Amidst shattered homes and echoes of muffled gunfire, life as a Syrian refugee was an unending cycle of resilience and despair. Death, once a distant spectre, has now woven its sombre threads into the fabric of our existence. It was as though we had become accustomed to its chilling embrace, always lurking in the shadows, a constant companion.
The walls bore witness to the stories of those who had fled, etched in the lines of weary faces. Each dawn carried a weighty anticipation, a tremor of apprehension for what the day might bring. The morning sun couldn’t pierce through the cloud of uncertainty that hung in the air.
We huddled together, sharing tales of survival and dreams of a life reclaimed. Laughter, once a refuge from hardships, has found its place alongside sorrow, creating a bittersweet melody that echoed within the confines of our temporary haven. We recounted the memories of loved ones, remembering their smiles as a fragile anchor to the past.
Every knock on the door or distant rumble ignited a whirlwind of emotions—hope and dread dancing an intricate tango. The connection to the outside world transmitted both stories of courage and tragedies untold. With each passing day, we were bracing ourselves for another piece of devastating news, the kind that leaves scars on the heart that no time can fully heal.
The simple act of “moving on,” of nurturing life in the face of death’s omnipresence, becomes a defiance. We learned to uncover solace in the bonds we forged, drawing prospect from the unspoken understanding that we were all travellers on this arduous journey.
And so, as the dates blended into nights and the seasons shifted with an indifferent grace, we found ourselves weaving a mosaic of survival, each thread bearing the weight of our collective experiences. Death may have become a constant companion, but in its chilling shadow, we discovered an unwavering resolve to cherish the moments of joy. We celebrate the resilience of the human spirit, holding on to the hope that our shattered lives might be mended. One day, the whispers of a new beginning will replace the echoes of gunfire.
In the quiet corridors of mind, I stumbled upon a bittersweet note—the news of my childhood friends passing in the aftermath of a school bombing. Time stood still, as if the very air around me had frozen in disbelief, unable to comprehend this shattering revelation.
The walls of our shared past suddenly felt like fragile glass, threatening to fracture under the memories we had built together. Those hazy afternoons spent chasing dreams through sunlit fields, the innocent secrets whispered under the blanket fort, and the countless adventures etched in the sands, all seemed to gather in mournful assembly.
I found myself caught in a tempest of emotions. Anguish, anger, and a profound sense of loss tangled, a sorrow that enveloped my heart. How could a place of love transform into a scene of unfathomable devastation? It was as if the very foundations of childhood had been rocked, leaving behind an irreparable chasm.
As the soft glow of candle flickers, I find myself seated on the familiar expanse of my bedroom floor. A lighter rest between my fingers, its small flame dancing hypnotically before I draw a gentle breath. It’s a ritual, one I’ve carried out yearly on this sombre occasion—the eighth anniversary of your passing. Time has flowed steadily, yet it’s as if a part of me remains suspended in those heart-wrenching moments.
At 24 years old, I stand at the crossroads of youth and adulthood, a juncture I never thought I’d reach without you by my side. Life’s journey has led me to Canada, a land of new beginnings and fresh horizons. The irony isn’t lost on me—I’ve “made” it here, achieved milestones that were once distant dreams. And yet, the void you left behind still casts a shadow, a persistent reminder that some wounds remain hidden even amidst apparent success.
As the calendar marks the eighth anniversary of that fateful call, the memory resurfaces with a pang of raw emotion. Your mother’s anguished voice reverberates in the recesses of my mind, a haunting echo that unfolded in our very living room. I remember needing to ask her three times, as if by repeating the words, their stark reality might dissipate into the ether.
“He died, at 16. . .”
The weight of those words rests heavily on my heart, a testament to the fragility of life and the arbitrary nature of fate. Sixteen, an age that should have been brimming with youthful exuberance and boundless potential, now forever etched in the annals of memory as a moment that was stolen away.
