Revolution Journal: My Last Day in Damascus
I still think it was the worst week of my life, even though I had a rough time afterwards. Damascus looked different. It’s amazing how can your love of a place make you feel that it is reflecting your emotions, but in fact, Damascus started to look sad even before. I was leaving the oldest capital city in the world, the place where my heart will always be, and I had to say goodbye; I had to say goodbye to Damascus, to my friends, and to my convenient and good life.
Despite the threats, something told me that I should walk down my streets; the beautiful yet sad streets of Damascus. I couldn’t believe I was leaving the city I had struggled to move to; the city of my best childhood memories, those who mirrored the happiness of that little child before he was taken away from Damascus, before he started missing Damascus, and before he started missing listening to his favorite Fairouz‘s songs in Damascus.
I told only three friends that I was planning to leave. I went to that small bar with the worst drinks in the city, because I knew I will miss it. I went there with my best friend to have the worst vodka anyone can have, and say goodbye. She cried, and I cried, but we knew that I had to do it.
After saying goodbye to my friends, I started saying goodbye to the streets of Damascus while listening to Fairouz. I knew I would miss the sound of Fairouz in Damascus; her songs do sound different there. I went to Bab Touma and started walking towards the place where I used to live with my family as a child. Baghdad Street looked different with the shabbiha around, but even those bastards didn’t scare me enough to leave the place before I listen to my favorite song as child while looking at that old building.
I went back home, and I wanted to say goodbye to the flat itself; to a place I worked hard to make it the way I wanted, convenient, cozy, and “so gay”.
On my last day in Damascus, I cooked molokhiya, my favorite meal. Then, I looked at my books wishing that I could bring them with me. I wanted to have coffee, but suddenly, I had another feeling. I needed my chocolate cake, but I was going to miss my bus to Aleppo. I decided to miss it, and I started making my chocolate cake. I never tried to make it afterwards, and I don’t think I might ever will, unless I go back to Damascus.