I miss seeing this.
I miss watching Baba Amr protests every night in that same street. With girls in dresses made of the Syrian flag and men with white tshirts with writing on them.
I miss seeing the man with the drum as kids jump to the beat and Mohamad Sheikh [RIP], Osama [RIP] or Aloosh or Dal3oub singing.
I miss listening to the speeches and watching “taar taar elqazafi” or the protesters wave their shoes at Bashar as they jump up and down in such coordination it is surreal.
I miss reading the amazing posters, each one more creative than the other.
I miss Nareman, a female in Baba Amr, who shared some of her caricatures.
I miss the camera men most of whom have had to leave or have died.
I felt I was there.
I felt I knew them.
I promised myself I wouldn’t let the revolution go without sneaking in and joining a protest.
But there is little to no people left in Baba Amr.
Dead. Underground in bunkers. Or refugees.
These beautiful children are either dead, orphaned, hungry, cold or homeless now.
Baba Amr is the heart of the revolution.
We should have protected it with our lives.
But we failed.
And as Rami [RIP] said on his last day alive:
“Guys, Baba Amr is being wiped out now, complete genocide, I don’t want you to tell us our hearts are with you because I know that, I want projects everywhere inside and outside I want everyone to go out in front of the embassies in all countries everywhere because we are soon to be nothing, there will be no more Baba Amr – I expect this is a final letter to you and we will not forgive you”