March, 2011 : Some students in the upper grade spray painted bold red words against President Assad on the cafeteria wall. Government forces swarmed our school to arrest them, whipping them right outside of my language class. Our teacher locked us inside the chaotic, frightened classroom, and tried to distract us from the anguished screams.

       “Breathe, just breathe. Just focus on breathing, children. Everything will be okay. In… Out… In… Out… Come on, Amira, breathe. Please breathe.” Mrs. Rima had directly spoken to me, noticing my panic attack. She looked me straight in the eyes. “In… Out… In… Out… Do it with me. In… Out… That’s good, Amira. Keep going.” She squeezed my hand and then walked away to calm other students. We were then later on sent home early. Just the next day, protesters marched outside of my bedroom window, yelling for the freedom of my classmates, shouting for government reform. Mother forced me to shut my blinds, and to not go outside. I was reading my favorite book when I heard the gunshots.

       July, 2011 : I was walking to my best friend, Liliane’s house. Everywhere I looked, President Assad’s face was plastered, along with treasonous slogans. When I arrived, her parents had the news on. On every channel, there was a different country speaking about Syria. Even President Obama spoke about us. At that point, I was clueless about how everyone knew. The protesting didn’t seem that important, or impacting. It was just a few stupid teenagers that decided to rebel. When Liliane’s mother realized I was standing in the doorway watching along, she quickly turned the television off.

       “Oh, Amira,” She said flusteredly. “Here,” she said while handing me a tray of snacks. “Liliane’s in her room, probably listening to music.” She then rushed me up the stairs. I heard her click the TV back on as soon as I was at the top.

       September, 2011 : I was searching around the house, trying to find my mathematics textbook. I had just finished rummaging through my backpack and looking under my bed when I remembered that I was doing homework in Mother and Father’s room during last night’s thunderstorm. Karam, my little brother, and I were frightened by the loud noises, and immediately went to Mother seeking comfort. When I entered their room, it wasn’t on Father’s desk, where I left it.  I decided to look through their dresser drawers. The first few drawers were just filled with random items that they had no place for: flashlights, extra batteries, old birthday cards from friends and family members we never see. However, when I opened the very bottom-left drawer, I was shocked at what I found: a gun. I had never thought my father the type of person to own a gun. When he came home from work, I asked him about it. He told me he just got the gun recently, and it was to “protect our family from what’s currently happening”. At that point, I still had no idea as to what was happening, and I pestered him for more answers, but he brushed the topic away.

       “Amira! Leave it alone!” He said with a red face as he stomped away. “It’s just something I have to do.”

       March 2012 : I had just finished reading the ninth chapter of a new book I had gotten. Liliane was sprawled out on her bed, listening to music. It was nearing towards evening, so I decided to walk back home.

       “Bye, Liliane.” She didn’t hear me. “Bye, Liliane!” I said a bit louder. She still didn’t hear me, so I gave up. I slipped out of her bedroom, and into the kitchen to say bye to her mother. When I got down the stairs, her mother was watching the news, as usual. I was walking out the door when the TV grew louder and bold headlines flashed across the screen. I turned around to see what the issue was. The newscaster’s voice was serious and concerned.

       “Rebels have been spotted in northern Daraa. Citizens are rushing into their homes, terribly frightened. Teams have been sent out to find the rebels. The cast here at the news station is sending their thoughts towards you. We hope that everyone remains safe.”

       I was frozen in place as I tried to comprehend this information. I lived in the northern part of the city. That’s where my home was, where my family was. I rushed out the door, not bothering to close it. I ran as fast as I could, my backpack harshly bouncing up and down, bruising my back. On every street I ran on, I saw my neighbors hurriedly getting into their cars, or locking the doors of their houses. Just as I turned the corner to the street of my school, I heard an ear-piercing boom. I had been running so fast that I didn’t realize that President Assad’s aircrafts were circling above me. I was on the floor, completely overcome by the force of what had just happened. I looked in the distance, towards my house. I was only a couple minutes away. That’s when I realized what that boom was. I saw smoke and flames rising up from my street and people running away from it. One would think that I too would try to escape the dark smoke cloud that was then approaching, but I got up from the cold concrete and ran faster towards my house. As I ran, thoughts of my family flooded my mind. Are they safe? Are they still at home? Did the bomb hit the house? Is Karam okay? Another boom. This time in the same spot as before. The temperature rose as I ran closer to home. I reached a street that should have been mine, but I couldn’t exactly tell where I was. The street signs were knocked down and flaming. My vision was heavily clouded by smoke and ash as I looked around, trying to find my family. All of the homes were on fire, and I still prayed that it wasn’t my street. I turned to my left and that’s when I saw it. There my house was, in flames, the left part broken off and completely blackened by fire. I was on the hot ash floor, crying, when I was later lifted by a rescue man and placed in a van.

