Tired and a bit lazy, I hid between two pistachio trees, avoiding the mountain of work calling my name. The sun blazed and the warm winds grazed my cheeks as I sat on the bare earth. Off in the distance, I hear my mom call my name followed by muffled obscenities about my characteristic avoidance to do chores. After hours of antagonizing the farm goats with my cousins, I make my way home, lured by the promise of food. Staccatos of pots clanging blend with a symphony of Arabic voices, comprising a portion of my childhood.

My dad’s village, Taybat al-Imam, is a village in central Syria outside the city of Hama. In order to connect with our roots, my parents would take us to visit every summer. We were exposed to a completely different way of life, one that was simpler. People spent their days working on their land and caring for their animals. It was not uncommon to see a donkey roam the streets without its master while mischievous children clamor for a ride. Five times a day the call to prayer would ring through the streets, and people would stop working to walk to the mosque to pray. Family and friends would use this time to rendezvous and exchange pleasantries that the day’s labor would not allow. Religion, family and neighborly love were valued and held.

Word got around that there were four new kids from America in town. Expecting a warm welcome from the local kids was like expecting a kiss from a bee sting. Apparently, a Michigan accent was hilarious; subsequently, relentless teasing ensued. My Arabic, rusty at best, suffered at the hands of my cousins. From there, the need to improve became my sole purpose as I did not take well to jokes. Eventually, I improved enough to be considered one of the “cool” kids and was allowed to chase donkeys like everyone else.

Entrenched in the roots of each tree was a people’s pride and culture that I saw firsthand, and it has become a part of me. However, as footage of a desecrated Syria riddled with ruins plays on every media outlet, my nostalgia rises as I remember a time when salaam, peace, was prominent, and the people stood by it; a time when the streets were clean and families were whole. Houses stood proudly along with the people. The farms and trees that the people worked on and cared for their entire lives thrived. However, for salaam, for peace, none of that survived.