Dear Country Where My Father Was Born
Krak des Chavaliers
My Love Letter to Damascus.
A collection of reflections — sparked after watching the beautiful short film In Damascus. Written with a deep sense of nostalgia, a feeling only amplified by the news witnessed from afar over the past several years.
Dear country where my father was born,
The country I am so proud to be from —
When the violence first broke out, I never imagined it would spiral into the devastation we see today. Like so many others, I was horrified by the images of war — but also by the political hypocrisy surrounding it, targeting a land so sacred, so spiritual, so rich with culture.
Growing up, I must admit I didn't always appreciate you. Beirut always seemed more glamorous, more alive. You were difficult to grasp at first — chaotic traffic, aging taxis with faux-fur seat covers, drab buildings lit by flickering neon signs.
But over time, after a few road trips and spontaneous adventures, something shifted.
I fell in love.
From the historic streets of Aleppo to the poetic silence of Palmyra, the cultural richness of Hama, and the seaside charm of Latakia — I began to see the beauty beneath the surface. The history, the nature, the food, the warmth of the people. There was so much to discover.
And I often wonder: What happened to the people I met along the way?
A family who welcomed us into their home with endless cups of tea and warm smiles. Though we didn't share a common language, we connected. Maaloula — a rare village where Western Neo-Aramaic is still spoken — was nearly wiped out during the war. I think of them often.
And then there was the woman in Old Damascus who ran an antique shop selling stunning handmade backgammon boards inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Her eyes sparkled with hope for a country slowly beginning to open its doors to the world.
I wish I could find her again — to listen more carefully to her stories, to soak in the scent and sound of the souk, and to honor the craftsmanship passed down through generations.
Why did my uncles choose to stay when so many others fled? They could have easily crossed the border into Lebanon. I imagine their voices now, telling me with quiet conviction that after all they had endured — wars, corruption, loss — if anything else was to happen, it should happen in their own homes.
There's no arguing with that kind of resolve.
These days, I no longer recognize what I see in the headlines. Cities recover, yes — but something intangible is lost. The spirit, the poetry of a place — that takes longer to heal.
Some will say destruction is necessary for creation, that from ruin comes renewal. And maybe they're right. I can only hope the next generation of Syrians brings peace where we have failed.
Still, I carry the memories. They are a part of me — vivid, irreplaceable.
"The spirit, the poetry of a place — that takes longer to heal."
I am proud to be Syrian.
I love you.
And I will always love you.
More than a city. One of the world's oldest continuously inhabited places, a crossroads of civilizations, a cradle of religious coexistence. It once served as the heart of the Umayyad Caliphate and has endured centuries of change. Its soul is woven into the ancient mosques and churches, the souks bursting with colour, the hands of artisans shaping wood and metal, and the deep-rooted traditions of hospitality and pride.
Despite everything, it remains resilient. It rebuilds. It remembers.
May its spirit endure. May its beauty one day rise again.
Ninu Nina · Antakly Projects
Boys Night Out
Boys Night Out a photo taken near Ummayad Mosque by photographer Olof Hoverfalt