When I first arrived here, I was still in a bit of a shock. I never grew up very religious, both my parents are agnostics. However, I did grow up in a Middle Eastern fashion, so sex was a big NO. 

I remember my first year here, I met a Colombian boy named Esteban who was very vocal about his sex life. In the first couple months that we met, he had already slept with half our classmates (in my french government classes). I think he was my first encounter with “sex” in such an open way. I never really had any sexual desires up until that point. In some way, I think I skipped my teenage years because of my family situation. 

So, he sort of invited me to the opposite side of my culture. I remember not liking him at all, not being attracted to him sexually. But something in me wanted to have sex, just to boast to him about it. 

I remember him telling me that “with an ass and boobs like your’s, you can get any guy to sleep with you.” It’s not a compliment in the slightest, but to 19-year-old sheltered me, it was. Before encountering him, I had never thought of myself as a desirable being. Sexual interactions never crossed my mind. It might’ve been partly because I had been sexually assaulted as a child, but still, I wondered if I was living life wrong.

The pathetic thing is that I never even had someone crush on me. I don’t know the feeling of being wanted or desired. Not even my friendships revolved around a loving connection. I was the backup. 

Can you believe I spent four years in Lebanon without anyone knowing about me? They didn’t even know that I liked Anime, hardcore rap or even that I’ve been lifting weights since I was 13😅 It’s odd to think about it now, how those “friends” were so sure they knew me. 

In 2011, after the Syrian war, my family fled to Lebanon because we were threatened to be killed. In 2015, my father was lost at sea trying to escape to Sweden. In 2016, I emailed 16 churches pleading for help. In 2017, I left. And I received several messages asking me about my sudden change in life, to which I would reply “my family and I have worked towards this for over 5 years.” 

People always judged me for my background. My mother was a Palestinian refugee who grew up in a tent, my father was a Syrian farmer who grew up going to bed on an empty stomach, and I was the result of the two. To other, I was “dumb”. I had to be. “Talentless”.

Sometimes those memories creep into my mind and I struggle to accept them as truth. How could I have let others treat me like that? Did I not deserve someone to check up on me? Was I not worth loving? 

Even when people used to see my self harm scars, the blame was always on me. “Stop doing it or else I won’t talk to you again.” Who says that to a person who’s only relief in life is harming themselves. 

I used to feel like crap most days. No one knew, and even if they did, what could they have done? My mother was too busy for me. I was too busy for me, so why should they care? 

I don’t blame them at all, I blame myself for sticking around. 

In 2015, a year after I moved to Lebanon, my 16-year-old cousin passed away in a bombing near his school. It was the biggest tragedy among my family. And I wasn’t allowed to mourn his death. I remember my mother telling me to “suck it up” and not tell anyone about it. The next day, I confined with my friend about the tragedy, and she abandoned me the entire day because I was too depressed. 

My God, I get so angry remembering these instances. Angry at God, was I not worthy of love? Of care? Of attention? 

Why did I have to deal with grief alone. 

For the next few months, I kept dreaming of my cousin. He would be standing in a garden of white flowers, calf-length grass, and a clear sky above him. Every time, he would assure me that he’s okay. And I prayed for him as much as one can, yet his image kept lingering at the back of every dream. It took me a while to accept his death, not only because we grew up together, but because I kept wondering why did God choose to save me and not him. Why am I still alive when half my family is buried beneath ruins? 

In 2015, a year after I relocated to Lebanon, my 16-year-old cousin tragically lost his life in a bombing near his school. This devastating event was a significant tragedy within my family. However, I found myself unable to mourn his passing openly. I vividly recall my mother urging me to “hold it together” and keep it to myself. She refused to talk about it, and she forced my brother and I to attend school the next day.

The following day, when I sought solace in confiding with my friend about the tragedy, she abandoned me throughout the entire day due to my overwhelming grief.

Reflecting on these instances, a surge of anger rises within me. I feel anger directed towards God, questioning whether I was undeserving of love, care, and attention. Why was I left to bear the weight of grief alone?

In the following months, my dreams were filled with visions of my cousin. In these dreams, he would stand amidst a garden of white flowers, surrounded by grass that grazed his calves, beneath a clear sky. Each time, he would assure me that he was alright. Despite my fervent prayers on his behalf, his image persisted in the recesses of every dream. Accepting his death proved to be a gradual process for me, not only because we had grown up together, but because I incessantly wondered why God had chosen to spare me and not him. Why do I remain among the living while a significant portion of my family rests beneath the rubble?