July that never ended

I write these words today not to recount a story from the past, but to give voice to a pain and a pride that still pulse through our veins like a wound that refuses to heal. What happened in July was never a passing day destined to fade into memory. It was an earthquake whose aftershocks continue to ripple through every corner of our lives, and through every ache that still lingers in our hearts.

The deepest mark that day left behind was the quiet ache it planted within us—the fracture etched into the faces of the families of the fallen, and the silent grief that settled over homes whose lights were forever dimmed. Yet its impact did not end with loss. It reached into our fragile dreams, burdening our interrupted education and a future forced to bear the weight of chaos and siege. Even today, it feels as though we remain suspended in that moment, struggling to protect our dreams from a reality that keeps stealing our days.

The legacy of July was not confined to what we lived through then. It left each of us with an enduring sense of responsibility toward those who sacrificed everything. It taught us that homelands are not safeguarded by words alone, but by patience, resilience, and action. It taught us that the blood of the fallen is a trust we carry, urging us to live in a way that honors their sacrifice.

The war has never truly left us. It still waits behind fragile ceasefires that are repeatedly broken, behind attacks that make fear a constant companion. Perhaps its cruelest mark upon our souls is that we are still saying goodbye to childhood friends and brothers-in-arms, still leaving pieces of our hearts behind with every farewell.

And yet, amid this unending sorrow, the sacrifices of the pure-hearted continue to shine, giving us the strength to endure. Had it not been for those noble souls, who melted like candles to illuminate the darkness of our fear, and for the defenders who stand watch, shielding the borders of our dreams with their own bodies and guarding every breath we take to this very hour, we would not be here today—to write, to dream, or simply to remain.

Peace to those who departed so that life could continue within us. And profound gratitude to every hand that still grips the burning embers of the mountain, protecting our existence.

We do not merely remember July—we live it every single day: through the bitterness of our loss, through our immense pride in those who are gone, and in those who still stand as steadfast as the mountains, defending the dignity of Sweida and writing, with every passing day, another chapter of resilience and honor.