Marah

Life is like a chameleon that has many colors: Sometimes it looks bright and pretty, at other times it is harsh and dark to the extent that it makes you hate it. The increased intensity of missiles on my afflicted city has resulted in chilling massacres in which nearly 150 people were killed. The security situation was disrupted last week. My two cousins—the children of my only uncle—were among the victims. Before the crisis, we all lived in my uncle’s house and we had a very strong relationship with his children—we grew up together, as siblings.

I was horrified that they were martyred by one of the missiles that fell on Douma. They were young men, one of them was 15 years old and the other was 17. I called my uncle to try to console him, but I broke down once I heard his sad voice as he mourns the loss of his two children. Their departure has an effect on my life that cannot be ignored; it is another wound to add to my already open wounds, and I am still losing people I love.

Life has been defeating me. Amidst the cloud of sadness, grief, and pain, I had to do the rent lease procedures alone at the police station, because, as I mentioned before, my mother cannot take a vacation until she has been in her job for three months. Some of the staff were surprised that the lease was under a young woman’s name, especially as I barely look 15 years old.

I encountered difficulties as I went back and forth between offices, so I asked one of the staff members to help me. After he found out that my father is dead, he asked me to wait until the end of the working day when there are fewer customers. He promised to help me, however I discovered later that he is a despicable person. He asked me to stay only to get close to me. I slapped him in the face, but he threatened to obstruct my apartment leasing procedure.

I gathered up my courage and went to the police station director’s office, I told him what had happened. The man denied it, of course. The director promised to facilitate my procedures and to punish the staff member. I left the station shocked and wounded. At that moment I felt like I lived in a jungle and humans are monsters, and that it’s necessary for me to be very cautious and attentive.

I honestly hope to leave Syria, because I don’t want to change the way I look at it more than I already have. I don’t want to hate it, and I want to keep my respect for its people. What has this crisis done to us? Has it changed us? Or revealed our masks? I am incapable of finding myself here; there is nothing in Syria now except for humiliation, indignity, and death. ♦

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.