I don’t know how to start this section. How can one summarize 28 years of life, with all its good and bad? But I will try. I grew up in a small town in a country that is now torn apart by war. As a child, I was someone who didn’t enjoy the usual activities. I didn’t like to play the typical games with other kids. Instead, I enjoyed things like breaking glass, collecting tadpoles from the river, playing with mud, hiking up the mountains, throwing stones at other kids (as part of a "war game"), annoying my grandfather by blocking the water source he used for his farm, and throwing fireworks to blow up things like cans and glass bottles. I had a fascination with lighting fires, and because of this, I once burned down an entire classroom. An investigation was launched, and I was fined 300 dollars at the time. This is the kind of stuff I enjoyed. I didn’t like order (which is the opposite of me now). I didn’t like school either. I always despised the schooling system. I hated the authority of teachers and caused problems with many of them. One time, I was hit 12 times with a stick on my feet because I participated in blocking the door when a teacher was entering. I didn’t like people who sat in the front rows, and I didn’t like being ordered around by my parents or anyone else. I was a skinny little boy who got bullied and beaten up a few times. It was enraging and scary at times, but I think there is some power that comes from facing such experiences and overcoming them. They toughened me up (or at least that’s what I think). My parents were typical Middle Eastern parents who liked to compare me (their eldest son) to anyone who did better than me. I think this is the first thing I’m writing about them because it’s the first thing that comes to mind when I think of them (maybe it left a lasting impression on me). Going back to my school years, I didn’t do well. I didn’t like to study, but I knew I was smart and could do something. Still, I didn’t want to be in school. Occasionally, I would excel in some classes, depending on the teacher. I was once really good at Arabic, mathematics, natural sciences, and physics. But it all depended on who was teaching. When I was 9 years old, I entered a mathematics competition with a team and won first prize, though I don’t know how many teams participated. I was the leader of the team (I still don’t know how I did it, and I don’t particularly enjoy leading teams now). But this might give the reader an idea of who I was. I used to get really excited about escaping school with my friends. It was full of adrenaline, and I did it countless times. When we escaped, we would buy breakfast and cigarettes and head to the farm. There were two main places we used to go. The first was my friend’s family farm, and the second was a small room on the mountain that overlooked the whole town. Both places were nice and relaxing. I’ve always been the kind of person who likes to learn things on my own. When I was 14, my dad started taking me to an empty road to teach me how to drive. It didn’t go well because my father was an angry person. We went there three times, and each time he would end up shouting at me for making mistakes, and I learned nothing. So, I decided to learn on my own. Every other day, I would wake up at 6 a.m., steal the car keys from his pocket, and drive to teach myself the basics. He had a grey 2007 Ford EcoSport manual, and it was nice to drive. Every time I drove, I learned to do it better. One day, I started parking the car on a ramp and trying to move it without rolling backwards. Then, one day, I stole the car, and while I was out, airstrikes started shelling the city. I was near the farms, an area the opposition usually targeted, and the regime often shelled it. I didn’t know what to do because I had stolen my father’s car, and I feared it would get damaged. I parked it in a spot where the mountain might shield it from damage. That day went fine, and I returned home unaffected. So, that’s how I learned to drive. I grew up in a religious family, and I was religious too. While the other kids were playing, I would often go off on my own to pray. In 2011, the revolution began in Syria, and I had the privilege of participating. We started with small protests at night, wearing masks, for about 15 minutes before the military forces arrived. We had people assigned as observers near the army centers. When the army was alerted, they would rush in their cars, and the observers would call the protesters to run away. This was the early stage of the revolution in Syria. It continued like that until the revolution became armed, and my town was freed from the regime’s control. During that time, I was just starting high school, but the revolution gave me yet another excuse to skip school. The regime’s military would invade every few months to arrest wanted people, which was terrifying. They would enter with tanks and full troops, and I still remember the loud noise and the marks left by the tanks on the asphalt. The entire city would fall silent for the duration of the invasion. Afterward, the army stopped trying to enter the city because of the resistance. Every once in a while, the military bases outside the town would randomly shell us, and people would die. At other times, fighter jets would drop bombs, and that level of destruction was something else. A fully intact building could be reduced to rubble in seconds. To be honest, there was a strange thrill in witnessing those moments. I think the worst part is losing someone you love or seeing someone permanently injured, but thank God, I only lost four friends (though that’s still too many). The strange part was sharing food with family or friends in shelters on cold winter days with no electricity. Despite the circumstances, it felt warm and exciting. When a tank or artillery far away fired, we would hear two blasts—the first when it fired and the second when the shell landed. If the time between them was short, it meant it was close to us. If we only heard the first blast, it meant the shell had already hit, and you were dead. We would hear the first blast and start counting until we heard the second, trying to guess where it landed. I know this sounds dark, but believe me when I say there was some strange joy in it.
