The following is a guest blog entry by Syrian-Canadian author Zoulfa Katouh
Introduction:
I lived a long time as an apologetic Arab Muslim. My identity was always a secret whispered and I tried to make myself as small as possible in a big, big world. Instead of raising my head, claiming pride in who I am and where I come from, I stepped to the side and hid.
And then I found BTS and was taken away
And then I found BTS and was taken away with how they carry themselves and their identity. Every day, they break stereotypes and barriers, and it gave me the spark to be that person for my own identity. To speak myself. And that’s what I hope my book, As Long As the Lemon Trees Grow, can be.
Speaking Myself “What is your name? Speak Yourself!” –Kim Namjoon also known as RM of BTS at the United Nations, September 2018. A question and a sentence were enough to kill the lights, leaving me sitting under the spotlight, mics pointed in my direction, waiting for me to speak. I saw these seven boys, standing in one of the most important buildings in the world, in front of the most influential people, and they were asking me to speak. To tell my story. Just as how they’ve been telling their own one for years. RM spoke about the expectations people had on him. On feeling like a ghost, unable to look at the sky no more while he folded himself into the mold people expected him to fit in. Every word of that felt like I was being examined under a microscope, the tiny, flimsy cover I laid on my Everest-sized insecurities blown away. He spoke about how music was his refuge— the place where he’d be himself. Even if at times, it was the hardest thing he ever did. For me, writing is home. In my stories— wielding words like a sword and armor, I show the world who I am. A Muslim. A hijabi. An Arab. A Syrian. It was through the lens of cameras that the world heard Syrians sing their love for their country. Hauntingly and with hoarse voices, knowing that each word might be their last. In their songs, they dedicated their lives, souls, and hearts to their land. Heaven in her soil and in her skies. Even suffering for her is heaven. Let the tears flow for the martyrs of Syria. How sweet is freedom that Syria called for. Or so the songs go that now have become folklore passed down to our children. I was sixteen when the revolution sparked in the hearts of Syrians, and until that point, I had taken Syria for granted. She wasn’t home, but she wasn’t a stranger either. She was somewhere in between. The artery connecting from my heart to Syria’s soil was stretched across continents, the blood moving sluggishly and at times, not at all. And yet, for a few summers, she welcomed me with open arms. And even though I was a leaf in the wind carried across continents, never staying put long enough to grow lasting roots, I was raised with a strong sense of justice. My earliest memory of racism was at five years old when a woman hurled a slur at my hijabi mom. Mama made a decision in that moment not to be quiet. And that stayed with me. How that woman acted. How my mother put her in her place. And I realized there are people who will never view me as the person I am. When 9/11 happened, I was seven years old, and my parents debated whether to send me to school or not. In the end, because we value education very highly in my home, I was sent to school with instructions to reply “I don’t know what happened” if anyone asked me, a child who just learned what vowels are, about a terrorist attack. It’s those little moments that become monumental in shaping a person. I recognized injustice at a young age, but it came at the price of hiding pieces of myself. So, I lived a life on low volume with Syria as an afterthought. With my identity as an apology and not a brand of honor. With a life lived in silence, it becomes hard to raise your voice to be heard. And eventually it becomes difficult to love yourself. Enter seven boys from South Korea who live unabashedly and wholly as themselves, extending a hand to ARMY through their songs with one clear message: love yourself. They caught the world’s attention through their authenticity—the sincerity in everything they do. It’s them not shying away from their roots, no matter how high they fly. You see the pride in their expressions. The way “Ma City” is an anthem of their love to their homeland, making thousands of fans jump to their feet, singing the love-letter. They wear hanboks during their performances in front of historical Korean monuments, integrate word play in their Korean lyrics, speak Korean during their interviews, and bring their culture into their music videos (see: Daechwita). When RM said Ilsan is the place he wants to be buried in after he dies, I thought of how Syria would have been that place for me. When he said Ilsan is his summer, autumn, winter, and every spring, I thought of how I only witnessed Syria’s summers and might never see her in other seasons. When Ji-min gave a shoutout to the Busan Sea, I remembered the Mediterranean’s blue on the shores of Latakia. When j-hope mentioned the Mudeungsan Mountain, I reminisced the time I was on Mount Qasioun years ago, not knowing it would be the last time I’d stand there. When SUGA adopted the persona Agust D, with the last two letters standing for Daegu Town, bragging how he’s Daegu’s pride, it lit a fire in my heart for Syria. Through them loving their heritage, I found the love for mine. That, I suppose, is the beauty of lyrics that give a tangible touch to feelings born in silence. The journey towards self-love is unique for each one of us, but I’m glad I randomly decided to press play on one of their songs on an obscure October morning. They showed me a life lived in full volume; colors saturated. And so, I sit by my desk, writing my love for Syria and my history through stories that one day, I hope, become folklore. Because from now until forever, I am speaking myself.
Bio:
Zoulfa Katouh is a Syrian Canadian based in Switzerland. She is currently pursuing her master’s in Drug Sciences and finds Studio Ghibli inspiration in the mountains, lakes, and stars surrounding her. When she’s not talking to herself in the woodland forest, she’s drinking iced coffee, baking aesthetic cookies and cakes, and telling everyone who would listen about how BTS paved the way. Her dream is to get Kim Namjoon to read one of her books. If that happens, she will expire on the spot. As Long As the Lemon Trees Grow is her debut novel.
Links:
Trigger Warnings:
sexual assault (on page), parental deaths (on page), murder, war and torture, child abuse and torture, starvation, PTSD, grief. I don’t sugar-coat the truth because I feel the whole story should be represented when talking about events that have affected real people’s lives.
