Hamah

It was an unforgettable feeling that nobody can describe. It was zero hour, and we were waiting for our plane at Kuwait International Airport with mixed feelings of excitement and worry, joy and sorrow. We were about to head to war-torn Syria. It is my country, my land, that I love and fear. Our plane arrived and took us straight to Lebanon. At first I felt a huge burden had been lifted off my shoulders. But anxiety was apparent on my face, and when a private car arrived to take my mother and me to Syria, that's when I realized things were about to get serious. We left the beauty of Lebanon with its sea views and adorable farm life of its villages by a traffic-choked road, and there it was - the Syrian border.

Tension and anger were palpable in the air. We were required to pass 15 roadblocks - luckily the driver was a regular and knew how to get us through. When we reached Homs, it was as if the day of reckoning had hit it. Everything - building or house, hospital or school - were mere walls with bullet holes. There was complete silence in a once-bustling city - if you were to throw a pin you could hear it ring all over the city. We were on an empty road in our vehicle, reminiscing about Homs. You could still hear the echoes of children laughing and the call to prayer during Ramadan, all of which had now turned to dust. How was it possible for people to kill and destroy their own blood? Their own fellow citizens?

We made it to Rastan bridge and crossed into the heart of Hama, famous for its luscious greenery, fruits popping everywhere and simple and cozy farm life, all of which have turned into a soulless desert, with random lampposts standing and destroyed homes with bullet holes and roofs caved in from the daily air raids.

After this came a scene that I will never forget. We reached our relatives' district, with army personnel patrolling the streets with pistols on their waists and Kalashnikovs in their arms. When we entered our relatives' home, they gifted me the eidi I had missed - a small sum of money given to youngsters on Eid. The ground then shook and the dark skies were lit up by horrible bombing raids with their roaring sounds. At 6 o'clock, 14 army planes flew above our district, creating streaks in the sky to mark the targets for the jets to strike. This was a weekly event for our relatives, who lived close to the warzone - a 15- to 30-minute ride would take you there. Our hosts kept their spirits high, smiling, praying and comforting themselves and us that all of this chaos was only in the warzone. You could see that this had become a part of their routine.

The first week passed sitting in a paradisiacal garden, and the only sound we heard was of bullets being shot. Then all of a sudden, people returned from the hajj, and they were greeted with a joyous welcome. At night, power was cut off, and the skies were filled with streaks.

Despite these horrors, my mother and I went to visit the old bazaar - it was completely destroyed by bombs and previous battles, yet you can still find little shops intact here and there. People were like zombies, neither alive nor dead, of mixed races and religious affiliations. Most of the people didn't know each other - they were all refugees, traumatized and hurt, and could not afford to trust others any more. The army has informed all shop owners to close their shops at 6 pm daily.

Amidst all this emerged a young boy with the most beautiful face I have ever seen. He ran towards me, begging for a dime to buy bread for his little sisters. I hugged him and collapsed crying. I took him to all the shops he wanted to go to, bought a meal for him and his family and new clothes for all of them. Pickup trucks mounted with guns crossed the street - it was a group of soldiers headed to the warzone for backup. People are very used to such scenes by now. The roads were surrounded by barricades and the buildings were empty shells. Up on the mountain, a new army base has been set up.

The final week came ever so slowly, and it was time to go back to Kuwait on a Thursday morning. We felt that we had left a piece of us in this land. Back in the car, you could only see trucks loaded with weaponry, crumbling government buildings and crushed trees. After arriving in Kuwait, I felt depressed for two long days from all that I had witnessed.

I have a message to deliver to Syrians in Kuwait - love and peace is the only way out of this.

Ibtisam Ayman is a Syrian student born and raised in Kuwait. She recently returned to Syria in order to complete visa requirements

By Ibtisam Ayman