In 2013, I joined a group of university students and graduates to learn about weapons and battle tactics. We read books that were guidelines of the American military, and we had access to weapons for training. I don’t think we were planning to participate in the conflict, but it was part of a plan to defend the city in case of an invasion. I trained with multiple weapons, excelling in snipers. I loved using scopes and the satisfying feeling of hitting distant targets. My longest shot was a cardboard at about 900 meters. I trained with weapons like the AK-47 and the Dragunov sniper. The main focus of this training was also building our bodies physically. It was fun and useful on many levels. I would never regret doing it. In March 2014, the regime’s military began a campaign to invade the town. The resistance started to prepare, and people began evacuating the city. Within three days, the city had no women, children, or elderly left. Everyone left except for the young men who either wanted to fight or just stayed for the sake of staying. I left with my parents to Lebanon to help them, as my grandfather had broken his hips. I was confused emotionally about what to do, but I couldn’t bear leaving my town and friends (a decision that was purely emotional at the time). I insisted on going back. I still remember the day my father dropped me off to meet a person (whom I didn’t know) who would take me back to Y. My father gave me money, and I think he had a tear in his eye. He was deeply worried, and I remember it vividly. Looking back, I realize how foolish my decision was because my parents were sending their 16-year-old son to war. But, anyway, I’m still alive. So I went back. I won’t go into details, but it was a tense time, and I was very close to getting shot. I lost four friends that month. Eventually, the resistance couldn’t hold the city, and we were told to evacuate. I remember going to my house for a final look, deciding what to take with me. Everything was there: the carpets, the couches, the TV, utensils, our clothes, my siblings' toys, my PC—literally everything. It was 2 a.m. in the morning, and I didn’t know what to take. In the end, I decided to take only some clothes and the photo albums of my family. I don’t know why I chose that, but I thought that maybe the house would be robbed or destroyed, and at least I could carry some memories with me. That was the last time I saw that house. I left with my cousins to a small, rural town. I didn’t even know the person who hosted us; they just wanted to help. The owner had a sheep farm, and they were incredibly generous. They made us breakfast, lunch, and dinner for two days. I still remember the taste of their breakfast, made from the farm’s produce. After that, we found someone to take us through the mountains to Lebanon. I remember being in the back of a truck, covered with blankets, the snow on the mountains around us, and the sky clear. I spent the whole time looking at the stars. My parents were in a different city in Lebanon, so I was heading to a different place. Technically, the place we stayed wasn’t ruled by any government, just the locals who were burglars and had their own weapons and rules. I stayed with my cousins for two weeks in a small room at a petrol station. It turned out that the person who hosted us was planning to have us arrested by the police when we tried to enter Lebanon—and that happened. My cousins got arrested by a Lebanese militia, but I didn’t. They checked my name, and fortunately, my surname was similar to those who ruled the area, so they might have thought I was one of them. And that’s where my story with the war ends. But after that began the traumatic experience of living in different countries. I lived in Lebanon for a year with my parents and my uncle’s family, all in one house. We hated it because my family and my uncle’s don’t get along. I smoked cigarettes a lot and would sleep at 6 a.m., waking up at noon. I did this because I didn’t want to spend time with them. For some reason, I felt an urge to learn hacking and started learning some basic techniques. But I didn’t accomplish much because I used my uncle’s son’s laptop, and both the internet and the laptop were too slow to be effective. A few months later, my mother and siblings decided to return to Syria for a while until we figured out what to do. I stayed with my father and moved to another house. He spent his nights playing cards and smoking cigarettes with friends, which was nice because it made us feel accompanied. But I began to feel like I was losing the sense of freedom I had. When I was in Syria, I never stayed home for long. My parents would beg me to spend time with them, but I would always be out with my friends. In Lebanon, I spent most of my time at home—and those who know that place understand why.
