ARRIVING home one chilly February morning, 75-year-old Nader, a Syrian native, returned to found find six unannounced guests. Cramped into the crowded space he shared with several relatives, he looked up undisturbed, and gave a warm smile and a “welcome”.
Nader was a teacher, poet and war veteran, but above all, he was a proud man. He gestured for us all to make ourselves comfortable amongst the old blankets and cushions that lay strewn across the floor of his extremely modest abode, a tiny bare-walled room that had previously been used as a shop front.
Towards the back, a large cloth hung from the ceiling, creating a makeshift kitchen that doubled up as a washroom. Another thick curtain hung across the large exposed front; I assumed that by night, its metal shutters were pulled down, confining all of its sleeping occupants to a cold, windowless, concrete box.
Standing before us, Nader exuded a rare nobility that remained untainted by his circumstance. His traditional Arab cloak hung around his shoulders, concealing the mundane Western garb he wore beneath.
A thin white scarf covered the top of his head, wrapped loosely enough to reveal on either side of his temples, the faded blue ink markings of an age-old, distant clan.
Clutching a thick black book of handwritten poems, Nader was ready to perform.
“Read us a poem about love,” my colleague told him. “…hobb?” he replied, the Arabic word for love.
“A poem about love?”
Perplexed at such a request, he flicked through his book and then stopped. “Ah….,” he said, and proceeded: “I went out not knowing my destination as if I had no friends my sadness filled every part of me…”
He communicated an unspoken form of Arabic, rarely heard in general conversation.
“…I have little care for eating and drinking, but I care about those who were by my side… and left.
...it ended when they stoned my house down, there was no home that could shield me from the burning sun…”
He gestured outside towards the sky, past the thick brown curtain that separated it from his home.
He continued: “amaat al hobb afi sadri zamaani… Love died in my heart a long time ago.”
Having fled Syria for Turkey during the war, Nader’s shattered tale told of the heartache he had suffered: for his country, his home and loved ones lost.
Of more than 200,000 lives taken in the Syrian conflict, Nader had lost a son and two grandchildren, and his youngest granddaughter now remained in his care.
Prior to the war, she had also lost her mother.
Nader’s priority now was to protect this young girl’s fragile heart from the painful aftermath of conflict.
“I would give my blood to give her everything she needs,” he said. “Insyaallah… if God wills it… she will achieve her dreams.”
Through perseverance, his prayers were answered, for just a stone’s throw away from his make-shift squalor was a large house, aptly nicknamed “Beity”, the Arabic for “my home”.
It was there that 13-year-old year old Safia, a bright and confident young girl, lived untouched by the paradoxical state of her grandfather’s reality.
At Beity, Safia enjoyed the comforts of sleeping in a warm bed and eating hot, wholesome food, served up three times a day. Beity provided study support, books, clean showers and clothes, and a space to play.
“If she stayed in this cage, she would have nothing,” Nader told us, regarding his own circumstance. “Here, she could go maybe two weeks without a shower.”
Beity was set up by the Maram Foundation, a group of Syrian American activists who wanted to respond to the plight of millions of Syrians caught in a conflict that has now lasted four years.
With support from international organisations, such as Muslim Aid in the United Kingdom, the orphanage currently houses more than over 50 Syrian refugee children, who have lost one or both parents in the war.
“We could never replace their parents,” Beity’s centre manager, Miada Abdi told me. “But here, we treat the children with love — we don’t treat them like they are different from the other kids. We treat them from the bottom of our hearts, like they are our own.”
Greeted with huge smiles and friendly embraces, these sentiments were apparent in meeting the children for the first time — “this is the secret behind all their affection,” Miada said.
Tackling the deeper effects of trauma, Beity worked closely with a psycho support specialist, which had helped the children progress and build on the confidence that had taken a severe blow.
“Let us share the weight so I don’t cry over my displacement!”, Safia had bellowed across a hall of younger children and Beity staff members when we had first met.
Taking centre stage, we had caught her amidst a poem recital. Poised and confident, she gestured heavily with her hands to show the seriousness of her words: “I am not crying for my displacement - I am crying for you!”.
Safia was cheerful and charismatic, with a resilience that echoed that of her grandfathers’. Losing her family, her home and a large fraction of her child hood in the conflict, she was still determined to succeed.
“I want to be a doctor”, Safia said with a striking conviction, when I asked of her aspirations. “When I was young, my dad, God rest his soul, was slightly ill before he died. When he spoke to me, he said: ‘please grow up quickly. I want you to become a doctor and I want you to treat me one day’.
Touched by the whole experience, I relayed my stories back to Nader, and told him of his grand daughter’s passion, fervour and dreams of one day gaining the ability to help others.
Like a proud grandfather, his face wrinkled as he smiled and looked down towards the ground. As his eyes sparkled, he replied: “I cannot describe my joy in words - I see my life through her. I feel like a small child and I’m growing again.…all I can say is: I can see my life through her again”.
And in a short moment, amongst the chaos and debris where Nader declared he'd lost all sight of love; a small glimmer of hope was restored.
Nur Hannah Wan works with an international NGO, can be reached at @nurhannahwan