Marah

I had my first day at the prostheses institution where I now attend university. For a special session, a professor asked us to observe the amputation of a leg—that is, those who could bear the sight of it. I was among those who volunteered to watch the amputation. I don’t know what drove me to do this. Maybe it was an act of rashness or rebellion? Or was it out of curiosity and the love of knowledge? I don’t know. The time came for the amputation, and the doctor positioned the leg before us. My hands and legs were shaking and my heart was beating too fast. I blacked out, although I looked awake. The whole procedure happened, but it’s as though I didn’t see any of it—I don’t remember how it was done, although I was standing right there with my eyes open.

My body was there, but my mind and senses were far away, like the scattered body parts and blood in my war-torn town. I suddenly remembered my friend who disappeared, and my father, whose limbs were scattered, and the many disabled people in my hometown. They all came before my eyes, shielding what was happening in front of me. Despite my desperate need to reveal my pain, I held back. I wished I could cry and shout, but I chose to remain silent. I couldn’t tell anyone how I felt. I went home to my bed, where I’m used to drowning myself with tears of hurt and anger. I left my hometown hoping to forget all the injustices and horrors I went through, but it seems impossible to let go. I always remember the past. Although I always try to ignore my memories of home, both sweet and bitter, I always fail.

The funny yet sad part of the story is that the other students revered me for witnessing the amputation. They started asking me questions about it, but I was blank. I thought and thought, and I still don’t have a logical explanation for what happened. To stare at something without seeing it at all: Maybe it was because I forced my eyes to see something they refused to see, so my brain blocked my vision. I really am astonished. I truly hope I can forget.

The doctor praised me for hanging in there and not stepping back, too. He told me that, with time, I will get used to it. But the truth is, I don’t want to ever get used to it. I fear that I might have chosen the wrong field of study, because it requires a strong and healthy heart. But my heart is full of probably untreatable pain, so will I be able to go on? I don’t know. Am I brave, or a coward? Sick, or normal? I don’t know. I just know that I want to live in peace. ♦

Marah’s diary is produced in collaboration with Syria Deeply, a digital news outlet covering the Syrian crisis. It was translated from the Arabic by Mais Istanbelli.