----------------------------------------


Indescribable feeling of horror, that which attacks you at the heart of the night while you cradle the dark and lay your heavy head to a solid cruel soil, protected by a starless sky and the kindness of your closest neighbors, realizing with every clock tick that you're homeless, even worse ... countryless
Sadness takes its toll on your heart, anxiety lays its shades on your heart; leaving you among sour images of your feet skipping carefully across the borderlines between two borderless countries, escaping from your brother into the arms of your cousin
Memory storms back to every single sight you laid your eyes upon throughout the day, the crying innocence of babies in the middle of that no-man's land, the yearning screams of injured victims squirming on thin lines between hope and pain, and other deeply gloomy looks in the eyes of bereaved mothers, heart-breaking orphans, and black-covered widows.
Images come back to haunt you from the day before, loaded with echoes from bullets, and odors of injustice and gunpowder...

At this camp, people have different stories of sorrow, regardless how they all share the courage to survive, and the hope to collect the remains of their shattered dreams, and what's left of their pride.
At this camp, hope is the only magic potion that keeps them alive regardless the fragility of their bodies and the illness of their spirits.
At this camp, hope is you, you who keeps mercy alive by any contribution that holds back the godless hard of cruel fate.

Help giving the warmth of a home to what's left of a family, who left their hearts behind with whoever's left back under panic, dead or missing.
Help getting back the innocence of children, and draw a smile on their small faces and wide pleading eyes.
Help giving a hand to those who are left in agony, without any medical care to their excoriating wounds.
Help quenching the longing of children to mothers' caring hands.
Help providing crumbs to those who need it, and have neither power nor chance to get it.

Help them paving their way back home...
Help giving some of your humanity to your brothers in humanity.

When blood flows more than ink, you know that you are at a time of major crisis, a merciless time where seconds tick askew, accompanied by a rhythmic dance of a Godless chant, animal-like chant on top of ponds of dark burgundy, splattered over spaces of the usual gray; a time that runs frantically to hide hastily from injustice between the folds of an obscure future of a homeland, leaving you with very few options about what to do with what you’ve still got of your heavy gasps, and what you’ve shed of your very soul, so you collapse in your place, helpless and hazy, and you start forming letters with your own gushing blood on the walls of the soon-to-be history; so you wither while fading into a zone between the blackness of the day and the light of your potentially last prayers, and you write.

Syria: that beautiful Levantine lady lying every night to a bed of nails across fertile hills, proud mountains, cozy sea shores, and generous deserts; loaded with heartache that has been building up during the last few decades, to reach its peak at the point of explosion caused by unbearable pressure, excruciating injustice, and agonizing maltreatment.
Syria: that land that witnessed the birth of the very first alphabet and the first documented musical piece, under the eyes of gods and goddesses, that terra-firma that survived during days of plagues and deluges under the noses of saints and prophets, is yearning with a hoarse voice for a miraculous providence.

100 days of domestic turbulence, sleepless nights, restless days, and a sea of gloom eating a city after another before it gulps down the entire homeland.
100 days of shed blood flowing down from hundreds of people who were killed for no crime, human sacrifices slaughtered unrighteously and disrespectfully at the altar of “in the name of the country” instead of bringing to justice every criminal of those who hide behind that shield of patriotism
 100 days of children’s laughter covered by heavy gunfire and the squeals of distressed mothers, 100 days of people gone lost and found, or lost without being found, 100 days of uncivil debates between civilians, motivated by phobias fed to them by dirty hands of fate.
100 days ……… and still counting.

We write because we don’t want an extreme opinion to take over ours, we write because we hate to see our alleys where we were raised playing with other kids stained with blood and shame, we write because we don’t want a symbol or a person to take over the glory of the people, we write because we know that when blood flows more than ink, we know that it is your duty to bring back the balance, so we act, we pray, and “at least” we write.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2011_Syrian_uprising