A Walk to Myself
Aziza Marini – Syria

Deep inside Souk Hamidiyah there’s an old Damascene house.

It’s a museum now.

One hundred and fifty Syrian pounds gains me entrance into its courtyard where a fountain greets its guests.

Three little girls sit on its ledge smiling for their mother’s camera.

Inside, mannequins pose in painstakingly hand-sewn thobes, Middle Eastern dresses of old,

their heads covered in vibrant, flowing scarves, more alive than they are.

In their dresses, I recognize my grandmother weaving a folktale with her rainbow thread. But seamstresses have been assassinated by machines.

Where has my culture gone?

When was it locked up in rooms, forced behind panes of glass?

In the weapons room, guns and swords stand at attention, saluting a time before modern technology. China plates, once functional, hang on the wall denied their purpose.

Hand-carved instruments – lutes, flutes, and guitars – wait in vain for fingers to pluck them from their silent abyss.

How many joyful notes have those same instruments played at parties held inside these walls? How many celebrating loved ones have been replaced by curious strangers?

Yet, those little girls dance around the fountain even though the melody has faded away.

They float from room to room, learning about a time that has long preceded them.

And they, like me, will unlock a piece, and take it away with them and make it their own.