I used to greet the early dawn, courtesy of the scorching heat, but on that fateful day, I awoke to a dawn of new beginnings. As I beheld the gazes of my siblings, their eyes, a window to their innermost thoughts, I glimpsed the concealed anxiety beneath their unwavering composure, the sorrow that seeped through their farewell smiles, and the unspoken tears that silently traced trails on their dusky cheeks.

Only yesterday, we bid our father farewell as he embarked on his journey to foreign lands, and now it was their turn to bid us adieu, as we, the wanderers, set forth on our journey within. 

I bid farewell to all that I could from the sanctuary of our home—the sprawling courtyard, adorned with arbors entwined with clusters of grapes, the pantry, my refuge of coolness, and the storehouse of my joy, brimming with watermelons. Oh, how that watermelon symbolized an abundance of familial gatherings, filled with laughter and animated conversations!

The family portrait that’s been hanging in the heart of the house for more than a decade, I bid it farewell with my eyes and my heart, yearning to enfold it in a tender embrace. 

If only it were possible, I would have concealed every cherished face within my very veins, hoping that such an act would quell the fear of never setting eyes upon them again. And so, I refrained from casting a backward glance as our car veered away, carrying us towards that realm of uncertainty.

We arrived at the embarkation point, where my brother stood at the threshold of the bus, bidding us farewell. He entrusted our well-being to our mother, his parting words etching themselves indelibly upon the canvas of my memory, letter by letter. The journey stretched on, an arduous passage of over forty hours, accompanied by trepidation, anticipation, and a whirlwind of thoughts. It was during this time that I discovered an intense aversion to prolonged voyages.

“Welcome, passengers coming to Homs, we rejoice in your safe arrival.”

A voice slices through the echoes of my thoughts, compelling me to descend into that unfamiliar square. I ponder within myself: “Have we truly arrived? Does this place warrant all the hardship we endured?”

A cap took us to the rented house, and with each neighborhood we pass, both the road and my countenance transform. 

It feels strange to witness Homs before my eyes, not through TV news. Old houses made of black stone, towering structures inhabited by no one but birds, followed by a bustling city teeming with occupied buildings and congested markets, all of which appear foreign to me. At that moment, I believed it to be a brief passage, one that would not repeat itself, and that the sight of that city would forever remain unfamiliar to me.

We reached the house and laid down all that we carried on the ground, collapsing from exhaustion. And in that instant, I knew that my new life had begun!

Fear no longer clung to me wherever I went, but a sense of displacement pervaded my being. It was then that I understood the meaning of exile and comprehended what my father had been experiencing. However, the difference between us was that I had not crossed the borders of my homeland.

Fortunately, after a short period, I enrolled in a prestigious vocational training school. I met all the requirements and submitted all the necessary official documents, filled with enthusiasm for the new path I had chosen willingly.

The details of the first day of school are still etched in my memory. I got onto the bus, determined to memorize the route and mark significant checkpoints to ensure I could find my way back in case of any mistakes. After all, I was still a stranger in this city.

Upon arrival at the school, the supervisor guided me to my classroom: “Second floor, first class on the left.” I ascended the stairs, counting my steps, until I reached the classroom door. I took a deep breath as a cacophony of voices assaulted my ears. I knocked on the door, and a voice from inside responded, “Come in.”

Silence enveloped the room as all eyes turned towards me. I informed them that I was a new student and asked for permission to enter. Once granted, their eyes capturing my every move as I made my way towards an empty seat. I introduced myself briefly and then busied myself with the pens and notebooks, attempting to ignore them. Yet, my differences did not allow them to ignore me. 

My distinctive dialect became an exhausting detail; every word I uttered was echoed mockingly from behind, as if they were robotic beings fond of ridicule.

I returned home with a cold demeanor, physically and mentally exhausted. My mother asked me about my day, and I assured her that it was good, nothing to worry about. And so, this day repeated itself over and over until my entire first semester came to a close.

My sense of alienation intensified with each walk I took on the streets, observing the unfamiliar faces of people. Each time, someone would mimic my words and laugh derisively after I spoke.

During the second semester, I became familiar with the checkpoints, which gave me the opportunity to gaze at the other faces on the bus. It was there that I encountered a familiar face, a fellow student who shared me my name, yet she did not mimic my words.

Thanks to those daily bus rides, I mustered the courage to venture further and discover Homs more deeply.

The ceiled market spared no effort in making Homs a comfortable place for me. Its traditional design, distinctive ceiling, the array of shops, the artful display of merchandise, and the vibrant colors of the fabrics, were all a contribution to its welcoming ambiance.

Even the phrase, “Welcome, we have new goods,” felt like a greeting rather than a marketing ploy.

As the days passed, the ceiled market became the link between me and the corner I found in this city—a historic Arab house filled with a fresh spirit, brimming with art in all its forms. It was there that I found myself, where I discovered my verse.

My volunteer work and artistic endeavors began to flourish. My first exhibition was not a joyful experience, but I did not stop there.

Each artistic endeavor provided me with the courage to move forward because it was an opportunity to declare my presence in this place.

Moving between neighborhoods sometimes intensified the sense of not belonging. It seemed that no sooner had six months passed than we were relocating to a new home. This repetitive cycle deprived me of the opportunity to hang my artworks on the walls or to find stability. And so it went until our journey settled in our current home near the university, in the downtown of Homs. Despite its expensive rent, it provided us with comfort and stability.

Today, firmly believing that these places, roads, and faces that have traversed my mind and passed before my eyes were a catalyst for self-discovery, I know who I truly am. The stranger who belongs to this place, with all its destruction and blossoming, I am even afraid of becoming attached to it all. How can one live with fear and courage intertwined?

It was all present when I painted my own canvas—a blend of alienation, tears of farewell, longing emotions, the excitement of change, the vision of art and exploration, and the love for belonging and attaining it.