       April 2012 : I was staying in a rescue shelter for the survivors of the bombing a month back. It was awful. Syria had lost a lot of money and resources from trying to rebuild my street, so the shelters weren’t high quality. I had never lived in poverty, or wasn’t given necessities. In the shelter, I slept on an undersized cot, and was only given two meals a day. I quickly became malnourished, and unhygienic, for I was only permitted a shower a week, if I was lucky. Aside from physical inconveniences, I was always sad. Without my family, I didn’t feel I had purpose to life. I hadn’t heard from Liliane, leaving me without anyone close. I needed to escape. Living in Syria was such a burden. It was just a constant reminder of all that I had lost.

       June 2012 : Throughout the past months, the amount of bombings increased. Many survivors had fled to either Turkey, Lebanon, Jordan, Egypt or Iraq, including me. Despite my crippling depression, I was able to find a family in the rescue shelter that agreed to help take me to Turkey. The commute was one of the worst things that I had ever experienced, and I had been through a lot. We snuck out of our shelter during the night. There wasn’t any security or night watch, so it was extremely easy. The next week was filled with long train rides and the danger of being caught or bombed. Without any shelter or food, many of the other refugees on the train died.

       February 2015 : I had been living at various refugee camps in  Southeast Turkey. For a month, I was relocated in Iraq, but I eventually came back. I was living in poor conditions for almost three years, but luckily, I had started the process of coming to America. I had already had a few meetings with members of the United Nations, and was going to have more interrogations with the FBI and Homeland Security within the next couple months.

       December 2015 : It took many interviews to get where I had gotten. I was in an airport with a coordinator from America, and had just gotten off of a plane. I was in America; the United States; the land of the free; the place where everything is possible — and it felt great. Sure, I was still in pain from the loss of my family. And sure, I was greatly fatigued from the 36 hours on various planes, but after everything I had been through the last few years, I deserved it. It sounds selfish because of all of the other people still suffering, but I deserved it. I deserved to be in a safe place. I deserved to be in a country with a fair leader, where my basic needs were tended to. I deserved it.

                                   *     *     *     *     *

       Now, I sit in my room, looking around at the poorly lit space. It’s small, and I live with a complete stranger, but it’s special. Living in refugee camps has done a lot to me. In Syria, I had felt trapped. I had felt unsafe and vulnerable. Now, in America I feel completely protected. I feel as if I could accomplish anything. After all, I did survive a bombing, and about 3 years in many refugee camps. I’ve only been here for a week, but I feel like this is my chance to start over, to create a new life. I think of my family, now resting peacefully. I’m now 13, all grown up. They’d be proud of me.

       “I love you,” I imagine my mother saying in her sweet voice. I blow out the candle on my miniature bedside table before I roll over and begin sobbing myself to sleep, a situation I’m all too familiar with.

       January 2015 : I’ve been living in America for 2 weeks now. I haven’t been outside of my house to explore Toledo, my new town in Ohio, yet. However, my foster mother, Carol,  is trusting me to go to the market now.

       “Okay, sweetie. Do you remember what I told you? Start walking that way, and then turn left on Adams, and then right on 11th. Keep walking straight, and you’ll reach the market. You’ll know when you get there, it’s very big. You got that?” Carol says. She can tell that I don’t understand anything that  she’s saying. “Veeeerryyyy biiiiig,” She says in slow, exaggerated words as she looks me straight in the eyes. Her eyes are a bright, beautiful blue, something that I had never seen in real life. I admire her pale complexion. She notices my blank face, and realizes that no matter how slow she speaks, I won’t be able to understand her English.

       “Oh, hell.” She says and laughs. “I knew this would happen.” She’s still chuckling at herself when she hands me a hand drawn map with all of the directions indicated with different colored markers. She then nudges me down the street. “Be safe!” She yells.

       As I walk down the street, I stare at the map in shock. I’d never expect someone to do something this time-consuming for me, especially if it was just for a trip to the market. The American people are so nice! I think as I continue walking, a smile on my face.

       When I arrive at the market, I look around. Carol didn’t really tell me what to get. I notice a lot of people start to stare at me, so I panic and rush to the first stand I see. I turn around. More eyes. More and more eyes. Green, blue, hazel — all placed on palely colored faces.

       “Get out of here, you little dirty terrorist girl,” a tall man says. I don’t understand what he’s saying, and frankly, I don’t care. I continue looking at the surprisingly wide variety of fruit that the stand has. I pick up one that I’ve never seen before. It has a patchy orange-red color.

