I would have to wait more than a decade to see my cousin Lujain again. That last time, we were teenagers; I was 16 and she was 19. It was the Easter holidays in 2010 and I was in Syria on holiday with my mum, dad and brother. My dad is Syrian and every few years we would go to Damascus to visit my grandmother, aunts, uncles and cousins. I looked forward to seeing them and we were always able to just pick up where we left off. After the war began in 2011, my Syrian family became displaced around the world.
Lujain and I began reconnecting online in 2020 during the pandemic. She now lives in Canada with her husband, Hasan, and their two little boys. Together, we began to explore our differing memories of Syria – mine full of nostalgia and Lujain’s fragmented and painful. A lot of families go through a natural separation over time; people emigrate in pursuit of a career or different lifestyle. The difference with our family is that this physical distance was never a choice – the decision to leave Syria was based on an instinct for survival.
In February 2023, I flew from the UK to Canada and we were reunited for the first time since the war began. When I landed, Lujain was waiting at the airport to pick me up. We were both nervous. We are different people now; we’ve grown into adults under very different circumstances. It felt surreal to finally see each other in person. But we shouldn’t have worried. “Seeing you now, it doesn’t feel like there has been a gap of 13 years,” Lujain told me. “It feels like I’m chilling with my best friend.”
During my stay with her in Canada, Lujain told me of her struggle to find new, meaningful connections in her adopted home country after leaving her friends and family behind in Syria; of the pain of losing those relationships: “I knew I was not going to see them again. I wasn’t saying ‘I’ll see you soon’. I was saying ‘goodbye’.”
One of the things we explored together was the long-term impact of war. Not just the initial death and destruction or the displacement of thousands of people, but how war continues to traumatise and impact every relationship long after it ends. The experience of war changes everything about a person. “I haven’t found peace yet, but I’m getting there,” Lujain said. “My main focus right now is my family and my career.”
When she came to Canada, Lujain had to build a whole new life for herself. She began documenting her experiences on social media and now has over 200,000 followers. When she first started, she focused on makeup and skincare, something that helped her navigate the culture shock she experienced upon leaving Syria. “I was trying to fit in – and creating beauty content was one of the ways I did that. But it wasn’t who I am; I wanted to get back to my authentic self,” she told me. Now she creates online English lessons for Arabic speakers, a tangible way of helping others like her who have had to start over and learn a new language. She has also found comfort in her relationship with Allah and began wearing the hijab for the first time. “It felt like a clean slate. I have always had faith, it just wasn’t as strong as it is right now.”
Seeing how much Lujain has overcome has been staggering. I will never completely understand what she has been through. While it felt like we were finally able to gain some closure on the lost years, seeing Lujain again has also brought up new questions for me. I have always wondered if the repercussions of war are the reason for the lack of communication between members of my family. Now I understand that people cope differently after trauma – and it’s hard to maintain good relationships with people you are unable to see. I would love to see my grandmother, who is still living in Damascus, and I wish my dad was able to see his family again, most of whom he hasn’t seen in over 10 years. It has been hard to come to the realisation that we all may never be in the same room again.
The time Lujain and I shared together over my two weeks in Canada was profound. Before we were reunited, our memories of our time together in Syria felt like a dream. It was as though they weren’t real; we couldn’t really remember what it was that made us close. Saying goodbye was hard – the memory of our farewell 13 years ago came rushing back. But finally, it felt like everything had clicked into place and we could see a future where we could return to our yearly visits, picking up where we left off.
Laura Wadha is a Scottish/Syrian documentary film-maker and graduate of the National Film and Television School. Her film Born in Damascus was commissioned by the Scottish Documentary Institute and Screen Scotland and won the Berlinale Crystal Bear for best short film 2022
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