The Home That Crossed the Ocean

This story was longlisted for the 2025 CBC Nonfiction Prize.

Usually, I’m the one who listens to stories by hanging them on my walls like pictures or faint wrinkles etched by the years. Today, you will hear my story. It's a tale that resembles thousands of others. But each of us has a story of our own; no matter how similar or intertwined they may be.

I am a small home on the second floor of an old building on one of Aleppo’s narrow streets. I was born a year before the writer who now crafts my story. I hope he remains true, for I held him within me for twenty-five years, just as he carries me with him wherever he goes. I am not large—a modest two-bedroom home. But in one of my rooms, three children grew up. This room was brimming with big dreams, books, and secrets that danced within my four walls. I preserved every whispered phone call, every shared laugh, and every tear among the three siblings.

The family would gather around a small chimney in my living room, where the mother would hang the children's clothes to dry. The youngest child—the writer—would sit close to it on the floor, conversing with invisible fairies that live in worlds circling the edges of the rug. On that chimney, tea would simmer with cloves and a cinnamon stick, releasing an aroma that transformed the tiny room into a sacred temple. No incense burned in that temple, only the smoke of cheap cigarettes consumed by the father and mother. I would raise my prayers to the household gods, wishing for an early spring, for the sun to tap on my windows so I could open them wide and breathe in the spring air and feel reborn!

I didn’t just hold the stories of long winter nights but also the tantalizing scents of dishes the mother cooked—an extraordinary blend of spices and ingredients that immortalized the entire history of the Armenian people. The mother was Armenian, the father Syriac, both born in Aleppo—a city famous through the ages for its exquisite cuisine. How fortunate I was to be the home of such a family! In the walls of my small kitchen, women would gather, sharing tales of other homes—or more precisely, their secrets. Amidst the aroma of spices mingled with coffee and tobacco, the most dangerous, clandestine stories were told, alongside, quite often, the most trivial ones.

It may sound like life was idyllic. But fear was everywhere. After sharing any news or story related to politics or the state of the country, they would whisper anxiously, "Let’s stop here—the walls have ears." I would examine my walls but never found any ears on them! It was people who spread the news that troubled the regime, not me. I safeguarded and sheltered those stories with great care. My walls were as safe as any home, but that cursed dictator was the one planting his ears in houses, streets, and shops.

In the spring of 2011, when I opened the doors to my balcony, a strange wind blew in—one I had never felt before. It was a hot wind, carrying the scent of gunpowder and blood. I inhaled it deeply, and the glass of my windows trembled with fear—for the family, for the other homes, and for their families. Yet within that wind, there was something remarkable. It was more beautiful than the warmth of the sun or the fragrance of flowers—it was the shout for freedom!

Like most Syrian homes, I hosted gatherings of young adults. They would talk about freedom, dignity, the future, and rights—a nation where people and homes could live without fear, humiliation, or oppression. I cherished those conversations and tried to keep them safe within me, shielding this family from the hands of monsters.

I overheard the neighbours say that the forces of the brutal regime storm houses at night, pounding on doors with relentless force. That terrified me - the possibility of having my doors violently struck or shattered. That would be a profoundly painful thing. I heard how the secret police trampled with their muddy, bloody boots on pristine carpets, crushing toys, shattering imaginary worlds, and tossing neatly folded clothes from their shelves onto the floor. I could not understand why they did such things—what were they searching for, or what did they fear when they themselves were the symbol of fear.

From the friends who met secretly within my rooms, I learned after all this destruction, they would take away the young men and women who had participated in a protest or dared to say "no" to the tyrant. If they couldn’t find the person they came for, they would take the mother, father, or a sibling—sometimes even the entire family as hostages—until the sought-after individual turned themselves in. I learned they feared books, feared writing, feared pens as if they were deadly weapons. Blank pages did not scare them, but those filled with words—oh, those filled them with ferocity. They would become even more savage, and destroy more in the house.

The youngest child - the writer - would spend hours reading theatrical scripts; preparing for roles to perform on stage. But during those years of war, when theaters closed their doors, he began organizing sessions for children and youth, using what he had learned in theater to support them after they had lost everything. Each day, he would return home exhausted—from the stories he had heard, from the shells he had dodged like a skilled soccer player, and from the ever-growing cruelty of the world around him.

