Rose Had Grown in our Garden
There are many factors for our continued grief, especially when we lack those who were the reasons for our smiles. I wish for everyone to take a moment and read this story and pray silently for the safety of our children.
Many bad moments have come across my experience of working with Syrian refugee kids through the time of war. This story started last year when I received the bad news of the death of one of my students in the school: Mohammed a twelve year old. His smile didn't disappear from my memory for a moment for many days; the plays which he and his friends had performed on the school's stage had amazed everyone. Mohammed was gone. A dirty, malicious explosion hit Tripoli last summer to harvest more than 200 innocent souls when they were praying aljoma'a in Al-Takwa mosque. Mohammed the juice seller was awaiting his destiny and would never know the reason for his death. He died while working selling juice for worshipers in the yard of the mosque.
This year I received another shock when I got the news of the deaths of more than 100 of my students (who I had taught years and years ago in Syria) as a result of another explosion inside Syria. This news rendered me withdrawn for many days as I reminisced about them - these buds of May - with no faults worth being killed for. Many other stories I have been told have deepened the wound of my heart, but the worst is the most recent one, for which I have wished an ocean of tears would burst from my eyes to justify my agony and grief. A'hd, the six years who was one of those children who waited daily to greet me and share her smiles with mine - her angelic countenance, the continued smile of her in addition to her lively soul, couldn't stop death from approaching her childhood kingdom. With heartbreak I received her news, news which tore part of me and ascended uncaring of the feelings of those who loved her. There is such recognition of my weakness now, after I lost this bird of my birds; she decided to fly away on her lonely path, leaving the rest of us alone. Their smiling, playing, holding my hands, their daily hugs and gifts for me gave me a divine feeling of my earthly heaven with those lovely kids. When they cry I cry for them; when they are sad I am sad for them. When they ache I ache for them. Her dad, the humble patient person who came to school to tell the story of her death: Sir, I guess you perceived my lack; I couldn't find the words to reply to a poor man whose eyes imprisoned a huge cry while he told me her story. She was playing with her siblings when a sudden fever affected her. The nearest pharmacist confirmed that she was affected by Meninges so he guided us to the hospital, in a country where the most sublime profession is for trade, there is no need but to prepare your beloveds' shroud. There were no specialist doctors in the hospital. You have to wait for tomorrow's noon. Although they knew that death was controlling her, they were merciless. The next day the monster came - only to say, you must to take her to another hospital; we are in the North, but we have to move her to the South. We were watching her death but the tears didn't help us to save her life, more than two days while we were moving from one hospital to the other, when finally she ascended to his majesty where all the tranquility and peace are found.
There are many factors for our continued grief, especially when we lack those who were the reasons for our smiles. I wish for everyone to take a moment and read this story and pray silently for the safety of our children.
Many bad moments have come across my experience of working with Syrian refugee kids through the time of war. This story started last year when I received the bad news of the death of one of my students in the school: Mohammed a twelve year old. His smile didn't disappear from my memory for a moment for many days; the plays which he and his friends had performed on the school's stage had amazed everyone. Mohammed was gone. A dirty, malicious explosion hit Tripoli last summer to harvest more than 200 innocent souls when they were praying aljoma'a in Al-Takwa mosque. Mohammed the juice seller was awaiting his destiny and would never know the reason for his death. He died while working selling juice for worshipers in the yard of the mosque.
This year I received another shock when I got the news of the deaths of more than 100 of my students (who I had taught years and years ago in Syria) as a result of another explosion inside Syria. This news rendered me withdrawn for many days as I reminisced about them - these buds of May - with no faults worth being killed for. Many other stories I have been told have deepened the wound of my heart, but the worst is the most recent one, for which I have wished an ocean of tears would burst from my eyes to justify my agony and grief. A'hd, the six years who was one of those children who waited daily to greet me and share her smiles with mine - her angelic countenance, the continued smile of her in addition to her lively soul, couldn't stop death from approaching her childhood kingdom. With heartbreak I received her news, news which tore part of me and ascended uncaring of the feelings of those who loved her. There is such recognition of my weakness now, after I lost this bird of my birds; she decided to fly away on her lonely path, leaving the rest of us alone. Their smiling, playing, holding my hands, their daily hugs and gifts for me gave me a divine feeling of my earthly heaven with those lovely kids. When they cry I cry for them; when they are sad I am sad for them. When they ache I ache for them. Her dad, the humble patient person who came to school to tell the story of her death: Sir, I guess you perceived my lack; I couldn't find the words to reply to a poor man whose eyes imprisoned a huge cry while he told me her story. She was playing with her siblings when a sudden fever affected her. The nearest pharmacist confirmed that she was affected by Meninges so he guided us to the hospital, in a country where the most sublime profession is for trade, there is no need but to prepare your beloveds' shroud. There were no specialist doctors in the hospital. You have to wait for tomorrow's noon. Although they knew that death was controlling her, they were merciless. The next day the monster came - only to say, you must to take her to another hospital; we are in the North, but we have to move her to the South. We were watching her death but the tears didn't help us to save her life, more than two days while we were moving from one hospital to the other, when finally she ascended to his majesty where all the tranquility and peace are found.
