It is at this stage of his rehabilitation that we meet him and his family. They tell us about that fateful day, August, 8th 2012, in Zabadani, where they originate form. Cursed day when their house collapsed during a bombing, killing a neighbour and one of their sons. Another man, also hit, was carried to the city hospital where he died, spreading around him rumors of elimination. Ramez lied in another hospital, doctors wanted to amputate his foot, his relatives refused. He was then carried out on a stretcher by his friends and brothers on the mountain roads which separate Lebanon from Syria, and driven to a hospital in Baalbek, where the Red Cross took care of him and gave him first aid. Since then, the family moved into an exile house in the village of Deir Zeinoun. Ramez has undergone more than seven operations and his body is a palimpsest of violence, as if the war should fit into every inch of his skin like an indelible tattoo of the history of his country.
If signs of violence are most visible on the body of the young man fully squared, tied up by the shrapnel, the faces of the family are devastated, marked as if they had all been physically injured. The old father, the mother, the brother mostly, but also young women, and the young brother’s widow, bear the scars of violence. As for the children, there were two, strangely silent that we have not heard utter a word or move. They are like evanescent beings that become transparent, discrete, and solemn; the tragedy felt on their loved ones erased the laughter of kids of their age. They have understood that there are days when it is shameful to dare to be happy. It is an open wound.
Yet, they talk about themselves in a serein way. The family exudes calm and, come to think of it, gives off serenity. I am emboldened to ask them about the their reaction facing so much suffering. They are almost surprised by my question and seem to find it outrageous and they answer me unanimously, telling me they do not have room for such a feeling, but they all carry an immeasurable hope, hope to go back home, hope that Ramez regains his autonomy since he cannot use his hands and has become dependent on his mother. And it is not about complaining on overtime work, but about privacy since the care she gives to her grown up boy goes against the notions of privacy and intimacy between a mother and her son. Those ask neither to drink nor eat, they just want to be able to believe that one of the last remaining sons they have is not sentenced to life to suffering in his body as in his soul. Refugees and penniless, they only have their faith to believe they can provide him with the surgeries he still needs.
This is the particular story of a Syrian family and yet it is the story that many other families could tell because there are times in human history where tragedy is nothing more than a facet of everyday life.
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