Oh Syria

I have walked your dusty streets
I have tasted your luscious fruits – ah, the apricots and peaches and watermelons and fresh, colourful delicacies; they taste like nothing I have eaten before!  I have taken in the aroma of your sweet pastries and breads; oh the breads!  And the olives and kebabs and cheeses and tomatoes and cucumbers – I want to list it all; there is so much more! Oh, the feasts we had…

I have danced in your courtyards, my relatives and I, celebrating a reunion and laughing together, whirling and twirling about to the rhythmic music of our Armenian heritage in this foreign land

I have gazed, wide eyed, walking through the open market, fresh meat hanging on every corner, spices, dried fruits, fresh foods, hand made goods – what wonders I beheld, this Canadian born girl touring through this ancient land.
And the noise, there is so much noise everywhere I turn — there are men walking hand in hand and women gathered on street corners chattering in both my Mother tongue and in a language I do not understand; churches full of worshipers most everyday, the haunting melodies from the choirs serenading us; bustling businesses – things being bought and sold, coffee, sipped; the old men strategizing their next backgammon move; tired donkeys pulling carts full of wares, and their masters yelling to anyone in the wee hours of morning, tantalizing us with delights for sale; I hear the incessant honking of horns, cars so many cars, one on top of another, coming every which way, pedestrians weaving through it all.  The lone traffic cop blowing his whistle and waving his arms in a futile attempt to orchestrate this mass of movement.

There is life, pulsing life in this ancient, hot, dusty land

This is the Syria in my mind
This is what I remember from when I first visited you years ago

This ancient land that took in a nearly annihilated people, my people
A land that took an emaciated, starving, barely alive, but alive still, beaten, terror stricken mass of Armenians, survivors of The Genocide
Took them in, survivors placed in countless refugee camps
A bone thin horror filled people, huddled together, waiting for Hope

And new life began
My grandmother, a little girl; my great aunt, my great uncle, my great grandmother
My grandfather, a little boy; his brothers…
They ended up here somehow, by Grace, survivors of a mass extermination – they are sent on a death march through the desert and they end up here.  Alive.

And by Grace, life resumes here
And Armenian churches are erected in a foreign land
We do not share a culture but we are free to worship here
And we work side by side
And weddings are celebrated and babies are born and families are formed and schools are built and businesses are created and books are published and community centers are developed and oh, life is flourishing here!

This is the land I remember

My ancestors were not born in this land, but you took them in and Hope was renewed and new life was born and this land gave us breath.  Here, our ancient culture blossomed once more

But now
But now, I watch in horror

Tell me, what is this?
I dreamed of showing your vibrant beauty to my Beloved, to my children one day
The pictures I tremble to see violently clash with my memory

What is all this death?

You are now the emaciated, barely alive, terror stricken people,
Huddled together longing for Hope
I am weeping for the brokenness of it all
This land is utterly broken
Your ancient streets burdened, crushed for years and years and years

What is happening here

I am screaming inside my head
and heart
and soul
I have watched this horror for far too long now anxiously waiting for news from my loved ones who still hang on to life there

They are still there

And not just my loved ones, but all these people in this land – these people who are brutally tortured and murdered and who is killing whom?

Make this destruction stop
Show me light in this horror
A glimmer
Something

Oh Syria

Will I ever walk your dusty streets again?

Tags: Armenia, Armenian Genocide, Armenian music, grace, Syria