My mother described the war scene, recounting how empty tanks lined the streets as Syrian soldiers fled their war vehicles, enemy airplanes flying overhead. Everyone in the village of Quneitera evacuated and drudged the long, merciless road to the capital city.

At this point in the story, she stopped fighting her tears and let them down her face. They dried up quickly, though, as the unforgiving wind picked up again. As she continued, I learned that my cousin’s brother had been one of the many who perished in the journey from severe dehydration. Never before had I known that my cousin was a twin.

            The time passed slowly as we went on with our tour of the destruction. How could it not? There was so much to see and so many memories to ponder. We neared the security post at the exit, showed our passports, and carried on back to Damascus, which was an hour or so away. During the quiet ride, I realized this was the same journey the townspeople had taken decades ago (only not in a comfortable, air-conditioned vehicle). What became of those people I may never know, but I do know that my mother leaving her home led to a chain of events which eventually brought her to America and allowed her to give birth to me. The tragedy that was the loss of her home led to the beginning of the wonderful family she has today.

A few weeks later, I was back in the comfort of my own home dreading the return of school as I entered my junior year. Sitting at my desk, I reviewed the many pictures I had taken on my digital camera.

The ones from the village appeared. After a few seconds of contemplation, I held them up to my window to compare the luscious, green landscape outside with the empty, desolate one in the photos.

Something black began moving across the sky. When I looked up, I saw a flock of birds flying overhead. I smiled.