Heart Strings

My flustered dad huffed as the ancient red car puffed around the outskirts of the grandiose mountain. My twelve year old heart dropped as if i were on a roller coaster ride. Each hill was steeper and I was sure we’d slide backwards and fall to our doom. The ninety degree temperatures sure didn't help and neither did the lack of air conditioning. Our windows were manually rolled down with those black plastic handles, but we were still bathing in our sweat.

As we neared the top, the population became denser. There were rickety pickup trucks surrounded by folding chairs, music making, and hookah. Family and friends emanated the spicy, worry-free heritage as they celebrated Spain winning the world cup; Syria didn't have it’s own futbol team. I watched out my window, slowly and then all at once falling in love with this culture that was so deeply entrenched in my blood. Some translucent film was peeling away from my perception on the world as I realized that my life meant so much more than what i’d imagined. I was so tiny. This world was infinitely full of connections, invisible strings, that were just begging to be pulled. These strings around us, the ones that the music was strummed on, the ones that pulled us up the mountain without falling backwards, the ones keeping the people together...these were my very own strings. They connected at the heart of me. The car jerked and the music poured in, and suddenly i had the unrelenting desire to pull the strings, to absorb the world completely in any way that i possibly could.

And then there we were, at the top of the mountain, looking down at the most beautiful array of lights arranged in no particular pattern. This was not America where the lights would appear in grids according to the building patterns and the streets; this was a beautiful mess that stretched for what seemed like forever, a virtual eternity of luminescence that snatched the breath right from the back of my throat.

This city was me. The little red car was me. This mountain was me. These people were me. This music was me. These lights were me. Syria is and always will be me.

Now this war is me.

The strings are being cut. Syria’s war is my war because Syria’s strings are my strings and if I can’t prevent them from being cut I will sure as hell tie them back together. The strings that the music was strummed on are silenced. The strings pulling us up the mountain are now slack. The strings that held people together are skewed and tangled as families and friends are torn apart by a wayward government. I will do whatever it takes to make sure my country remains, hanging from the strings, an ornament in gods sky. It will rise, a glorious culture, from the ashes of a government regime and political revolution, and I will be there to coax it into life. If nothing else, you can bet on the fact that I will stand at the top of that mountain again, and let my jaw drop at the beauty of what I am, what Syria is.

Reviews

[sparkle]

This city was me. The little red car was me. This mountain was me. These people were me. This music was me. These lights were me. Syria is and always will be me.

Now this war is me.
that is a good piece of writting

[Dana Alsamsam]

thank you for reading, and thank you for your kind words!

[sparkle]

you are welcomed .. :)

[B-poet]

I loved the morale for this story. Cherishing your country even if it's full of joy, misery, and turmoil altogether. Very well written as well. Great write. :)