I, and many others like me, never truly grasped the meaning of the terms “displaced person” and “guest” until the day they were applied to us. They hit us like a slow bullet, as we gradually started to suffer from the bleeding, and the many legal and practical consequences. 

When we first crossed the border to Lebanon, its politicians, with whom we share genes, history and geography, insisted on labeling us, people seeking refuge, as “displaced.” The term implies that the person is still within the borders of his homeland. 

Yet, the negative consequences of the label only began to appear later. The rights of a displaced person are not the same as those of a refugee.  And this is what today burns like a scorching sun on the skins of those “displaced.” 

They are not protected by the international right to asylum and cannot return to the dark shadow of the killer’s hammer. They can neither walk forward nor retreat. The dark sea is in front of them, the pressure of politicians behind them, bloodthirst on their right, miserable economic conditions on their left. 

They can only carry the calamities on their shoulders, while residing in a home or tent, fearing an exit may lead to a certain death, or take them to sea … 

Home

I face the same situation here in Turkey, although I carry a different label. I am a guest who overstayed the host’s forty-day welcome. And, contrary to the saying, I have not become a member of the household. Rather I have become a burden.

It is me, the “displaced,” who brings economic trouble, natural and unnatural disasters. I am the traitor of the past, the cause of a bleak future – the one driving the present towards the abyss.

I only go out when I need to, and when I do, I lower my head and avoid passers-by. As if I carry a contagious disease that can spread merely through eye contact. I avoid security checkpoints and barriers. 

I avoid speaking in my mother tongue out of fear it may irritate people’s nerves, which I only want to keep calm. I avoid writing and expressing myself, fearing a mistranslation, or even an accurate one, could kick me back to my savage homeland.

And yet misfortune continues to knock on my door without respite. The latest dilemma concerns my daughter, who is yet to pass childhood. Either she stays at the school where she faces harassment from her peers “for being Syrian.” Or she returns to Syria, the “homeland,” which has bared its fangs ever since her first cry. 

Hammer 

It does not matter if I recount what happened to me and people like me. Most of you know the incidents, or at least heard about them. Also, I will not repeat that you are free to raise your children as you like. It does not matter if you bring up a racist generation, as it will eventually only come back to bite you. 

I just want you to know that it was not my choice to be your guest. Moving away from my hometown was not an idea I originally had in mind. I had no prior or present desire to share dinner with you, to loiter your sidewalks, not even to make my voice heard by you. 

I just wanted a decent and just life. Yet that did not please my ruler. So his hammer struck my head with crushing blows. And I just headed to the first destination that offered me a chance of escape. 

Please forgive me if that destination was near you.

Hope 

Now, years later, I wander in all directions. Yet all doors remain closed. I am searching for the most basic of rights. I am searching for the label “refugee” to erase the troubles of just being a “guest

I am yearning to roam the streets with that label, without the fear of the scorching sun burning what is left of my skin, without the scrutinizing gazes, without the murmurs floating on the surface of my mind like stagnant algae.

What I learn from my refugee friends in first-world countries makes me envious of them, makes me wish to become like them. 

And here lies the painful irony. 

We have shifted from longing to be true citizens in our own country with the liberty to express our opinions, participate in democratic elections and enjoy other the rights as they are enjoyed in countries elsewhere, to longing to be refugees in those countries just to enjoy the bare minimum of life, such as living in a safe environment, for our children at least, and being able to move freely between cities without needing a travel permit that is often denied by the authorities.

This difference has become a significant one among Syrians, as the catastrophe has created new social divisions, whereby the displaced languishes at the bottom of the pyramid, while the refugee sits on top. The latter lives in luxury – in our view at least. At least some of his needs are met. At least he is protected by international law.

The “guest” oscillates between these two classes. He fluctuates in his own space, driven solely by the instinct to survive. He struggles with the landlord, the teacher, the politicians, even the grocer, always exerting double the effort in a desperate attempt to prove his worth to his hosts. 

While deep down he holds onto a hidden desire to someday elevate himself to the status of “refugee.” Until that day comes, I can only hope to become a refugee.