I spoke to a Syrian woman today

I spoke to a Syrian woman today.

Tears welled up in her eyes
as she told me her story.
One of escape, of her husband’s death at the border.
One of hurt, of leaving her three Palestinian-Syrian children in Jordan,
for their safety.

Her young daughter,
traumatized from the war,
unable to find an appetite.
Phone calls from her kids
resulting in an aching from within.
Children that previously been so well-off, now living a treacherous life.

Her strength illuminated
as she told me about
how she walked eight hours in Samoa
to the camps — the prisons —
The ones with food that would disgust even a dog.

She trekked on to Denmark,
hoping to find some safety, to be embraced for surviving.

She trekked on to Denmark,
only to be contained in a camp, one of 20 women,
fending for herself against 100 men.
Locked in her room out of fear of being violated.
In her camp,
the concept of prostitution is not uncommon.
Selling oneself to be able to pay for a train ticket to the city;
for some extra food;
to provide for one’s family.

All hope runs out.
Humanity does not exist.

I spoke to a Syrian woman today.

Her eyes twinkled as she told me about her land
A land with such fresh fruit, she said, that every other fruit is put to shame.
A land so beautiful, she said, that words cannot do it justice.
A land with people so great, she said, that all others look mediocre.
A land that once was.

A land that shall once again be.

I spoke to a Syrian woman today.

She told me about what she lost.
And, amidst all that, what she gained.
Hope.
A new life.
One that her children will be able to join soon.

And one day, they will return.
One day, she said, they will reclaim what is rightfully theirs.

Syria.