Electricity and water no longer flowed through my veins. Even the chimney had lost its romance, as the mother began burning scraps of fabric and cardboard egg cartons to keep it alight, with fuel becoming rarer than rubies.

In the winter of 2016, staying in Syria had become too dangerous for the youngest child. He was wanted by the regime, so he fled to Lebanon. I never expected that he would carry me with him in his single suitcase. But he did! Yes, he took me along. I thought it would be a comfortable new beginning for me. But in Lebanon, no one saw me as a home like the others, despite the striking similarities between Syrian and Lebanese houses.

I tried to rebuild myself, brick by brick, and ignite warmth within my walls, but it was futile. I felt like a stranger wherever I went. What comforted me was knowing I wasn’t alone—around me were countless other refugee homes, struggling to piece themselves back together. Lebanon, like other countries hosting refugees, felt like a hospital for survivors of war. There were homes missing walls, others had lost their roofs, and some entirely disfigured—yet their owners carried them along despite their ruin. And then there were people who came without homes, but the ghosts of their houses trailed behind, refusing to let them migrate alone.

I would accompany the writer to refugee camps, where he worked with other Syrian refugees, using theater to help them cope with their exile. While he worked, I would stand at a distance, watching. I saw how that tyrant had destroyed and displaced millions of people and homes. I spoke with the tents as I waited for him to finish. They told me stories of the refugees, of what it meant to leave behind a large, beautiful home and live in a tent. I felt ashamed of myself—I had not been harmed, nor had I lost a wall or a family member who had lived within me for decades.

Two years later, the writer carried me in his suitcase once again. This time, we traveled by plane—a journey that felt endless. In the fall of 2017, we arrived in Canada. The autumn air was cold, but I didn’t realize it was only the beginning. Snow soon began to fall with serene quietness. At first, I found the pure white snow beautiful, but it quickly became a nightmare. The delicate snow resting on my shoulders grew unbearably heavy, and I couldn’t find my balance on this unfamiliar soil, so far from the land that now seemed impossibly distant.

I tried to adapt to the soil, the snow, and the cold. The houses here were large and beautiful, but despite their grandeur, they only housed a few people—maybe a couple and two dogs at most. They were nothing like me. Yet something comforting and safe about them drew me in. I tried to communicate with the neighboring houses, speaking in Arabic and Armenian, but they remained silent!

Eventually, I learned the language and began to interact with the city’s homes. I planted flowers in front of them and brushed the snow off their window panes. We shared stories—me telling them of houses thousands of years old, and them sharing tales of their inhabitants.

I lost hope of returning to Syria and began to feel that this distant land was quiet and comforting—especially after losing my identity and sense of purpose in Lebanon. Despite the writer’s efforts to recreate me using furniture, rugs and small objects from thrift stores and yard sales, it was pointless. We both felt isolated, despite the work, the interactions, and the kind people.

Until December 2024, when the dictator fled his home.

He fled... his home. Left it behind and ran... Left his home...

I kept repeating those words, both in joy and sorrow. What if he had left that house behind in 2011? How many homes and lives could have been saved? How many families could have stayed together? How cowardly and vile he must be to leave his mess behind! He left photos of his family, the memories of his children, but took the wealth of an entire nation as he escaped. Because tyrants have no home, they can only be guests of another tyrant in another land.

Now, the camps will empty, and people will not be refugees anymore, they will return to their homeland. But many will find their homes gone or looted of belongings and memories.

Many will return, carrying their foreign homes with them—homes they lived in, where they created new memories and sweet hopes.

Now I sit here, telling my story to the writer, the youngest child. And within the walls of his mind, thoughts collide like a bird finally freed from its cage.

Will we return to the homeland, where I can plant my roots in the soil again? Or will we stay here, our hearts forever divided between “here” and “there”? When will the distance between “here” and “there” fade from memory and body? Will it ever fade?

I look at my little child, the writer, who gazes back at me with that funny smile of his. Each of us waits for the other to find an ending for this story.

Calgary - Canada

2025

Special thanks for editing and feedback to:

Anneli Andre-Barrett (PEN Canada)

Amy Morris

Margo Kelly (PEN Canada)