Personal Narrative: Why Was I Born Syrian

Why was I born Syrian? No questioning is of greater despondence than that of fate, as fate is the most adamant of all protocols. And no protocol is of greater burden than that of a Syrian’s fate, as the Syrian man was destined to see the war, live the war, and adapt to the war. And no war is of harsher consequences than that of the Syrians, as it withered their immortal jasmines, closed their ancient doors, and replaced their hymns with dirges. But I never saw any of that. My parents left Damascus in 2001. Then, I was only two. Mine is a story of a little boy who could imagine the Syrian mosaic, but never really touch one. Likewise, that little boy had a virtual identity, but never really an existent one. What war forced me to do was to

Book jackets have provided me a confluence of warmth – one that adjoined many rivers. Of those rivers was knowledge, and of knowledge branched curiosity, and of curiosity materialized my identity. Of the first river, I learned how to learn, and how to love doing so. Never have I ever thought that one day, I would be sitting in a library, reading On the Origin of Species or Brief History of Time. Nor have I ever imagined myself actually liking such books - but I did. It was then did I become curious, because the more I learned, the more I knew there was to learn. It was then did curiosity begin having a share in the confluence. Today, its river is alive and well – so fresh that bibliophilism is not its only living harvest. Nay, it also gave birth to my identity: the reader, the observer, the inquisitive, and almost everything in between. At that time, I was so very full of content, yet I was missing a puzzle piece. It was the very last puzzle

Once I drew myself with a pencil. The result was stunning. I lacked a nose, my feet were missing, and I could not detect any signs of a human face. Nevertheless, I had a neck, a stomach, and some dots around them. Horrible was my illustration, because what I drew was not remotely related to a human body. Yet it was so impeccable in a sense, as it had a certain touch that I am yet to find anywhere else. The neck was an Arabic Alef and the stomach was a Meem, altogether crafted in a clean fashion. I drew my name, and I was impressed by it. Then was the time I accidently discovered my passion. Now, I am a calligrapher. What calligraphy stands for, and what it has given me, continue to affect my life. It is remarkable knowing that tar-black ink, with its smooth, delicate, touch on paper can hold so many colorful stories and lessons. The Kufi Murabba script, for instance, taught me systematism. Its peer, the Thuluth, taught me that even the most complex of all models can be unraveled once looked at from a different scope. I even captured concepts like versatility from simple pieces of Diwani art that were crafted hundreds of years ago.
I come from the City of