Forged by Fire

People look at me and assume I’ve lived a privileged life.
And in some ways — they’re not wrong.
My father comes from one of the most famous families in Damascus.
My mother, from one of the most powerful in Ghouta.
I have relatives scattered across the globe.
Wherever I land, there’s always someone who can help pull a string.

When the first mortars fell on Mleha and the rebels entered town,
my family put me in a hotel near the university so I could finish my exams.
Later, I was sent to Jordan to live with my grandfather —
picked up and dropped off in his car every day,
safe, looked after, untouchable.

I returned to Damascus.
Mortars were falling, yes —
but I still spent evenings in cafés,
bars,
crossing into Aley, into Beirut.
Eventually, I got my visa to Austria.
And I’ve lived in Europe ever since.
Ten years —
without ever having to apply for asylum.

Even when they said,
“Do it. It’ll be easier. Cheaper.”
I refused.

Because I didn’t want to be called a refugee.
It felt… too big.
Too final.
Too foreign.

But that’s just the surface.
That’s the façade people see.
The one that says “he made it out.”

Beneath all that —
I carry something else.

The pain has been there since childhood.
It never left.
And if you were to collect all the truly happy moments of my life,
and stitch them together into one stretch of time,
they wouldn’t fill a year.
Maybe not even a month.

Sure — others suffered more visibly.
War, loss, displacement.

But my suffering…
it doesn’t scream.
It doesn’t show up in photos.
It doesn’t look cinematic.

It stays inside,
gnawing,
quiet.
And I carry it alone.

There were times —
dark ones —
when I came close to letting go.
When I just wanted rest.
The kind that doesn’t end at sunrise.

But I didn’t.

Because every time I stood at that edge,
I thought of my mother.
I thought of the people who might suffer more from my absence
than from my broken presence.
And I stayed.

---

Still, every now and then,
something shifts.

I look back at my choices —
the ones people call “mistakes.”

Not moving to the U.S. in 2011 when I had the chance.
Not applying for asylum.
Getting married before finishing my studies.
Tying myself to people, to places, to pain.

Every one of those decisions made my life harder.
They brought more uncertainty, more struggle.

But in those quiet, lucid moments,
I don’t feel regret.

I feel… loyalty.
To the version of me that made those choices.
To the person I’ve become because of them.

Because if I’d taken the easy path —
if I’d played it safe —
maybe I’d be more comfortable now.
But I’d be someone else.

Someone I don’t know.
Someone I probably couldn’t love.

I like the man I am.
Even if he’s weary.
Even if he’s scarred.

Because at least he’s real.

---

Maybe there’s another me in another universe.
A version that made all the “right” moves.
Got it all “together.”
Comfortable. Polished. Well-adjusted.

But I don’t know him.
And when I try to imagine him,
he doesn’t move me.
He doesn’t stir my heart.

I can’t write poetry for that man.

So I’ll stay with this version —
the one forged by fire.
The one who’s stumbled, burned, and carried on anyway.

---

I’m not writing this to impress anyone.
Not asking for pity or praise.

I just want to say this,
to anyone out there carrying their own hidden wounds:

If your life feels like it’s been one long wrong turn —
maybe you’re still on the only road
that was ever meant for you.

Maybe all you’re here to do is walk it
— fully, honestly, painfully —
and keep your eyes open
as the fire shapes you.

Because sometimes, pain is not a detour.
It’s the forge.

And sometimes, the self you become
is worth every scar that made you.

---

Relevant links
Damascus Brutalist Legacy
When Healing Became Another Battle