On a cold February evening in 2016, I was sitting with a group of friends at a small café in Polykastro, near the Macedonian border, sipping something warm to ease the weight of the long night. I was 17 years old — far from Syria, living in a tent, stuck between borders, and watching my home collapse from afar. I must admit, I didn’t know if thinking too much was good for me then. But thankfully, I did.
At that time, Aleppo was under relentless attack by the Syrian regime — a regime that knew nothing but scorched-earth tactics. It was killing people by the dozens, destroying land by the yard, and setting fire to whatever was left behind. That night, a friend handed me an image of a Syrian girl holding a piece of paper that read: “I wish to grow up and be a journalist to tell the story.”
I remember the heaviness in my chest, the lack of words on my tongue, and the tears I silently held back. In that moment — in the midst of loss and despair — I made a decision that felt undeniably clear: to give everything I had to speak, as if she were me and I were her wish coming true.
By now, you might be wondering why I’m telling you all this?
Mainly, to tell you about her — the little girl in the photo I’ve never been able to find again. As if she was never meant to be found, but instead sent as a message. A silent invitation to take responsibility. A weighty inheritance — and a story that must be told.
Think about it; how many times have you been invited to take responsibility, to speak the truth?
Here, in this very first blog, I’m inviting you once more to take responsibility. You don’t need to be a student of politics, nor an expert judge, to search for reality. You just need a mind that thinks, a heart that beats, and the belief that you are equal to every other human being.