My maternal grandmother, Jalila Qassar, told me that my mother’s family courtyard was in Bishop Farhat Square in the Al-Tallah neighborhood of Aleppo, where people used to gather in the evening on the staircase of the Maronite Church, chatting, exchanging stories, and talking about their children, dreams, and fears, as people do when they assume tomorrow will resemble today.
I used to listen to my grandmother’s stories and try to imagine those who sat on that staircase, without knowing them, yet I felt as though I were one of them. When I grew a bit older, I began sitting on the very same staircase with my friends, laughing and chatting, unaware that the days we lived so simply would one day become memories we long for, and that some places we hold dear might turn into a pain that dwells within us and never leaves.
Then came the war, and many left their homes—some to other places within Aleppo, and others to distant countries. The stones remained as witnesses to all that happened, but the voices that once filled the place faded, the faces that used to gather scattered, and the staircase that once brought people together became a memory of gatherings that will never return to what they were.
Today, I sit in the courtyard of St. Theresia Church in New Syriac in Aleppo, watching children and teenagers playing and chatting on the church staircase. Watching them, I see my own childhood and adolescence, yet I cannot fully share in their joy. A sense of sorrow stays with me, accompanied by a persistent question: How many of them will remain here? And how many will one day carry their bags, say goodbye to their friends, and leave without knowing when they will meet them again?
Every week, a family would depart, and the question repeated itself: Who left this time? We began counting those who were gone as if counting pieces of our lives falling away one after another. With every departure, a space around us empties, a familiar laugh disappears, and a meeting that was ordinary yesterday becomes a wish hard to fulfill tomorrow.
I know some of the stories of those who departed, which is why I do not blame them. I understand their fear for their children, their distress over the high cost of living, their exhaustion from the psychological and financial pressures, and their disappointment with promises that fail to offer them enough security. How can I ask a father to stay when he sees no reassuring future for his children? And how can I blame a mother who chose life abroad over a constant fear of tomorrow?
Yet it pains me when I hear some spiritual leaders call on people to stay in the name of patriotism, roots, and preserving the Christian presence, without offering—or having offered too little, too late—what makes staying possible. It is not enough to remind people of the land of their ancestors if we cannot give their children reasons to make this land their future.
To the one who leaves, I say: Go, if leaving protects you and your children. Do not carry guilt for a sin you did not commit, and do not allow anyone to measure your love for your homeland by how much pain you can endure. But do not forget Aleppo, its alleyways, its houses, and the kindness of its people. Tell your children about the church staircase, about the friends who sat there with you, and about a city you loved, even when you were forced to leave it.
As for those of us who remained—in Aleppo or in Syria—we will continue sitting on the staircase, watching the children and fearing the day when we look among them and find no one we know, and when our gatherings feel more like wakes, where we recall the names of those who left and wonder what we could have done so they might stay.
I fear a day will come when churches and homes are restored, but there will no longer be enough people for their voices to fill the squares. And I fear that one of our children will tell his own children, from across the seas, the story of a church staircase he used to sit on in Aleppo, just as my grandmother told me the story of the staircase in Farhat Square.
How harsh it is for the place we loved to remain, while those who gave it life disappear. And how harsh it is for a church staircase to transform from a place of meeting into a memory of farewell.
O God, bear witness that I have delivered the message.
Note: This text is translated from the original Arabic version… Read the Arabic version:Click here
