street instead of our own. This way we would fall within the school district, and they would have to admit us. It wouldn’t matter for any correspondence between the school and our parents. Postal services are not just slow in Damascus—mail is never delivered.

Abu Mahmoud, it turned out, had let too many kids in on his nifty little secret. On the first day of school, the principal called us in. We piled into his office, fifteen of us, not knowing what we had done but knowing we were in trouble. Mr. Khateeb, a short brainiac with big glasses and wild hair, was angry. He was wearing an old wrinkled suit that had seen its best days. His pants were yanked up mid-waist, packing their contents to the side like Mount Ararat. Khaldoun, standing next to me, murmured, “Ouch, if that’s how he treats his own boys, imagine what he’ll do to you.” “Shut the hell up, you little jackasses!” yelled Mr. Khateeb. “Come in here. Fifteen of you living in the same goddamn house . . . fifteen of you! Either your mother is the biggest sharmouta on the face of the earth, having fifteen kids with different last names, or that is one fucking giant apartment. What the hell am I going to do with you now? School’s already started and no one will take your little dumb asses. You’re gonna stay in this school, but I swear to God if I hear one peep out of any you, I’ll send you right back to the goddamn rat hole that you came from. Now get the hell out of my face.” Never having heard language like that, we shuffled our feet nervously as we walked out, breathing a sigh of relief upon reaching the safety of the halls. Khaldoun, with a half-smile, said facetiously, “Welcome to the big league, boys. This is going to be a great year.” Houssam, a short, hyper little kid who was walking ahead of us, turned around and, trying to sound bigger than he was, exclaimed, “Did you see the unit on that guy?” Samer, from behind us with a high-pitched voice piped in, “Why were you looking at his penis, you little faggot?” Houssam, with a gleam in his eye, replied, “At least I have a penis, ya khrenta, you little eunuch. What, do you use a magnifying glass and tweezers every time you have to pee?” Samer lunged at him with arms flailing and for the most part missing their target. Khaldoun and I had to separate them, grabbing each as they were trying to claim a little turf in the new school. From that moment on, the four of us were best friends.

We all had similar backgrounds. We were from large, poor, religious families. Khaldoun and I went to mosques on opposite sides of our neighborhood. Samer was a hafiz (someone who memorized the Qur’an), and Houssam was an altar boy at the Assyrian church. We were boys walking sheepishly through the gates of manhood. We spent lots of time together and we had opinions about any and everything—girls, sports, politics, money, poetry, UFOs (in that order); we knew it all. During recess we usually stopped at Abu Mahmoud, who in addition to performing his custodial duties also operated a concession stand. We would pick up sandwiches and tea before playing our latest pranks or choosing our next argument.

Abu Mahmoud sold all kinds of wrapped sandwiches that he had made, but he never labeled them, so you never knew what you might get. Yet he would always ask with the most pleasant demeanor “What you would like?” just before reaching over to the basket next to him and handing you the closest mystery. As soon as the kids got their sandwiches, a Wall Street–style bazaar began and the trading proceeded quickly and furiously. Loud shouts were fired out: “Lebaneh!” “Zaatar!” “Jubneh!” “Falafel!” Lebaneh was the blue chip of sandwiches—you could trade that for anything. Every once in a while some unsuspecting freshman went back to Abu Mahmoud for an exchange. Not only would this bring the whole operation to a screeching halt and shut down the trading floor, but Abu Mahmoud would hand it to the young guy and calmly say, “Shouf wela hmaar, listen, you little jackass, I’ve had it up to here with your shit. These are the best goddamn zaatar on God’s green earth—you’re lucky you’re getting one today. So take your sandwich and get the hell out of my face.” The kid would usually walk away perplexed, as the trading resumed behind him.

At the end of the school day, Khaldoun and I would usually ride our bikes home together, slowing down by the girls’ school and then traversing the old city’s alleys, picking fruit from trees that spilled over courtyard walls—blackberries, figs, apricots, nanerj, akee dunia. Our conversations would vacillate between the topics of adolescence and those of adulthood, from crude jokes to theological discussions of Ghazali. Khaldoun was witty and extremely intelligent. One day as we left school, the sky started to pour. Never had the parched ground below seen such a hard rain. Kids scattered in all directions, trying to prevent the rain from drenching their pressed school uniforms. Khaldoun and I stood there for a few minutes with our tongues hanging out, trying to catch a few drops. Abu Mahmoud yelled at us to go home as he locked the school gates behind us. The streets were amazingly empty—no cars, no people—as if the rain had just washed everything aside to watch us ride. We got on our bikes, school bags tied behind us, looked at each other, smiled, and rode through the city as slowly as we could possibly pedal. As if in an initiation ritual, Mother Nature ordained us. The rain washed our faces with holy water as other drops crashed and rejoiced in celebration. Thunder drummed in jubilation as our tires tangoed with the city’s cobblestones, and we rode like Khalid and Abu Obiedah, banging on the city’s gates, claiming Damascus as our own. We were her boys, and she gently embraced us, pulling the cover of rain over to protect us. Our clothes, drenched and heavy with rain, clung tightly. We were soaked to the last inch of our bodies. We wore soft, innocent smiles. Not a word was uttered.

