Belonging Nowhere

Hiba Qasqas

We walked through Old Damascus, trying to find familiarity in the destruction. We wore white helmets to show the resistance that we were human, just like them. During the 2011 revolution, the White Helmets, which were officially known as the Syrian Civil Defense, were a group of ordinary people whose only desire was to save lives. They’ve become a symbol now, but to me, they’re a shield—a fragile barrier between life and death. I saw the busted sign of an old Shawarma shop I had visited with my father 25 years earlier. I looked around, longing for the smell of falafel sandwiches or the taste of sweet dates that often filled the streets during this time of the year. All I found was rubble. 

Lina and I passed the bread lines that wrapped around the demolished buildings. The lines were mainly filled with children and orphans. A three-year-old boy was holding the arm of his seven-year-old sister. I recognized her from the clinic; she was the one who fed him, clothed him, and placed a roof over his head, even though it may have only been a piece of cardboard. She sent a slight smile my way. I had reminded her of her father, whose name was also Adam. 

I was born in Phoenix but don’t belong there anymore, not after the collapse. Not after the borders slammed shut and names like mine started raising eyebrows in places they never used to. My mother is Palestinian, and my father is Syrian. I always carried that with pride—a connection to places rich with history and resilience. But when everything fell apart, I wasn’t welcome in the country I called home, not when the world was unraveling and fear was more substantial than reason. I was an outsider in a place I’d lived my whole life. So I left. Or maybe I was pushed out. Either way, I ended up back where my roots had always been. Back to a land that had never been mine but had always been part of me: Syria.

I came with Doctors Without Borders, though not out of some noble calling. At first, it was survival; if I couldn’t stay in the States, I had to go where I was needed. Now, I’m here, patching wounds in a place where hope is a luxury few can afford.  

I entered the makeshift clinic that had been my home for the last two years. We were part of a war that seemed endless; however, we no longer heard the sounds of 2000-pound bombs bombarding the neighborhood, partly because there was nothing left to destroy. There were no longer active traumas that came through the clinic doors. We mainly dealt with dysentery and malnutrition, two things we didn’t have the resources to treat. Our supplies were dwindling. We hadn’t received a shipment in weeks. 

Some called it a man-made apocalypse. Others labeled it World War III. It wasn’t a sudden flash or a singular moment of collapse. It was a chain reaction set off by people with too much power who wanted more—leaders who played with nations like pieces on a chessboard, indifferent to the cost.

They didn’t need bombs to bring the world to its knees. The real damage came after—when supply lines fractured, when governments turned on their people, and when hunger, disease, and chaos filled the void. Cities that had withstood war were hollowed out by desperation. It was the aftermath of unchecked ambition, where the price wasn’t paid in battles but in the slow decay of everything that made us human. And that’s the world we’re left with now.

As we placed an IV in a child no older than eight, we looked at each other, wondering how much saline we should allocate for his cause. He was barely able to speak. No family at the bedside. Nobody was advocating for his survival. An old lady found him in an alley and carried him to the clinic. He reminded her of her late grandchild. 

Lina looked at me, eyes filled with tears threatening to spill over. At that moment, I saw everything I was fighting for. Lina was my reason for waking up each morning, my anchor in a world that had long since lost its balance. She held on even when the world around us crumbled, and that quiet resilience kept me going. She didn’t have to say a word—her presence alone was enough to remind me that something was still worth saving: Lina, and our unborn child.

Lina’s stomach continued to swell. We needed to leave. There was nothing else we could do to contribute to the clinic. The plan was to depart after morning prayers. We secured a ride with the bit of money we had left. The journey north would be treacherous, but it was our only chance to survive. The only way out of Syria was by sea. We were to meet a Bedouin man in Tartus. We would then travel with him through the Mediterranean, hoping that the roaring waves of the ocean would show mercy on us and that it wouldn’t try to take what man hadn’t been able to. 

The Bedouin man stood at the marina, his battered face calm as he waited beside a wooden boat that looked so unstable it made my stomach churn. 

“Europe has been overtaken; you will not find sympathy there. Especially once they find out you’re Americans.” Yet, we are not wanted in America. We are considered traitors; apparently, helping a child in need is treason. 

“Where can you take us?” Lina’s voice cracked as she pleaded.

“We can go to Cyprus; from there, you can get another boat to Morocco. You will be safe there.” 

“Till when?” I said, not expecting an answer. 

“Only God knows.” An Arabic phrase we had heard numerous times since this war began. 

We rode the treacherous sea from Tartus and landed on what seemed to be an unaffected island, with buildings that had seen no destruction along the coast. They must have forgotten this island existed. It had remained untouched—a paradise of sorts. Lina’s shoulders relaxed for the first time in months. Finally, we were able to breathe.

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Chovonna Huyser is a Diné photographer who loves to work with black-and-white film and digital photography. She has encountered different parts of life through urban and rural living and integrates them into her work.

Hiba Qasqas is a writer and pharmacist based in Phoenix, Arizona. A lifelong reader, she first turned to writing as a creative escape, but it quickly evolved into a passion. Her work explores themes of identity, displacement, and resilience, often drawing inspiration from historical and contemporary struggles. She is particularly drawn to storytelling that challenges narratives, amplifies marginalized voices, and reveals the human cost of political injustice.

When she’s not writing or working as a pharmacist, Hiba is a full-time mother to two young children. She is continually seeking to grow as a writer and connect with a literary community that values meaningful, impactful storytelling.