I Don’t Know Why I Remember…

This post is the first in a series of very short memoirs that I will be publishing over the next 10 weeks. These are assignments that I am writing for a creative non-fiction writing class that I am taking this Spring. The first assignment was to write a short story that starts with the prompt “I don’t know why I remember…”.
Without further ado, I present to you my first short memoir:

I don’t know why I remember the day I left Syria heading to the United States. I had been dreaming about this day my whole life. To someone who grew up in a refugee camp, pursuing a doctorate in computer engineering at an American university was a privilege only a few were lucky enough to attain. I was supposed to feel excited and overjoyed, but that morning, I had a sinking feeling of dread, and an overwhelming guilt.

It was the summer of 2013, Syria had been in a crushing civil war for two years. Last year was particularly difficult. The battles had finally caught up with us. We lost our home of 20 years, and had to flee the town where my siblings and I grew up.

I woke up early that morning, wore my fake brave face, and started packing my bags. I remember making silly jokes with my siblings to distract them and myself from the troubled man inside. My mom cooked my favorite dish; It tasted like an inmate’s last meal.

At four that afternoon, it was time to head to the Lebanese border. Damascus airport was shut down, and the only way out was through Beirut. My family insisted on accompanying me to the border. They wanted to savor every minute before international borders and the misfortune of having a Syrian passport separated us. I held on to my brave mask and goofy jokes until the moment I had to hug my parents goodbye. The brave mask fell apart, and I started weeping uncontrollably.

I don’t know if I was weeping over the fact that I didn’t know If I will ever see my family again, or because I felt like I was betraying them and leaving them to face the death and starvation the war brought over while I am selfishly working on my career.

“Stop crying! You are a man!”, the bus driver yelled, interrupting our familial agony. I silently wiped off my tears, got on the bus and we drove to the airport.