       The man looks at the people behind him. “Of course. She doesn’t even speak English!” He looks back at me. I’m laughing now. The fruit that I’m holding is covered in a soft fuzz, and I use it to tickle the palm of my hand.

       “You laughing at me?” The man says. I don’t notice, and continue playing with the fruit. “I asked, are you laughing at me?!” The man says again, this time I notice. His white skin has now turned a bright red, and his eyes have grown larger. He walks closer, and closer. I’m now frightened and begin to tremble. He says something again, but I still don’t understand. “Get out of here!” He’s yelling now, but I don’t know what he wants. “Get out!” He says angrier this time, with a meaty finger pointing towards the direction I entered. I scream and begin running now. “Go back to whatever country you came from, little girl!” I hear in the distance. “This is America!”

       I continue running until I reach my house. When I enter, I’m sweaty and breathing hard. Carol was sitting on the couch reading a magazine.

       “You look tired!” She says, as she stands up and begins laughing again. “Oh, How nice! You got me a peach!” I look down, the fuzzy little fruit is still in my hand. I nod my head and hand it to her before I run upstairs.

       The American people are not nice. Well, except for Carol. I can’t say that that was the most frightening thing that I’ve ever experienced, but I definitely never thought that I would be treated like that in America out of all places. I thought that America was supposed to be a happy, friendly place, and I was so happy to be here. But now? The only thing I long for is to be in my home, my real home. I want lightning to bolt from the sky, and I want to rush Karam to Mother. I wish I never came. I didn’t go through everything that I went through just to be yelled at by a stranger. 2 bombs, 3 years in a camp, and 36 hours on different planes just to come here was definitely not worth it.

       March 2015 :  “Hello. How are you?” My teacher says. “Now, repeat.”

       “Hello. How are you?” I repeat, my accent distorting the words. We continue speaking back and forth until our hour is up. 

       “Goodbye, Amira. See you next week,” She says with a smile as I exit her office. There’s a grin plastered across my face as I walk home. I’m so happy to finally know some English. I finally feel as if I have a connection with these people in Toledo.

       “What’s got you so happy?” Carol says as I walk into the kitchen. I clear my throat in preparation and approach her, the grin still on my face.

       “Hello. How are you?” I ask as I stick out my hand.

       “Oh my god!” Carol replies excitedly. She shakes my hand and jumps up and down. I’m confused, for my speech teacher hadn’t taught me this response, but I just keep grinning. The rest of the night is filled with Carol happily helping me practice my English.

       May 2015 : I’ve been sitting alone at the lunch tables at school. I’m not doing very well in my classes, since I can’t read or write in English. I can barely even speak English. I feel alone and isolated. I’m picking at the yellow slime on my lunch tray when someone distracts me. A girl, slightly taller than me, sits down in the seat across from mine. I’m about to just continue poking my food when I realize: she looks exactly like me. She doesn’t have pale skin and exotic colored eyes. She looks exactly like me. I’m overly delighted, and decide to put my newly learned language to use.

       “Hello. How are you?” I say in shaky English.

       “Hello. I am good. How are you?” She says back, also in shaky English. A smile rushes to both of our faces.

       “I am good, also. What is your name?” I ask.

       “My name is Maya.”

       We continue speaking until we’ve run out of things to say. The rest of the day was great. Maya had been put into my science class. Usually, when Mr. Austin asked our class to pair up for experiments, everyone awkwardly stared at me, and then grouped around me. There was an odd amount of people in our class, so I was always forced to do it alone.

       “Sorry, Amelia,” One girl had said yesterday.

       “It’s Amira,” I replied, but she didn’t hear.

       Today, I had a partner. Today, I wasn’t alone. Today, I’ve made a friend.

       November 2016 : Maya and I are closer than ever. Sometimes, Carol even lets her sleep over. My English has greatly improved, but that isn’t the biggest change in my life.
I’ve realized that I’m glad to be in America. A year ago, if I had been asked if I enjoyed America, I would have said no. I would have said that I’d give anything just to be in that refugee camp again, because at least I would be in Syria. At least I wouldn’t be made fun of and hated because of who I am and where I’m from. At least there, I would be closer to all of the life that I had created.  But now, I realize that I was wrong. Being in Syria wouldn’t bring me closer to my old life, and I wouldn’t be any closer to my family in that refugee camp. I couldn’t be any happier to be in America than I am now. I’ve made a best friend. I’ll never forget Liliane, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to besides Carol. After Maya started sitting with me at lunch, others started to, too. I have many friends now, and I am succeeding in my classes. I only own two English books right now, but I’m happy with what I have. I’m living in a loving home without any more threats. I am proud to be in America.