This isn’t a political article. This is about human beings.
I’ve only been to my parent’s home twice. Their childhood stories are just that – stories of cities that are now reduced to piles of rubble. Yet the onset of the revolution reminded me again why I rarely have visited – why a regime made sure I would never grow up in Damascus, never hear my grandmother speak before her paralysis, and never understand the Syrian references in the memories my parents cherish. The revolution reminded me that despite my blood, I would never know Syria.
But the United States government, this country that I grew up in, that is more a home to me than Syria will ever be continues to astonish me. A government should represent its people and I’ve met countless numbers of loving Americans, yet if I were to judge us solely by the impression that…
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