Paper Dreams In Red Sky

To my maker, I am just a tumbled weed with a destiny controlled by gushes of the pseudo benefactors who fought with self-righteousness (to claim her land). But I, a silent witness to her path is her sole deponent. Through her journey to the abyss, one from where her voice shall be never heard, I'm what remains of her. In me, she dropped words, just like the way she saw dead bodies fall on this land, so effortlessly You might want to know, who is she? what is her story? what was to become of her? and most importantly what happened to her? But amongst these trivial questions, perhaps the most significant one which the world forgot to ask, was, "How was she?"Maybe the disheveled stage, the fear-stricken body and everlasting crease on the forehead would depict something. But let me not talk about her directly; Let me not jump to the most inevitable yet, the most expected stage; death, where every life when stumbles upon is weighed equally; which was not the case for her people. Their lives were merely weed, grown on the lands which they couldn't call their own. And I am an eternal living significance of her life, her struggle, her agony and at the end her death.so let me start with her dreams which she had for her own country , for her own people, for HERSELF.

With red ink, she has tied the fate of every Syrian still living on the land of death waiting for ‘THE DAY’. That one day when her faith in god finally pays off. There was so much more she wanted to do, I am a living anecdote of her dreams, aspirations, her hysteric rage. Every night she used to pin down the hope in me; which is now left as a mere reminiscence of crumpled pages.

Still, there is no black and white clear-cut path to know who is on the battlefield, making it difficult to differentiate between allies and enemies; because at the end the sufferers are people like her, the civilians who are dying at the count of millions. Such that half the country’s pre-war population, more than 11 million people have been killed or forced to flee their homes.

Assad’s regime, ISIL’s extremists' groups were at each other's throat trying to get a piece of meat for themselves and the undermining Syrian rebels who were the last gasps of her people who wanted to just find a piece of land that they can call their own and make decisions for themselves. Tossed in between are the lives of Syrian people, casualties of war, the runt of the mess, a ‘necessary’ sacrifice to a cause. 8 years have passed now, and the storm of war still continues to exist in heart of every Syrian resident. The terror can be felt in the air, heavy with the breaths of so many lives which are lost in this ceaseless ordeal. First, Assad’s father ruled us for 30 years and now our president, Bashar al-Assad, who has been responsible for many civilian killings and chemical attacks, because he and his regime have claimed that they thought there were ISIL terroristic groups occupying that area, not ordinary civilians.

In my pages you wouldn’t get annoyance or vexation; instead, you will find the truth and hope which exists in the eyes of every Syrian, the dream which she wanted to see with living eyes. But now this fight is just not about Syria, it’s more than that; basically there are three type of wars which Syria is going through; Firstly, what the world sees: The civil war (between people, the rebel group, and the government); Second, the one which she has often mentioned, which she feared would take a drastic turn in the later days, which is: The holy war ( between the Sunnis and the Shias) and Last, is the unsaid and unspoken which might slaughter the Syrian land, the two separate cold war (between Russia- USA and Iran- Saudi Arabia ), And all it took is one impulsive move from either side which takes the lives of hundreds of innocent souls like her in a fraction of second, and the only thing which is left for eternity, which no matter how much they try wouldn’t be able to subdue , the way they have quelled thousands of dream

During her last days where the eyes, devoid of all emotions were slowly losing their strength, she would flip through me in an attempt to recapture every great dream she had. Turn my pages there would be her people living in hell memoir. In my crumbled torn pages resides stories of the horrendous acts they used to commit; they would rape women in other rooms and make the family member hear their screams, accounts of their midnight interrogation, her aiding of survivors, electrocuted or chemical attacks victims. After such sights, it seemed that the 19-year-old girl was not any more scared of dying, she was scared of living. I am not just an anecdote , I am a story ; a story of her life , a story where she wasn't able to see her dreams happening for real , a story which is left incomplete...

Syria has no governmental authority, no pathway to peace or democracy, and no safe haven for its innocent civilians. Syria is still a war zone and will continue to be until international responsibility, take action in their hands. I would be a mere diary of a young girl, which would remain and wait for her behalf, stare through the window of time with the same hope that she had, that peace could be re-written with a pen of perpetuality...

The peace, a mere normal living conditions, a proper education; so basically living a normal livelihood was her dream which she would die for