Our regular stops by the girls’ high school finally paid off. Khaldoun met a girl whom he quickly fell in love with. Zainab was simply gorgeous. She had long, dark hair that she always adorned with a red ribbon. Her big black eyes would sparkle as she smiled, radiating her whole face, like sunlight reflecting off peaceful waters. She was the only person I knew who was smarter than Khaldoun. She had read books we had never heard of, and she would recite poetry by the qaseedeh (the entire poem), providing us the slightest bit of comfort as she breathed the famous lines that were familiar to us. And she loved Khaldoun more than anything. Her eyes would nervously scan the crowd when school was out, and she would light up with a huge smile when she spotted him. She would wave and mouth the words I’ll see you on the other side. There were so many boys waiting for girls that Mrs. Edelbi, the principal of Zainab’s school, banned the boys from waiting by the entrance.

The boys got a whiff of the love story, and they teased Khaldoun mercilessly. And when I told them she was not only beautiful and smart but also a Communist, the chant went around school about the brother dating the comrade. Samer had the school band play the chant to the tune of a famous song before the weekly national anthem recital. The topic of Zainab took over our conversations. “You know what my cousin in Kuwait told me?” Houssam asked us rhetorically, citing his most commonly referenced source. “That Communist girls wear red panties!” He crossed his arms and nodded his head decisively as he said that, indicating that this was as airtight a fact as you were gonna get. We had questioned Houssam every previous time he cited his infamous cousin, but this time it didn’t really matter. To us it was a fact. Besides, you put four boys and an image of red panties together and amazing things happen. We got quiet, our jaws went slack, and you could almost hear the sound of our brains churning, creating fantasies and processing images faster than a Cray supercomputer. The only thing that brought us back to earth was the sound of Mr. Khateeb yelling his usual “Ya tyoos, mules, get your asses in the classrooms before I make drums out of them!” We all walked to our chemistry class, our minds still aglow with shades of red. Samer, in his usual high-pitched voice, was the first to speak, half an hour into the chemistry session. “You know what, I’ll just have to marry me a Commie.” We all nodded in unison as we returned to our now slightly altered fantasies, while a subconscious “yep” dripped from our lips. I don’t remember a word Mr. Saboni said that entire hour.

That year was tough on the city. The oppositional Islamist movements were putting pressure on the dictatorial government, and the government responded without mercy. Political arrests, disappearances, midnight raids, and gunfights became as common as the issuance of parking tickets. A lot of the opposition came from our neighborhood and there wasn’t a household that didn’t have a missing or arrested member. Khaldoun and I couldn’t avoid the activities around us. We started reading outlawed books and listening to contraband music. And our conversation during our daily bike ride became more passionate, more serious, older.

One day near the end of the school year, Khaldoun missed a couple of days of school. Assuming he was sick, I called his house to give him the class notes and tell him about the chemistry exam. His mother answered and, in a choked-up voice, told me that he had been arrested by the secret police. Not knowing what to say, I just hung up. The boys had plenty to say when they heard the news. They were curious at first about his confinement. How long would they keep him and what would they do to him? We all knew what they did to political prisoners and we had to deal with those thoughts somehow. “You know, they’re going to beat him so hard on his feet, those size-11 shoes that he got from his brother will finally be a perfect fit,” whispered Samer, only half-jokingly. Growing louder and bolder, he continued, “And what about all the electricity up his ass—he’ll have a permanent fucking boner. We’re all gonna wish we got arrested when we’re thirty, fucking old and can’t get it up no more.” We all laughed, the tension softened. Then we got quiet when Houssam said, “God help his mother.” We thought of her, awake in the middle of the night, when the world is asleep, except her and maybe her boy, in her white prayer clothes, with wilted eyes, calling on God to protect her child, in a soft whisper, “Elahi.” The class bell rang piercingly loud, jolting us back to our present situation. Houssam wiped his eyes and said, “At least he doesn’t have to take this fucking chemistry test.”

Zainab would stop by our store every day after his arrest. She would stand just outside the door for a few minutes, hesitating, wanting to hear the best news, but afraid of another crushing disappointment. I would come out and shake my head—not a word. Her face would turn red, her eyes tear up, her shoulders drop, and she would tuck her hair behind her ear and walk away. Two months went by and Khaldoun hadn’t shown up. Zainab stopped by the store that day, angry and agitated. I came out. “Did you hear anything?” she pleaded. “No,” I muttered to the floor. “What the hell do they want from him? He is a young boy!” she yelled, alarming the customers. My older brother came out, turned to her and said firmly, coldly, gently, “Zainab, listen to me . . .” He paused a moment, then, with steady eyes, “He’s never coming back.” Her body shook, her hands trembled, her soft face turned red with an expression of disbelief, anger, and resignation all at once, like an innocent standing before the noose. She bit her lip, wiped a tear, pushed her hair back, and walked away. That was the last time I saw Zainab.

