Reviving this blog is a business of irony, primarily because the thought that spurred me to get back to writing, is my ever frustration and exhaustion at the misperceptions we have of people, and of ourselves.

We will always believe we are misunderstood or wronged in our life stories of self-centredness, yet this is not a tale of martyrdom. Rather, it is an exasperated call against this world which forces us to be rough and sharp against our own nature. It forces us to bear burdens and consequently be perceived as the harsh, rude, angry resisters who perceive themselves to be self-righteous. If only, because the world doesn’t allow us to exist without battling us for either our erasure, or our silence.

A conversation with a friend who told me that someone I once perceived respectable had agreed to speak to him about a matter concerning a cause related to me, of which both are one nation removed from — despite having not responded to concerns by those with primary stakes in it, and I found myself boiling with anger at the betrayal. My every nerve resisting to lash out the exhaustion and anger built up inside of me over the years, as I attempted to make sense of whether he was being entertained because he was a male, and thus male on male conversations are taken more seriously? Or because he approached the matter in a less impassioned manner, rendering him more logical as violent perpetrators so often belittle the stakeholders on issues of native justice? I attempted to resist the trauma of this scenario, familiar to me since I can remember albeit by actors I had perceive less familiar to me than the the two in question, until my body gave in and I cried for an hour straight, clutching at my heart, repeating God’s name, until it calmed.

So I came here to write, about the betrayal. About the ugly and irrational that people perceive in those of us who don’t agree with the complacency of pragmatists, who no longer have capacities to keep extending grace to those who refuse to honour the humanity between us, digesting the quote which forever hurts as much as it rings true:

“Nice people made the best Nazis. My mom grew up next to them. They got along, refused to make waves, looked the other way when things got ugly and focused on happier things than “politics.” They were lovely people who turned their heads as their neighbors were dragged away. You know who weren’t nice people? Resisters.” 

— almost laughing through my tears at the irony of how the outside world perceives those of us loud about basic human rights and solidarity that inconveniences them (because otherwise they’re superb, unapologetic human rights advocates) as ‘not nice people’ and therefore undeserving of a response, because our cause is not sexy or important enough for them to commit to in full; in contrast to how my inside world know us as the soft, sensitive heart on sleeve individuals who break every so often, forever careful with the words we use; until, I was greeted by my old posts on here. Almost all, describing a heart so often broken by all the concepts of love and kinship, in the face of darkness, by those who miss its honouring.

Every time I find myself among people, and particularly those who I trusted as my own kin, brethren in nationhood or religion, I find myself fighting to exist. Fighting to tell them that their actions are harmful, that they condone violence against my people who have been slaughtered in their hundreds of thousands, that one can advocate and still do so mindfully. Or fighting against a tide to wash out those unapologetic in their faith and religion. There are other tides too, that of gender, that of expectations, those of stereotypes, those which seek to override you and pull you back into the ocean — forcing saltwater down your throat, until you sink into the complacency that doesn’t disturb their inconvenience — or forever drown you out.

I have not yet learnt how to write my processes succinctly without detailing every story that happens, as I attempt to string together all the thoughts that lead me to the one central point. A second irony perhaps, given my professional skill as an editor and writer, for all that isn’t my personal. As I also haven’t yet learnt how to not be bothered by the perception of our ‘not being nice’, for the people pleaser I am, forever having to fight for our existence, for our voices to be heard and reckoned with unapologetically. For not being silenced by the violence of males on males who see themselves as the sole arbitrators of all that is pragmatic and sensical, for not being silenced by those with selective humanity, who pick and choose their favourite players in genocide denialism because they happen to maintain the status of ‘lesser evil’ in the broader scheme of things. I have not yet learned how to be okay with being at constant war, when all I want is to rest. But how does one rest at the expense of her and her people’s narrative being stripped away and distorted every single day by those who chase false justice and clout? How does one rest with no justice at bay. How does one rest knowing that should we decide to stop talking, no one else will.

If we stop talking, advocating, fighting, no one else will pick up the mantle. And this is a burden we will forever have to bear, as Syrians.

I am exhausted, a third irony added to this revival as I intend to re-embark on this lively writing journey. I am exhausted. This organ within me is bruised by the blows we wake up to everyday by those who call themselves allies, before the enemies, and everyday we have to seek to find our voice and fight to keep it close and running on the radio, without it fuzzing or disconnecting due to the distance of humanity between us and everyone else. Everyday I run through every questioning of humanity and gaslight myself into believing people aren’t as nonchalant and horrific in their stances as I perceived. And everyday, I prove myself wrong — as though they know they’re competing for the worst.

And everyday still, despite all this, we have to live with being seen as the difficult, stubborn resisters. Not the people we actually are.