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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

Un portefeuille (porte-monnaie) qui est bien garni pourrait signifier beaucoup de choses ... mais grosso modo, c’est la richesse!
Quelque soit les contenues, de l'argent, des piles de cartes bleues, des cartes de services, des cartes d'identité, des coupons, ou tout simplement des souvenirs, c’est toujours une signification de la richesse, tout en correspondant à la relativité subjective.

Le fait que je suis Syrien en France me fait un de ceux qui ont les plus gros portefeuilles… pourquoi?
Tout simplement parce que je suis obligé de porter du liquide pour être acceptable dans le monde de fraudeurs fiscaux qui acceptent pas les cartes bleues (la moitié de la population)
Parce que je suis obligé de porter mes cartes bleues (4 cartes grâce aux questions de stabilité) afin d’être acceptable dans le monde de ceux qui n'acceptent pas l'argent a cause des raisons fiscales par des fraudeurs (l'autre moitié)
pas mal de déplacements quotidiens me forcent de porter une carte de métro, une carte de bus, et une pile des monnaies pour les cases d’urgence…
Puis, pour le boulot, je porte des cartes d'assurance maladie, une carte pour la restauration, des badges, des cartes d’accès et des cartes d’autorisation, et plein de cartes que je ne sais même pas ce qu'ils font (je crois qu’il y en a qui ouvre la roche d’Ali Baba au lieu de « Sésame, ouvre-toi ! »)
De plus, mon porte-monnaie est pareillement chargé par un autre piles de cartes d'identité pour rassurer mon id syrienne, en tant que mon id étudiante interntaionale, et mon id employée en France.
Enfin et surtout, des souvenirs et des souvenirs qui se cachent entre les plis de mon portefeuille, quelques-uns des jalons de ma vie ici, et certains qui détiennent le parfum de ceux qui pensent de moi de l'autre côté de la planète ...

Dans mon portefeuille il ya un petit Armageddon entre tous les mentionnés ci-dessus, ce qui rend mon portefeuille le plus épais, et qui me rend le plus riche ???!!!

It’s a daily period of anticipation that both wise and airheaded could learn from each according to their sharpness, and that’s as we stand there in a foosball-like rectangle awaiting for the metro.
Anyone could easily realize how lucky those whose foot touch the ground of that spot along with the arrival of their “chosen” metro, knowing how they will not have to endure neither the discomfort frustration of awaiting with a bunch of strangers two floors underground, nor the happy teasing smug faces of those who are on the other side of the metro platform as their metro arrives to swallow all of them and hit the “rail” once again… bastards!!

As for me (an unlucky airhead with coarse observation skills and a tendency to unremittingly “amuse” myself), I have started to learn from this experience to keep it as enjoyable as possible.
Therefore, whenever I’m there, I silently look people in the face and categorize them as if they were china on my cardboard’s shelves.

Never-endlessly, there is always a difference PDA-ist couple, but they all share the same behavior that screams out “look at us, we can lick and stick, huggle and suckle, moan and groan, because we’re FREE and our organs are not only to PEE”, and what makes the charade always even droller is the presence of more than one couple, making it feel like a sex contest, and kudos to he/she who hath the longest tongue that slides the furthest into partner’s ear.

When the scene becomes boring and you look further around you’ll meet “Sad and Sadder”, who walk down the stairs as if they have the weight of the world on their shoulders or hanging from their diminishing balls or saggy man-boobs, they come down and they scan the foosball hoping to find someone who’s more pathetic, but they end up tilting their head in disappointment like a widowed clown.

White and blue collars (mostly original French which makes them a minority around here) take a seat to fake a newspaper-reading session, trying to isolate from everyone else including a fragile hot “single” MAMA, a cranky grandpa, a wasted drunki drunkenton, and that airhead that is looking people in the faces to categorize them.

Being to any metro station is 50% of the whole experience of living in France, because there… You get to see it all in 5 to 10 minutes.