The melody I love, and the voice I adore… Fairouz.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” the echo of those words fills my balcony and my heart, as the scent of coffee does… I look at my little boy, Ali, from outside, he’s deeply asleep unlike his usual self. It’s now eight in the morning, two hours have passed since I woke up. During those hours, I sat between my flowers, and memories came upon me from a distant place, sharing with me the lovely morning atmosphere and taking me on a journey to the past, to Venezuela. It was me, my husband, and our two sons: Fadi, four years old, and Ali, two and a half. Our days were beautiful and gentle, light as the music of Fairouz. What made my days even more beautiful were these two little ones, who had a bond stronger than mere blood ties.

I still remember that evening vividly when my husband told me about a failed business deal he was involved in. We lost a lot of money, leaving us with very little. That little amount wasn’t enough for us to survive in this foreign land with all the hardships we were facing. That day, I made the hardest decision, to stay by my husband’s side and make the biggest sacrifice of all: I was forced to send my son Fadi with his uncle to Syria, as I mistakenly thought that by doing so I would ease some of our burdens. But, was he really the burden we want to be eased of?

Here we are at the airport, with Ali and Fadi. Farewell kiss and a final long hug. That night did not pass peacefully. I woke up to the sound of sobbing and rushed to the boys’ room, only to find Ali sleeping in his brother’s bed, holding the sheets tightly as if they were his only treasure. His temperature was above forty degrees, and I struggled with it until morning. Eventually, I gave in to the relentless battle and took him to our family doctor, who diagnosed him with a minor health issue that would be solved with a simple treatment. Little did we know that the opposite would happen. His condition worsened; his temperature would drop one day and rise again the next. We remained in this state for almost a week until the doctor asked me to bring Fadi along for examination, suggesting that Ali might have caught an infection from his brother. I replied that Fadi had gone to Syria, and she responded with disappointment, “You Arabs make mistakes and expect us to fix them!”

After two weeks of the emergency, so-called ” a minor health issue,” we declared its end as Ali returned to his kindergarten. It was then that I realized it wasn’t merely a small battle with a slight fever. It was the beginning of a war. The teacher informed me that Ali refused to enter his classroom and spent his time in his brother’s class instead. He became distracted, disregarded the teachers’ instructions, ate and spoke less, and eventually developed a tendency towards violence. Later, he completely stopped speaking. The teacher concluded her report by saying that I should consult a behavioral specialist.

In that moment, amidst all the emotions that overwhelmed me, and despite my fear and incomplete comprehension of the severity of the situation, I denied my intuition and convinced myself that it was just an emotional shock that he would overcome with time and the love we, his parents, would provide.

But the situation was worsening day by day, slipping out of our control. Here began our long journey that lasted nearly a year and a half, between laboratories, radiology departments, doctors, and associations. I didn’t leave any door unturned, but without a decisive answer that would tilt the battle in favor of the mother’s heart, which refused to surrender to the reality of helplessness.

My battle continued until I found my first ally, a friend who was as cozy as home. She was there for me at every step of the way in my search and consultation. She was the strongest soldier, who revealed the face of my enemy when she suggested taking Ali to a professor who visited the country periodically, offering training courses for doctors on how to deal with children with behavioral disorders; of course, I agreed.

We went to him immediately, and after he familiarized himself with Ali’s story, he tried to explain, in Spanish, his health condition and then he concluded by saying ” your son has autism”. I tried to grasp some vocabulary from his speech, lost between my limited understanding of the language and my mind refusing to comprehend or believe. In the midst of the catastrophe, I screamed, “Doctor, what is the treatment?” He turned to my friend and asked her to explain to me that autism is an acquired disease, not hereditary, with various spectrums. A child may be affected by one or more spectrums, but unfortunately, there is no definitive cure. Then he added, “Ali suffered an emotional shock called grief.” He continued “Please don’t burden yourself with blame for what happened… it is God’s will.”

Autism, loss, God’s will—these were not harmonious words for me. God’s will would not lead to my separation from one son, and force me to watch the other suffer from an incurable disease. Surely, God’s will have had another plan for me! God’s will have revealed to me the extraordinary abilities of my children and informed me that from now on, I would not be an ordinary mother.

The doctor suggested that I return to our homeland with Ali, to his brother. I walked out into the street with a heart filled with sadness, eyes blinded by a torrent of tears. I stumbled down the stairs, nearly falling, and then his little hand held onto me. I looked into his completely absent eyes and saw the safety of the world within them. From that moment, I made a commitment to myself that I would create success with and for Ali.

