Today, I felt like I met someone carrying two whole worlds inside her. You could see them swimming in her eyes.
One world was made of stars and numbers. She had just finished a big degree in Physics, right here in Waterloo. Her mind felt like a map of the universe.
But the other world… that one was made of smoke, broken walls, and a tiny candle called hope. That was her home—Syria.
She told me she had to go back. Not really a choice. It felt like Ontario had slammed every door shut. No jobs that fit. Rent felt like a mountain to climb every month. Even groceries felt like trading diamonds. She said it was like trying to breathe where even the air costs too much. You can’t live when life keeps squeezing you.
I carefully asked about the war back home. She spoke like someone who grew up with thunderstorms—loud and scary, but part of the sky you live under. The old storm, she said, had drifted toward Russia. Now it was a different kind of silence. People were trying to hope again, like reaching for sunlight after a long rain. But hope is a shy thing. It hides when guns speak. Her city wasn’t peaceful. Just… less loud.
Still, I saw glimpses of hope in her eyes. Not loud or bright. Just little sparks, quietly burning. Like someone who still believes in light, even after living in the dark.
Then she whispered something that felt like ice down my back: “It’s still not safe. Not enough police. If someone wants to hurt you… they can.”
After that, she looked around at our quiet street, people walking by like ghosts. “It’s strange here,” she said. “People live like well-oiled machines. Work. Sleep. Repeat. Everyone in their own little bubble. No talking. No smiles.”
In Syria, she said, even with bombs and broken streets, people stay close. They talk. Share what little they have. They laugh, even with fear in their hearts. Like their souls need to touch just to stay warm. Like there’s still music playing somewhere in the ruins.
Here, she felt, it was safe—but cold. Like a house with thick walls but no fire inside.
Hearing her, something heavy settled in my chest. It felt like meeting someone who walked through fire and didn’t come out burned—but somehow softer. A gentle warrior. No armor, just quiet strength stitched deep inside.
I didn’t just feel respect. It was more than that. It was like seeing a rare flower push through cracked pavement. It made me wonder…
What are we missing, in all this quiet safety?
What piece of being truly alive have we traded for comfort?
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It’s strange how I find myself crying over the scars on my hands while i knit, especially after witnessing someone without hands: Maybe, That’s the essence of being human!!?.
Maybe that quiet ache—feeling your own pain while recognizing someone else’s—is what keeps us human. Your words carry both honesty and kindness. Thank you for stitching such a raw thought into this post.
This is truly inspiring, kalimuthu. I appreciate my peaceful place more reading this story. But, her beautiful reflections despite any chaos is amazing. Peace and love.
Thank you, Hazel. Yes—her reflections were like calm water in the middle of a storm. I’m glad this story made you hold your own peaceful place a little closer. Peace and love to you too.
Thank You for sharing this piece. My spirit is broken for this individual…striving to better her life against impossible odds. Yet, she remains full of the light…hope, strength, courage, and an intuitive wisdom and grace missed by many who take life around them for granted.
A life motto I follow: If you aren’t a part of the solution; you very well might be a part of the problem.
Reading her story stirred deep energies within. For those of us who are safe, perhaps the question is – how can we hold space for someone like her? Whether it’s through mentorship, donations, advocacy, or simply human connection…even the smallest kindness could be the threads that help to stitch a soul back together.
Your words feel like a gentle hand placed on a trembling shoulder. Yes, she walked through storms, yet carried the calm of a deep well inside her. You’re right—those of us in warm houses must ask how to keep someone else from freezing in silence. Sometimes, kindness is just a small stitch in someone’s torn fabric. Sometimes, it’s the thread that keeps a soul from unraveling. Thank you for not just reading her story, but feeling it in your bones.
Perhaps what’s missing is imagination, or it might be the change! The girl has beautiful imagination even in the hard time, and has definitely experienced the change in the different land.
Yes, maybe it was her imagination that became her shelter when the world outside was falling apart. Some people survive with muscle—she survived with mind pictures and quiet daydreams. In a land that felt cold and unfamiliar, she still carried warm colors in her thoughts. Change can shake the roots of a person, but she stood like a tree that bends without breaking. Thank you for noticing the unseen strength—the kind that grows in silence and paints beauty even on broken walls.
You offered a sacred insight here. I’m feeling what safety without warmth can cost. This was much needed. Thank you for holding her story with such tenderness.
Thank you for feeling the silence between her words. Yes, safety without warmth can feel like living inside a house with no windows—protected, but slowly forgetting the sun. She reminded me that comfort without connection can quietly starve the soul. I’m grateful you saw the sacred thread in her story—the kind that asks us not just to look, but to feel.
Superb question
Thank you. Some questions are not meant to be answered. They are the quiet cracks in the walls we build around our hearts. I’m grateful this one found its way to you, like a small river slipping through broken stones.