We go through life believing that we only have one start; one vacant piece of paper to print our steps on. We’re born once and our record fills up with experiences the instant we take our first breathe. We don’t get another chance to revise our stories, but sometimes we do. From the second we open our eyes, everything is already selected for us, even our mortalities. I used to think that I couldn’t control how my narrative played out. As if the ending had been decided, the minute my father wrote my name in Arabic letters next to the dreadful word identifying me as “Syrian.” However, through the years, I’ve come to realize that perhaps I’m the writer not the reader. What if I can alter what’s been chosen for me? What if I can rewrite my destiny?

The phrase “Life has ups and downs” used to sound vague to me. I recognized that we might have decent days and horrible ones, but I never grasped the notion of going from one extreme to the other so abruptly. Life has revealed both extremes to me. It presented me a big family, who some are now buried beneath ruins. It provided a country, which is currently fighting an endless war. It gave me a home that no longer serves as one. At some point, I resented this existence, I wanted to bellow at it; wail beneath its feet and plead for time to go back. Now I understand that it was preparing me. It was killing something for something new to be born, and change can be frightful sometimes.

I have witnessed the good and the bad, and I’ve seen the ups and downs of life. I’ve met with death and worshipped it and I’ve felt terror. I’ve shed oceans of my own and I’ve watched my mother lose her grip on reality. I’ve prayed to all the gods, and I’ve written as much as my hands could write. I have screamed so loud that the clouds trembled at my voice. I’ve spoken with both the sun and the moon, and I’ve befriended the beast inside my head. Life guided me through it all.

As a child, I was always aware of what was around me, but children idolize things. We see the good in everything and when our “good” reveals its fangs ready to devour us we get traumatized. How could my perfect country fall apart?

Once I asked my dad: “What is the safest place to live in?” We were in the car, and as the deafening sound of bombs and gunshots overlapped our voices, he confidently answered: “Nothing is safer than home. Syria is our home, and no one will hurt us here.” I remember telling him that I wanted to stay in Syria forever. I had much love towards this majestic country. I read books bigger than myself, containing the seven hundred thousand years of history and culture put into this land.

I still remember the morning trips to the bakery to buy fresh bread. I will never forget the road that leads to my aunt’s house, and the lady who sold candy across the street; she would always give me free gum. I miss family nights every weekend. My cousins running around, my uncles cracking jokes, and the laughter that filled the place. I can sometimes smell the aroma of the coffee from the neighbour. I remember the image of swings and slides during Eid and little girls showing off their new dresses. I don’t think I will forget the night lights and midnight shops which opened until dawn. My city had it all. It didn’t sleep; its soul touched every person who stepped on it and its heart never stopped beating.

This story is just like any other story. The only difference is that this story has a voice; it wants to speak. This story won’t be put away until someone decides it’s good enough. It’s angry and it wants to shout at the world. It wants to be heard. It needs to be heard. This story belongs to me, to my family and to my country.

Years later, I’m fulfilling my promise to my country. I’m speaking up, and my voice couldn’t be gruffer. I tell my Syria to rest now, the world will know its name and remember its history. I tell it that my voice will reach every continent and every living thing.

This is a promise to my country, it’s a promise to me too. These words hold years of struggles. With every line, I write a story that is hard to read. A story that you would rather not believe but is still happening.

This is our rebirth.