A displaced humanitarian’s moving journey amidst Syria’s suffering, loss and hope for a new beginning

In 2011, my life was upended by forces beyond my control. What began as a hopeful period, filled with the promise of change, quickly spiraled into loss and displacement. I found myself forced to leave my home, my family, and the country I loved, driven by the need to survive. 

For years, I carried the weight of longing, dreaming not of distant horizons, but of a return to the place I once knew.

My story is not unique. Millions of Syrians have been uprooted, their lives fractured as different authorities carved the country into separate spheres of control. Years passed in exile, and hope became a distant memory. 

But on 5 December 2024, after 13 years of displacement, a glimmer of hope returned. News reached me that the Opposition Forces were advancing toward my hometown, Hama. The moment I heard, I knew—I had to go back.

Packing my press armour and the few belongings I could carry, I set off with my wife and three daughters. I promised them that, at last, we would experience the joy that had been stolen from us. Yet, beneath my anticipation lay a deep ache. 

Thirteen years had left scars—years of missed embraces, of watching my nieces and nephews grow up through photographs, of raising my own children far from their grandparents.

When peaceful demonstrations first began in Syria, my city was among the first to rise. Armed with my camera, I documented the courage of ordinary people. But the truth had its cost. Branded a spy, I was forced to flee. 

For over a decade, I lived as a stranger in my own land, unable to move freely, unable to see my family. Each call to my parents was a risk, each visit impossible.

The most painful moment came when my eldest daughter was just a year old. Wanting my father to see her, I sent her to Hama—only for her to be detained. The price of her return was my own surrender. Instead, I sold everything I owned to secure her release. No parent should ever face such a choice.

Returning to Hama was overwhelming. As the city came into view, years of grief poured out. I wept uncontrollably, my knees giving way at the entrance. Friends helped me stand, urging me forward. 

When I finally reached my parents' home, familiar faces blurred through my tears. I knelt, kissing my mother’s hands, my father’s face—relief, love, and sorrow crashing over me all at once.

That evening, we shared our first family meal in over a decade. I do not remember what we ate. I remember only the taste of joy, the feeling of home, and the warmth of those I love.

No family should endure such separation. No child should grow up in fear, no parent should live with the agony of absence. As a communications officer with World Vision, I now dedicate my work to sharing the stories of families like mine—stories of loss, but also of resilience.

I hold onto hope. Hope that one day, Syria will be whole again. That every family will be reunited. That no one will be forced from their home ever again.

By Communications Officer Zaher Jaber