"Resist".
“Resist”.

I had so much passion and faith in writing… And I still do except that I cannot find any more words to express explicitly what Syria is like now.

No words are worthy enough to tell what Syrians or what the world is like in our days. Doomed, ugly, full of hatred, lies, hypocrisy, ignorance, neglect.

We used to be able to report massacres done by Assad across Syria. I used to memorize faces and dates; I used to memorize videos as well and tell each video from which massacre and which city/village. Now my memory is on “replay”. Every image, every terabyte of agony is on replay. I cannot remember all the martyrs anymore, all the faces of the detainees, all the massacres and their dates, all the families and people who in every other video yell in pain and rage because the world doesn’t hear their cries.

I’m not desensitized, and I everyday try not to ever get used to death… Because the moment we don’t care anymore, the moment we lose the spark of pain in the heart – that excruciating feeling as though someone is clutching your heart – that my people are dying everyday by Assad, by ISIS, by Hezballah, by Lebanese army, in the seas and oceans, in dungeons, in refugee countries, by bombardment…. The moment we get used to death is the moment we lose the battle not only with Assad, but with our very own humanity.

More than 50 martyrs still die daily in Syria. More than 50 families mourn their beloved deaths everyday; children are orphaned and women/men are widowed. Tens of families have missing family members in some spot in Syria, either being tortured, maybe executed, or buried in some area where all that will be left for the families to recover are hollow bones and skulls someday somehow. Hundreds are maimed everyday, amputated limbs, lost eyes, paralyzed… Hundreds of women scream in pain in dungeons as they are severely tortured by regime’s culprits, ripped of every bit of hope they put in a world that betrayed them… Thousands of men and women are armed and fighting Assad, fighting ISIS, battling with the world, sleepless, cold, exhausted but persistent. Hundreds of thousands of children forgot how to read because of the years lost of their lives without education as Assad’s war destroyed more than 1,500 schools across Syria. Refugees die because of hunger, or pain, at many times winter; some beg in streets for food, others force their children to work…

Assad lost us generations to come. Generations that only us could allow to rise again with care for their psychological and physical wounds and with education. It isn’t the refugees, the displaced, the former detainees, or the paralyzed who need us: it is us who need them. We need them to keep the revolution alive in us, to keep it alive despite everything.

I will go back to writing. I don’t care if this will ever be read or not. But I want to make sure that maybe someone in this world would one day, whether soon or in the infinite future, search “the revolution in Syria” and find that I, Enas, had something to say about my people, or at least tried to…

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