I don’t remember much about how I used to spend my time, but most of it was filled with hopelessness. I didn’t know what to do or where we were heading. Then, at some point, we decided to go to Turkey temporarily. We went there because my friend was living there, and he often told me that it was a good place to live. He encouraged me to convince my parents since living in Lebanon wasn’t useful for anyone. So, we decided to travel to Turkey, and that’s when most of the things that shaped who I am today started. My parents couldn’t afford to live there, so my mother had to sell her gold to cover some of the expenses. They stayed there for three months before they were able to go to Saudi Arabia for work. I couldn’t go with them due to visa issues. My friend encouraged me to stay and study with him. At that point, I had no high school education, and my last certificate was from the 9th grade. I couldn’t continue my education, and to enroll in university, I needed a 12th-grade certificate and an additional examination, which included math and IQ tests. Before my parents left, I would visit my friend, and sometimes he would be studying thick books full of IQ exercises. The exam measured how fast one could solve the problems. I looked at them and was able to solve many without studying. My friend started encouraging me more to stay, and since I couldn’t leave the country anyway, I decided to stay. Since I didn’t have a 12th-grade certificate, I needed one. At that time, the government allowed Syrians to take a four-hour exam covering everything. This was a collaboration with the Syrian representative organization in Turkey. I took the exam without studying and scored 52 (the passing score was 50). Although the certificate is no longer valid, it helped me get into university after I passed the math test. Afterward, my friend started changing, and I felt alone in that place. I couldn’t speak the language, and my friend became very distant. I had known him for seven years, and we were close, but something changed in him. I confronted him, but he denied it. That was my first heartbreak. Because of this change, I decided to leave the city and went to Istanbul, where I knew some people. In Istanbul, I was torn between deciding to go to Europe illegally or staying there. People around me convinced me to stay, and I was a lost 17-year-old kid just beginning to see how awful the world can be. I lived with many people and moved between houses a lot, often in bad neighborhoods filled with criminals. Turkish people were very racist against Syrians, which made it even harder. I think my religion was the only thing keeping me sane at that point. One day, I met Noah, and he told me he was reading about the devil. Although I was religious and thought it was nonsense, it was interesting to me. We began meeting at the park to talk about our dreams and aspirations. He was an interesting person, and he thought I was too. After a few months, he got a scholarship to study in another city in Turkey. We kept in touch, but less frequently since we no longer lived in the same neighborhood. We are still friends to this day. I kept moving between places and couldn’t focus on studying because most of the people I lived with were factory workers. They had different mindsets, and I felt stuck, so I decided to move a bit further from them. I lived in a dorm and started preparing for the examination. At that point, I met a girl online and fell in love with her without even seeing her pictures. Our relationship was one of the most traumatizing experiences I’ve had. It was on and off, and she would suddenly disappear for months without me understanding why. Later, I learned it was because of her parents. She was the only person I would talk to, and it was painful every time she disappeared. I remember how dark and overwhelming that country felt for me. I had few friends because every few months I had to change houses or neighborhoods. Istanbul, a huge, crowded, and ugly city, was appealing to tourists but not to me. After I took my exams, I got into a university in Istanbul that taught in English, which was something I wanted because I liked the English language and had taught myself. Before starting university, my sister came to the country, and I needed a place to live with her. However, I couldn’t rent an apartment for six months because the locals were racist and didn’t want Syrians as tenants. Around that time, the girl I loved broke up with me, which left me devastated. That was when my hatred for Turkey began to grow to an unbearable extent. Up until that point, I had still been religious, but I constantly felt helpless and hopeless because of my situation and the breakup. Istanbul, with its long commutes, crowded transportation, and angry people, was constantly moving. There was no place there that could feel like home for me. Finally, I was able to move into a house with my sister, and we started to build a small home there. By that point, I had decided I was not staying in that country. I remember one day, deeply torn by my breakup, I went to a local gym to get a membership. When the person there learned I was Syrian, he told me they were no longer accepting Syrians. I went back home and cried violently. A few days later, I found another gym and started working out. I kept exercising for two years, and it was transformative. I gained 12 kilograms, and that was life-changing for me. I didn’t spend much time outside and mostly studied on my own at home. I didn’t even bother going to university because I knew my bachelor’s degree wouldn’t lead anywhere. I started thinking of ways to leave the country, but there was no easy or cheap option. I would occasionally meet with Noah and another friend. Sometimes I’d rent a car for a few hours, and we’d drive to the sea. We would smoke cigarettes and talk about life. We both had a pessimistic view of things, but I enjoyed talking to Noah. Most other people were too dull to converse with. At home, I spent my time reading or learning something new. The rest of the time, I spent with my sister. Sometimes, we would sit on the balcony, drink Yerba Mate, and listen to music. I remember how depressing that neighborhood felt. I hated how the houses were stacked on top of each other, as if the whole area was a giant rat maze. I despised the locals and never felt like I belonged there. In the final years I spent there, I don’t remember much happening, but one significant thing was that I began to lose my faith in religion. Perhaps it all started when one experiences pain and begins questioning reality. When someone witnesses and experiences hatred and suffering for an extended period, their faith in the goodness of things diminishes. I had also started reading and watching lectures on various topics, which exposed me to new ideas I didn’t know existed. One of them was the theory of evolution, which fascinated me. I thought it made sense. I decided to leave religion behind and no longer believed in the existence of God. This shift caused many problems with my parents later on. I don’t want to dwell on this period because I don’t think it’s worth spending more time writing about it.