As a Syrian, I was hostage. 

As a Syrian, I was silent. 

As a Syrian, I was afraid. 

Growing up as a Syrian, our minds were hijacked by fear. We couldn't mention the government without being paranoid. The fear was instilled so deeply that it transcended state borders. I grew up spending most of my time outside of Syria. And yet I never heard any Syrian abroad comment on the government. Inside Syria, people were silent. The minds and thoughts of Syrians everywhere were the property of the Assad regime.

After five decades of authoritarian rule, grandparents forgot what it was like to be free. Parents never experienced freedom, and children grew up not understanding the true meaning of the word. When the Arab Spring first erupted, I was excited for Tunisia and Egypt. But when it came to Syria, that fear subconsciously crept in. Basher Hafez Al-Assad was a reformer, I remember thinking. He's much better than his father. I was conflicted. 

How can I celebrate the liberation of other countries and not wish it upon my own? Was I so afraid of the Syrian revolution because I did not know what it was like to be free? Was I standing in the way of my own freedom? Thinking of these questions made me realize that even though I was living in the United States, I still behaved with fear and distrust. I was worried to express my thoughts because when we were young, we learned that the Mahabaraat, Assad's intelligence, was everywhere. 

2003. my brother was 12. We were having dinner at a restaurant in Aleppo. When someone asked him, what do you want to be when you grow up? My brother responds: “The president of Syria!” Within three seconds, everyone on our table panicked. Some were turning their heads to make sure no one had heard. Others were trying to cover it up by changing the subject. I was sitting right next to him and my immediate response was to shut him up. 

Syria was a country where twelve-year-olds could not speak freely. It was the country where parents worried about the unpredictability of their mind. Of their child's mind. It was the country where people did not speak because they were afraid of who might be listening. 

March 15, 2011, was the day of rage in Syria.  It was the first day of mass protests calling for our freedom.  It was the day that marked the beginning of our struggle…to end the silence. The revolution broke the chains of fear. It shattered the cages around our minds. It unleashed our thoughts, our aspirations, our dreams.

In April of 2011, I participated in my first anti-Assad protest in the United States. At first, I was terrified. I was skeptical of every person that passed by that took a photo or asked a question. I was nervous. I didn't want my participation to affect my family members back home. However, after chanting a few slogans, I grew comfortable. I began singing louder and really feeling the words that I was saying. I was immediately overcome by a strange and foreign feeling. I didn't understand what it was until it hit me.

For the first time in my entire life, I was free! I was free to express my thoughts, I was free to speak my mind, I was free to demonstrate. I was free to protest. I was free!

Five years later, that freedom came at a cost. I'm now a refugee in the United States, unable to return home. The media currently likes to depict me as vulnerable and helpless, but they could not be more wrong because, as a Syrian, I now have a voice. As a Syrian, I am now liberated, and as a Syrian, I am now free. 

[Tufts University, Spring 2016, 633 words]