For the Syrian Civil War

Olive branches are a symbol of peace. Olive trees are commonly believed to have originated in Syria.

In the deep heart of Aleppo, I gaze at limestone buildings crafted from human hands. 

Each part of those structures was taken by them–From the Hittites to Byzantines–One by one, brick by brick. Now, they crash and poured themselves into each other and then—fall to the ground, while a whirlwind of brown dust emerges

I watch, from a distant horizon, how it’s funny! Right after the roar of thunder, some of them wander out, some carry brooches and papers, trying to latch on to some sort of identity. Some carry blades and knives. 

I stand in this far-away meadow, still proud and tall-looking

My branches, once riddled with fruit I grew from my arms, once plucked in peace six centuries ago, are bare.

Bare from children crowding around me each day, their dirt-clustered fingers poking my leaves for some sort of thing to eat. Each bare branch a token to the number of tears dripped down to the ground, or the number of naked limbs that were lost

Once, these glistening meadows I rest on were filled with people–young and old. Now, People, young and old–running for days, as they try to flee Assad.

The sobbing sky painted blue, the bloodshed red earth below decorating the earth. Window shutters slam together, tying with them breathed secrets and panic inside. Glass eyes of the houses now veiled, guarding the mysteries that only shadows can overhear. 

This stage now set with a painted indigo sky–though there is no applause, no standing ovation. The sky, now weeping, soaks the ground with iron tears, each one sculpting explosion as it tumbles to the ground

I watch, and watch, and watch, and see

Sometimes, I imagine my entirety–my branches, stump, root, and tree–trembling as they tumble to the crimson ground

My roots channel themselves in dirt and I feel them gouging the soil with rage when they finish their siege. How when I was first planted, there was nothing but a sacred harmony of hope. That was 6000 years ago when I was first planted–when we all believed in the sanctuary of a tree and city, a landmark of peace to thrive where the sun kisses the earth. 

The dust-filled wind spoke to me how he was watered with screeches and screams for weeks. How the people waited for days inside their houses, about how people poured screeches and screams into the air, how survivors ran outside underground shelters eclipsed by rubble only not to know where to go next. But the wind flowed secrets of how people wrapt rhythmic hope onto one another, how they whispered “don’t go inside the schools” because groups of people went inside them with guns and bombs, how they clattered with yellow teeth to the coldness of the night draped over them, but how they laid shawls onto each other. 

Are they really so naive to believe that they can sever this collective spirit of the Syrian people, as if slicing through bread with a spear? 

No. Even my fellow olive trees surrendered their very essence, collapsing to the ground–sacrificing their flesh for the sake of glistening our soil.

The tale of all of us, wood and flesh, intertwined with the fate of this land, persist despite this chaos, a testament to this unwavering strength of the people, rooted in this Aleppo soil, that carries our sweat and bloodshot and sacrifice and bravery.