The flames I conjure and extinguish, much like the passing years, represent the delicate balance between life and existence. In this quiet act of remembrance, I find a way to bridge the gap between the world we once shared and the one I now navigate alone. The candle’s glow becomes a beacon, illuminating the path we walked together.
On the eighth year anniversary of your passing, I offer a silent prayer to the universe. May your spirit find peace in the cosmos, while I continue to carry your memory as a torch through the uncharted territories of life. Though the flames may waver, the bond we forged remains unbroken, a testament to a friendship that time can’t erase.
Tonight, I find myself grappling with the complexities of a challenging chapter. The news of another childhood friend’s passing, a name now erased from my contacts, weighs heavily on my heart. With each life that departs, the list of those to embrace upon my eventual return grows shorter. And yet, as their earthly presence fades, their memory becomes a constant stature, a reminder etched into my daily prayers.
I ponder the enigmatic choices that God makes. The divine hand that decides who will be allowed to stay, to endure, and who will be called to evacuate. These questions echo in the quiet chambers of my mind, as I seek to understand the mysterious dance of existence.
Why was I spared, left standing after loss? Each breath I draw seems imbued with an expectation, a sense of purpose. How do I continue to inhale the very essence of life when the air feels heavy with the unspoken burdens that accompany survival?
In this poignant moment, surrounded by the flickering light of the candle and the weight of my thoughts, I acknowledge the delicate balance of existence. As I meditate on the tapestry of God’s choices, I’m reminded that life’s intricate design weaves with threads of joy and sorrow, loss and gain. I discover the resilience to persevere, to stand firm amidst the storm, and to keep breathing, even when each breath carries a multitude of expectations.
And so, I remain, a witness to the ebb and flow of life’s tides, a guardian of memories and dreams, kindling hope in the face of uncertainty, and honouring the legacy of those who have journeyed beyond the veil.
One by one, they slip away. Death’s cold fingers seem to tighten around the neck of those I love, taunting me with its presence. Amidst the rubble of shattered lives, I’m faced with a choice—do I dare to love, to forge connections, when the spectre of loss looms over my survival? How does one navigate life when the weight of grief and the lingering heaviness of heartache burdens every step forward?
My fatigue is palpable, a weariness that seeps into the very core of my being. The farewells, the condolences—they’ve become a haunting chorus, an unrelenting reminder of the fragility of existence. How many more consoling words can I endure before I unravel? How many times can I bear to hear that they’re in a “better place” before I’m driven to the brink?
My faith, once steadfast, now wrestles with questions that echo in the caverns of my soul. I’ve given my devotion, my unwavering commitment to worship, yet I’m left grappling with the enigma of divine providence. Why must those I cherish be plucked away, while I’m still standing? Why is my life spared when it feels as if it’s a relentless dance with death?
I’ve narrowly escaped the clutches of mortality before—from the womb to the ravages of conflict. Each time, a fragile thread kept me tethered to this world. My mother’s words ring in my ears, a reminder of a debt I’m told I owe for surviving. Yet, this obligation sits heavy on my shoulders, a weight that threatens to crush me.
My existence is a delicate balance, caught between being the bearer of bad news and the burden of surviving. Their pleas for help, for intervention, rest on my heart. I’m expected to hold the role of a benevolent deity, delivering verdicts that cut deep into the fabric of life. It’s a responsibility that’s too immense, that chips away at my soul with each passing day.
Still, I am reminded that survival comes at a cost, one that I can’t measure in mere physical presence. As the candle’s flame dances before me, its light flickering in the sea of my thoughts, I yearn for respite. I long for the pain to ease, for the burden to lift, and for a moment of reprieve from the unending cycle of grief and loss.
I completely agree with you! This degree has introduced me to a world of history and culture. Thank you for…
I hear your conundrum; I too suffer from a ‘title’ that doesn’t pay the mortgage…Beowulf, Dante’s Inferno, Canterbury Tales are…
Welcome
Thank you!
Good stuff.
Anxious Thoughts 
Leave a comment