Time to march

Last night I dreamt I was going to the protest march for Syria. When I arrived everyone was dressed  in khaki except for me. I was wearing a lilac sweater I had recently bought on sale. I was worried they wouldn't let me march with them but they gave me a helmet and let me in. Then we started walking and my heart seized with joy because we came around the corner and I saw Damascus - my beautiful, old friend. We were marching to her. I couldn't believe it. But then as we marched closer I saw more and more spent guns on the ground. Rounds and round of ammunition. Broken Kalashnikovs.   And I realised we weren't going to come out of it alive. But it didn't stop me marching. I still wanted to go on.
Suffice to say I woke up with a mixed heart. Relieved it was a dream but painfully aware that for many people right now when they wake up it is not.

 So off I went to Zurich to do the only thing I could which was to join the protest march for real. I have to say I was possibly the only person there without some blood link to Syria  - although what is a blood link anyway? When I walk through her streets: when I am there my blood rushes like it belongs, like it is in love.  As if ancestrally I know her already- that our history is older than any family tree.
Still I was a little intimidated turning up to the massing crowd but they very quickly thrust a flag in my hand and I knew that I  belonged.

Most of the time before the march I spent watching a family getting ready -  in particular the little boy below. He came with his dad on the same tram as me and they kept smiling at me as they got ready.

Mama, I would like to march!

But I need my paint first.

.

Now I am ready!!!

You can scooter first big brother.

 I also spoke to a nice fellow from Deraa. Actually  the few people I spoke to all came from Deraa. Some of them didn't know what had happened to their family. Others didn't know when they would go home again. When I asked them what they thought would happen next they shrugged their shoulders. They said they believed that the way would be long.

Then we marched -  men -  women -  children. 

Assad obviously got a bad rap so did Putin and Iran. I waved my flag and I thought of all the people who had been so kind to me whenever I had been in their land. And as I watched the children marching here I thought of the little people Syria has already lost. Honestly I didn't know whether to smile or not when I had my photo taken but the Syrians seemed to beam at the camera given the chance. I suppose there was an odd sort of fellowship from being here in this moment and while they never forgot why  they were there they somehow wanted to celebrate their country too. And celebrate all the humanity that had come out to march for the people who cannot march without risking their lives.