Shema is a young widow now living in Damascus with her son, Mostafa (age six) and daughter, Zina (age 3). She speaks with softness in her voice but wells up with strength and conviction when she speaks about her children and the many other children she assists at the UNHCR. Shema works as a volunteer, teaching Arabic to Iraqi teenagers unable to read or write; their education stunted by the war and now by years without proper schooling.
Shema’s own dreams were shattered by the war. Militias attacked her husband, an engineer, in March 2006 for working with an American company. Shema still has his badges, his certificates, his photographs, locked in his suitcase. Wedding photos, photos of outings and family gatherings, even photos of her husband’s girlfriends from college, remind her of him, and of herself, before the war, young and beautiful. She no longer feels beautiful here. She hides behind a black scarf and black pants.
Shema also lost her father in a bomb explosion right after the war began. Her only sister is in Egypt with her mother, studying nursing. She cannot join them in Egypt because there is no work for her there.
She lives alone in Damascus with her two children, climbing five flights of stairs every day to get to the top floor of her apartment building. After a full day of work, she is too exhausted to climb, too exhausted to do much more than spend time with her children. The apartment is small with mattresses laid out on the floor. Shema is ashamed of her surroundings as she remembers her spacious home in Iraq with a garden.
Shema longs to get out of Syria and resettle abroad so that she can build a more permanent life for her and her children. She’s always wanted to translate poetry. Her favorite is Shakespeare – his sonnets, his plays. But more than her personal dreams, Shema wonders about the future of her children.
Mostafa, traumatized by the death of his grandfather and subsequently, the recent death of his father, does not behave normally. He is selfish with his toys, rips apart dolls and only plays with guns and violent video games. He refuses to believe that his father is dead or that he has gone to heaven. His mother tells him his father is away on an extended trip to Jordan or Sweden.
Shema steps out onto the balcony and looks five flights down to the ground before looking out again at the city sprawling before her and her children’s future dim in the distance. The light, though dim, gives her strength to keep going.
Shema’s own dreams were shattered by the war. Militias attacked her husband, an engineer, in March 2006 for working with an American company. Shema still has his badges, his certificates, his photographs, locked in his suitcase. Wedding photos, photos of outings and family gatherings, even photos of her husband’s girlfriends from college, remind her of him, and of herself, before the war, young and beautiful. She no longer feels beautiful here. She hides behind a black scarf and black pants.
Shema also lost her father in a bomb explosion right after the war began. Her only sister is in Egypt with her mother, studying nursing. She cannot join them in Egypt because there is no work for her there.
She lives alone in Damascus with her two children, climbing five flights of stairs every day to get to the top floor of her apartment building. After a full day of work, she is too exhausted to climb, too exhausted to do much more than spend time with her children. The apartment is small with mattresses laid out on the floor. Shema is ashamed of her surroundings as she remembers her spacious home in Iraq with a garden.
Shema longs to get out of Syria and resettle abroad so that she can build a more permanent life for her and her children. She’s always wanted to translate poetry. Her favorite is Shakespeare – his sonnets, his plays. But more than her personal dreams, Shema wonders about the future of her children.
Mostafa, traumatized by the death of his grandfather and subsequently, the recent death of his father, does not behave normally. He is selfish with his toys, rips apart dolls and only plays with guns and violent video games. He refuses to believe that his father is dead or that he has gone to heaven. His mother tells him his father is away on an extended trip to Jordan or Sweden.
Shema steps out onto the balcony and looks five flights down to the ground before looking out again at the city sprawling before her and her children’s future dim in the distance. The light, though dim, gives her strength to keep going.
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