العربيةThe last time I went down to Damascus was in 2019. I had this feeling that I had to go see my grandmothers because maybe I wouldn’t get the chance later.
I pulled myself together and went for a few days. I arrived on October 7th—people were glued to the news. What’s going on? It was the beginning of something no one had expected in Palestine.
But that’s not the point. The point is, during those few days I was there, despite the exhaustion, the pressure, and the near-total absence of even the most basic necessities of life (I won’t even say a dignified life), people were incredibly empathetic toward what was happening. I could actually hear the side conversations in shops, the prayers for relief—for us and them both.
On one hand, I felt heartbroken for how much people in the Levantine were struggling. But on the other hand, I felt relieved that, despite everything they had been through, their humanity and empathy still lingered.
One day, my aunt came to us and said, A young man from the neighborhood passed away—he had little kids. I asked how, and they told me He had a stroke from the stress of his financial situation. He couldn’t provide for his family, even though he was working two jobs. Stress killed him. And that’s become so common now. Young men in their thirties just dropping dead in silence. Can you imagine?
My flight was early, but I made it back safely. I slept.
When I woke up, my phone was flooded with messages, missed calls, and social media notifications asking if I was okay.
What happened?
“They bombed Damascus Airport.”