Thus, we returned to Syria, to our homeland, to our family. Upon our arrival, Ali rushed to pour his kisses all over Fadi, screaming in pain and agony. Our resistance journey started here in Tartus with an association that dealt with autistic children, but they apologized for receiving us until the renovation work was completed. Those months were the toughest I had ever experienced, especially since I was in the early months of my pregnancy.

Ali’s condition worsened day by day. He screamed constantly, broke everything his hands could reach, and punched me really hard on my belly. I stood before my fierce enemy, autism, face to face, alone and scared, without an ally, while autism armed itself with society’s non-acceptance of us, clinging more to Ali to take the place of Fadi.

Ali joined the association on October 2nd, and I gave birth to my daughter on October 8th. The first months of treatment felt like a daily death, sometimes the pain that struck me, and sometimes the pain that struck my child.

I would sleep with my hands tied to Ali’s leg with a short rope, waking up at any movement he made to prevent any potential disaster, especially after he once attempted to throw his sister out of the window.

During those days, I couldn’t eat before he went to sleep, which greatly affected my health. Then another ally appeared, Ali’s aunt. She treated Ali as if he were her own son, accompanying him daily to the association and showing great empathy towards his condition.

After a while of her accompanying him, I decided to take her place. I tried to learn from the supervisors some skills in dealing with him and tried to enhance them at home. We remained in this whirlwind and slow progress until my third ally emerged—the strongest ally.

His story began with a phone call, offering me the opportunity to learn handicrafts that we could later be sold at exhibitions and bazaars. Beads… the third ally. The first time Ali saw the beads, he scattered them all over the house. I spent about an hour trying to collect those precious beads.

He did it again, and at the third time I told him that I was upset with him and deliberately showed sadness. That’s when I witnessed his reaction. He picked up the thread and needle and started patiently and carefully collecting the beads.

Then he would sit with the beads for hours, completely absorbed, while I watched him in astonishment—perhaps admiring him—as if he were an artistic masterpiece.

I would give him instructions, and he would execute them with precision, surpassing me by leaps and bounds.

It was then that I realized that my final alley was Ali’s uniqueness, the uniqueness that became our friend, the connection between Ali and the beads. I learned that the era of difficulties and helplessness had come to an end.

With the beads, Ali transformed into a calm and gentle child, surpassing the goals set for autistic patients in record time. In 2018, Ali officially graduated from the association and integrated into a public school with his brother.

On the first Eid al-Fitr after Ali has regained his ability to speak, it occurred to me to give him his “Eid gift” like all children. But he threw the money on the ground and started screaming and waving his head, indicating that he didn’t want it.

I left him and went into the kitchen, and my heart was filled with pain. I raised my hands to the sky and said, “Oh God, you are capable of making Ali come and greet me, not the other way around.” Deep in my heart, I believed that my hope was answered.

On the morning of Eid al-Adha, I sat alone in the room with my coffee, and suddenly Ali approached me, calling out, “Mama,” I smiled at him and asked, “Oh, my darling, what do you want?” He looked into my eyes and said, “Everything… I want… is… you… to… be… happy.” 

I hugged him tightly and started screaming and crying until the family gathered around me. Fadi approached me and tried to calm me down, saying, “Mama, you’re confusing us, isn’t this what you prayed to God for?” At that moment, I didn’t understand what he was trying to tell me, but I later discovered that he had spent two whole weeks teaching his brother how to say that sentence, just to see me happy.

My dear Fadi, our tragedy made you bigger than your actual age, my darling.

I return to reality, hearing the voice of Fairuz, only to find Ali awake. I smiled at him, just as life is now smiling at us. Ali excels in the art of beads and creates beautiful masterpieces on canvas. He has transformed from a disabled child in the eyes of society to an artistic producer. He has been able to support and cover the costs of therapy sessions for 44 autistic children, paying for their sessions in the associations that care for them in Homs and Tartus. He also provides art supplies for seven talented children with special needs who excel in drawing and ensures the provision of backpacks and stationery for 12 children in need.

Today, after overcoming this bitter experience, I still live with a heart full of hopes. My conviction has solidified that with Ali, there are no mere dreams; there are ambitions and achievements.

Dreams are the path for the weak. Today, with “Ali the Blue,” I intend to dream and achieve.