The years went by. We finished high school and went our separate ways. Samer took over his dad’s shop in the city’s old spice market. Houssam eventually moved to Kuwait, teamed up with his cousin and started a software company. I moved to the States. Zainab joined the resistance in southern Lebanon and was killed during the Israeli invasion. She had asked to be buried in the old cemetery in our neighborhood. Her grave is easily identified. It has a tombstone with no name, no date, nor religious inscriptions. It is simply wrapped with a red ribbon and marked with the words I’ll see you on the other side.

It had been a long day at work. I left the office thinking about the items that I needed to pick up for my wife; we were having company over that evening. I pulled into the garage. My son was outside throwing snowballs at his friends. He ran to help me with the bags. I kissed him. He told me that he had done his homework and asked if he could see a movie. “Allah yerda ‘aleik, come home right after the movie. We have company tonight,” I told him. I walked in the house. My wife asked from the top of the stairs if I had picked up the Brie and the pomegranate juice. I told her that I had. I took off my jacket, threw my keys on the table, and picked up the mail and the few faxes that we had received.

That afternoon, a man with a soft, scraggly beard and sunken eyes, holding his hands close to his chest, walked into our family store in Damascus. He was looking around in bewilderment, inspecting the tiles, the columns, the door. My younger brother, who was now running the store, looked at him suspiciously and asked if he could help him. “You used to have a counter over here, with a phone and a leather pad,” the man whispered, mostly to himself. “We took that out more than seventeen years ago,” my brother said. The man continued in a soft, nostalgic voice, “And you used to have a table with a big chair that your dad sat in.” My brother, with a smile, said, “The chair wasn’t that big. We took it out when we redecorated the store, more than ten years ago, after my dad passed away. Did you know my dad?” my brother asked gently. “No . . . I mean, I did, but I was a friend of your brother.” My brother had heard the story of Khaldoun from me, so he knew right away who he was. He shook his hand, asked him to sit down, and offered him some tea. Khaldoun sat down, still looking around, trying to process the images and match them to what had been with him all these years. His hands trembled a little, his hair had receded. He was old. My brother asked how he was doing. He said he was OK. They had released him two days ago, nineteen years after his arrest. Things had changed a lot and he was trying to find his way around town. The government had destroyed his family’s house when they put a six-lane highway in the middle of our neighborhood in an attempt to break up the opposition. His mother had passed away never having seen him again. He asked about me, and my brother told him that I had moved to the States and that I had a family there. He asked if he could write me. My brother told him that he was sure I would love to hear from him, and that he could send me a fax if he would like. He gave Khaldoun a pen and a piece of paper. Khaldoun scribbled a few words, and he looked at the paper for a second or two before handing it to my brother, who promptly sent it to me. Khaldoun finished his tea, thanked my brother, and walked out, gently, curiously, purposefully, trying to claim our city again.

I rifled through the mail, the bills and the offers for zero-interest credit cards and mortgage refinancing. Then I came upon the fax with the few Arabic words scribbled on it. My wife called for me to help set the table. “I’ll be there in a minute,” I said, eyes fixed. I sat down on the steps and read the words in disbelief: 

My Dearest Akhi, 
I hope this letter finds you well
Like Job I endured and like Jonah I was reborn,
the though of raindrops eased the journey.
See you again soon, my brother.
Khaldoun

My heart raced, my hands trembled. I was at once happy, angry, and sad. I imagined the boys’ reactions—jubilant, yet subdued: “Ya sharmoot, you didn’t miss much—it’s the same old fucking town . . . How is that boner? . . . Lucky bastard, you didn’t have to take any of the chemistry finals . . .” And then I thought of his mother—old, gray, with the white prayer head cover: “Waladi, my little boy . . . Thank you, God. You finally heard my prayers . . . are you hungry, habibi?” And the soft whisper to God: “Elahi.”

The next morning I drove to work. When I got to the highway ramp, the cars were lined up, inching forward as the metered light turned green. I pushed in one of the contraband tapes that Khaldoun and I used to listen to—I had spent hours the night before looking for it in old boxes. The cars inched up a little. The sound of the angry poet on the tape erased the silence, but the words were not as sharp as they used to be, the years like rain having softened the edges of those large boulders. The light turned green; we inched forward a little more. “In Kuwait, my cousin told me, there are no ramps. You get your own highway from your house to your office… But in Kuwait there are no Damascene berries and no jasmine.” The bike bell rang. The light turned green. I looked up. He smiled, tapped his watch with his two fingers, and mouthed, You’re late. I pushed on the gas pedal and sped off onto the freeway, surrounded by sounds and images that seemed to ease this journey.

Mazen Halabi, a Syrian-American and community activist, left Syria following the Hama massacre in which more than 40,000 people were killed by the then President, Hafez Assad. He has worked with multiple civil society organizations during the Arab Spring and the Syrian revolution. He holds advanced degrees in computer science and business, and works in the IT industry.

The post RAINDROPS appeared first on Mizna.