Ramadan in the eyes of a Syrian refugee by Abdul-Aziz Ali Omer

“Three passions: simple but strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge and the un-bearable pity for the pity of suffering of mankind. These passions like great winds have blown me hither and thither over Deep Ocean of anguish….” With these words of the British philosopher Bertrand Russel, the sun shone outside my house in Lebanon. The sea beckons to me but there lurks the danger of an explosion somewhere. From Beirut, I started to prepare to a visit to Jordan to report the story of Syrian refugees .As my friend , Bassam picked up from Jordan Airport, I felt worn out but I had to write in my diary some things that differs from what Nazar Ghabani, the Syrian poet wrote after a futile research of his love:”I didn’t find the signs of your foot-prints in all hotles”,I found them among a bundle of belongings in the refugee camp. Early in the morning , I drank some tea and discussed some issues with my colleagues in B.B.B press office and then they left me a lone and several questions shattered my silence.: Where is my Lebanese neighbor cross that dangled from his bare chest and sparkled like a bride’s necklace?? Where are the china dishes on which we ate with boundless appetite? Where are the colored prayer beads of many friends whom I knew over the years? The phone clanked in the office and as I lifted the receiver, someone introduced himself as my grandfather from the refugee camp. I recognized his voice on the spot. He was my grandfather whom we missed in the government raid on the suburbs of Damascus. After an hour, I was with him chatting and drinking cups of instant coffee. He couldn’t help reflecting on those days in Syria where he enjoyed the breeze in a house that looked out over a hill, the bird’s shelter in the evening. One mid-day, waking from his nap, he was saddened by what greeted him: scorched grass and crying birds. He couldn’t think of the culprit without a feeling of anger and injustice that fell on the birds that ceased humming in protest against man-made fire. I gathered from him that my mother was still alive. She became what she yearned to be: a teacher of sewing, religion and Arabic handwriting for women who wanted a return to Syria. A joy that I can’t explain took hold of her as she discovered that her son is a journalist. After the long-awaited embrace between lost and found son, the jubilant mother took it as an opportunity to promulgate her modest view” I have learned to be a better student but not a good teacher. One thing will follow me even to the grave that is my fretting ignorance .It is the ray of every new knowledge. She said. She asked me to join her group of female students. “Water and salt” she said in a mellifluous voice and then committed that to the blackboard. It was the slogan of Palestinian prisoners who went on a hunger strike. The camp was a place in which the pulse of life in Palestine and Syria beat strongly. An old Palestinian women with creased bow said “The Israeli army left no stone un-turned merely for the disappearance of 3 Jewish settlers. The Arab blood is cheap “she added and wept at saying goodbye to me. She was my mother favorite companion. I persuaded my grandfather to live with my in the outskirts of Beirut until peace comes back to Syria. While, my mother insisted with un-swerving commitment to continue her 6 month contract of teaching refugee women in Jordan. One thing that a admired me in her personality is that she shares British philosopher Bertrand Russell one of his humane traits: namely his intolerable pity for the writing humankind. I trust that you also have the same passion