The sun shines on the humble streets of Saint-Henri. Voices overlap, and everyone attempts to wiggle themselves around the mass of people waiting to enter one of the most loved cafés in Saint-Henri, Rustique. “The line is too long, do you want to try another place?” a woman says to the man next to her, perhaps her husband or acquaintance. “But I’m in the mood for pies; let’s just wait a little,” he replies and she sighs in agreement. The line is indeed long, for warm weekends are scarce as we approach Montréal’s harsh winters.

The conversations are meek and relaxed. Simple phrases of “how’s work?” and “where did you buy that shirt?” with the occasional discussion of the weather. People pass like shadows, drifting by in an endless stream. Unlike their usual hurry to get somewhere, their pace is slow. Everyone gives out smiles so easily that it catches me off guard. I remember my grandmother telling me to walk with my head facing the ground, talk to no one. But here I am, receiving smiles and greetings even from the man sitting on the steps, layered in murky clothing.

 At each corner of every street sits a homeless man, not begging for money, just observing. On rare occasions, a lady or a gentleman wearing expensive jewellery sits next to him as they wait for a friend or finish a call.

We finally enter Rustique, and the girl behind the counter welcomes us warmly. The café is small enough that you feel you are sharing a conversation with the people next to you. I notice different faces and languages, and I marvel at the diversity. A young man enters while on the phone. I recognize my mother tongue immediately and excitedly tell my friend that he’s speaking Arabic. “I never would have thought that hearing Arabic could move me this much.”   

Whenever I go to places like this, I can’t help but awe at the simplicity in these minutes. The conversations are light enough for you to join in and make a joke that provokes a group laughter. Some begin to introduce themselves to others and some decide that a smile is sufficient. This evening with my friend in Rustique captures my idea of Montréal. As someone who has lived part of her life amid the chaos of war, such serene moments seemed too far away to return to. I lean back into my chair and travel into the past, remembering the times I spent with my family in a café like this. We always used to ask for a table for ten that overlooked the Mediterranean Sea. The waiter would remark on how many we were, and one of my uncles would reply “We’re even more, I can call them if you want,” which would make him laugh, shaking his head.

These moments are so long gone, I fear they might never return. I find that I hold on to bad memories and let go of the good ones too easily. The years I spent as a “Syrian refugee” in Lebanon diluted my identity. I had learned to say reluctantly the word “Syrian” and associate it with “refugee”. People constantly ask me about my homeland, but I can’t remember anything other than school bombings and terrorist attacks. Every story I tell is accompanied with cries and dim flashbacks. Each memory I have is labelled as “traumatic” by professionals, and I wonder where I have hidden the decent ones. The stories I write are not appealing, but I try to colour them in bright pink, pour some glitter on them, perhaps I can find beauty in them.

For the longest time, I believed that only grief existed in me, that my identity was meant to be secreted. I believed that every story I told had to reflect the war, and every song I sang had to be gloomy. However, I am learning that maybe suffering was not born with me. I am realizing that happiness can exist in different places, that I can create new memories and rebuild the old ones piece by piece through reliving the good times here in Montréal.

As the sun begins to set, Rustique, along with the other cafés and restaurants, prepares for closing and the customers empty out. My friend and I decide to walk around the neighbourhood. The further we go, the grimmer the buildings. Graffiti covers the walls; some are incredible works of art, and some are angry messages with unknown purposes. The voices fade and utter silence hovers over the residential duplexes. Convinced that we have reached another part of the city, I ask my friend if we have lost our way, but she assures me that we haven’t.  

Some streets are empty except for a couple of drunk men stumbling, either cussing or kicking random mailboxes. The buildings have a soul of their own. They follow you through the neighbourhood, or perhaps they guide you. Around the corner, children are still running, chasing each other as they slip on mud puddles. These kids are so familiar: I see myself playing with them while my mother shouts at me not to get my clothes all dirty.

Part of me does not want to leave Saint-Henri; the walls and roughed up streets remind me of Damascus. My city did not sleep, crammed with people shopping or enjoying a quick meal. I still remember the morning trips to the bakery to buy fresh bread, the road that led to my aunt’s house, and the old lady who sold candy across the street. I can smell the aroma of coffee and hear my mother call for the neighbour to come over. I remember the swings and slides during Eid and little girls showing off their new dresses. I will never forget the night lights and shops which opened till dawn. My hometown had it all. Its soul touched everyone and its heart never stopped beating.

It amazes me how similar the neighbourhoods could be even continents apart. As we reach the end of our walk, I see my house back in Damascus clearly enough to touch its walls and chuckle at the absurd writings. I truly relax for the first time since arriving in Montréal, and happiness finally returns into my life. Not all of it, just bits, but it’s enough.

 When you abruptly leave your home, places become just places, never home. Memories become your only connection to your identity, your only means of travelling back to a country burdened by war. Moving between places, I had forgotten where I belong. At some point in my life, I believed that I was born to be a refugee, lost and abandoned. I now accept that parts of me exist everywhere. Fragments of my identity are still dispersed on the corner of my childhood streets, splattered on the walls of my old house, trying to belong to a past that does not belong to me anymore. While other fragments follow the wind searching for a new home. I have decided to stop chasing my identity and allow it to travel freely, breathing in different cities.

It takes time to fit into a new place, and the past will never stop tugging at my arm trying to convince me to go back to a damaged home. However, visiting Saint-Henri gives me a sense of belonging that I can hold on to. I now know that home follows me wherever I go, and, like me, it can exist in two cities.