Sixteen years ago, I was sixteen — a teenager in Damascus with a white desktop computer, a 56kbps modem, and an obsession with connection.
Every click, every pixel, every message that broke through my country’s firewalls felt like a victory — a small rebellion against isolation.
GRAZ – We often take the most precious things in life for granted. Who truly takes into consideration his eyes while sitting in front of a screen for hours every day? Who worries about his hearing while blowing up his ears with headphones? Who worries about his legs while abusing his knees going up and down a hill carrying heavy loads? Who truly cares about his lungs while inhaling one pack after another?
It’s simple and obvious that we’d dearly miss these things when we lose them. Until we do, however, they must go unappreciated.
Continue reading “Unappreciated”
BAMBERG – Have you ever loved a woman so much that you thought all other women were an illusion? Have you ever watched the woman you love the most getting raped, every day, without you being able to do anything to stop it?
The rapists vary; brothers, fathers, cousins, neighbors, and tourists but the victim is the same. They make you question yourself: ‘is it love or do I rape her too every time I touch her?’
Continue reading “The Gray Devil in Me”
Adapted from my 2016 bittersweet Arabic diary. Original Arabic version further below. Image by ROMAN ODINTSOV
Context
I wrote this text shortly after that night with Maya. She came into my bed, stripped down to her underwear, kissed me softly without crossing further, and fell asleep beside me. She let me hold her close, allowed me to touch her body, yet never allowed me to cross into full possession. She made me fall in love, then left in the morning — and never returned.
Continue reading “My Ravaged Wound”
Originally published at the Foundation for Economic Education (FEE) under What War and Terror Do to Principles: A Young Syrian Recounts the Years in His Smoldering Homeland. Feature image by Ahmed Akacha
GRAZ – I lived in Syria for three out of the four and half years of war. I’ve never been physically harmed, even though there were several close calls. In another sense, though, I’ve come to realize this war has killed so much in me that I’ve turned into something completely unfamiliar; something that often works like a calculator.
Continue reading “The devil between the Details and the Big Picture”
Roumani Line 