The Arab Spring was a misnomer. The word spring suggests hope, birth, renewal and life. Oh yes, perhaps that was the intention, but the reality was somewhat different.
The stifling heat, the dust, the relentless sun which baked the earth to a cracked, hard shell, the subdued voices, the hollow faces of people who had lost everything, family, homes, villages and hope. These images are forever printed in my memory.
My name is Sham, I am Syrian, and life changed forever when my family and I were forced to flee our homes and seek refuge in one of the huge camps set up by Humanitarian Organisations from across the Globe.
The compassion and care shown by these volunteers, regardless of their own comfort and safety, cannot be overstated. Day after day, the routine was the same: more broken-spirited people arrived, and we all tried to offer and support each other in whatever way we could.
The unspoken questions milled around my head:
Was there any future for my family and me?
Why had this happened?
Would it ever end?
One day, an official came to our tent. She had papers and a file and a face full of kindness and warmth. We could not offer hospitality, other than water, and bade her enter and join us. Our family consisted of my parents, my grandparents, my younger brother, my younger sister, and Khalil, my husband of 6 months.
I should explain. I am a doctor. I am fluent in English, as is Khalil. The lady directed her conversation to us.
She explained that for our family, our time at the camp was over. We were all being given status to move to a new land, her homeland. It was a country called Scotland, in the north of the United Kingdom.
That was eight months ago and thousands of miles away. Another world, another planet.
It is May, Spring. All around me, there is life. This place is called Glen Rosa on the island of Arran, on the West Coast of Scotland. The place I now call home.
Above me, the sky is blue, white clouds chasing each other like playful children across the vastness. Towering forest-clad hills rise above the valley, leading to the Mountain called Goatfell and the Sleeping Warrior Range. On the slopes, a herd of wild deer emerge, young ones shy and tentative, exploring under the watchful eye of their elders. Sheep and newborn lambs dot the hillside. Birdsong fills the air, and high above, I see a golden eagle circling and watching for unsuspecting prey.
But it is the colour that enraptures me. Eyes that had only seen ochre and sand and greys are now bedazzled by every shade of green. It is a wonder to me. So lush and verdant from the tufted grass I am sitting on, to the green of the pine forest and the trees which have just unfurled their leaves.
Wild flowers are starting to appear. Every colour of the rainbow, bluebells, red campion, wild primrose, wild garlic and many others whose names I yet don’t know.
The Rosa Burn tumbles through the rocks down into the valley, its rippling tune adding to the other sounds filling the air. Life and birth are in abundance in this magical place. Peace, tranquillity, and hope can now begin to fill those places in my mind where darkness and despair have lingered for so long.
My hand covers my belly, where a new life was created in early spring.
A promise of Hope and Peace.
