This is a raw collection of souvenirs I collected from Syria to Taiwan, from bustling cities to quiet corners. It is the pulse of the world captured in footsteps, scents, sights, conversations, and the people who made each journey unforgettable.
Syria
When I was little, Syria felt like an extension of my backyard. My mother had friends there, so we would pile into a wheezing, overheated bus that rattled its way north from Amman. Syria was cheaper than Jordan, so we would leave with a couple of half-empty bags and return on a bus so crammed you could barely see out the windows. It is where I met my first original Barbie, blonde hair blazing in the sun, dressed in a white gown I swore would match my own wedding dress someday, much to my mother’s laughter. It is hugging my first Teletubby, Po, until its red velvet wears thin. It is where I dusted my cheeks with my first tiny makeup set. It is where I had my first chocolate fondant on a breezy afternoon while jasmine-scented air drifted lazily through the street.
It is a toy store, arms stacked high with treasures, and the quiet lesson left by a woman who whispered to her son, “Just one toy, and it has to fit the budget.” She never looked at me, but she gave me something I carry still: contentment, gratitude, and the understanding that abundance is never entitlement.
It is my first lesson in censorship, though I did not yet know the word. It is the careful rehearsal of what to say at the border and what never to mention inside the country. It is a lesson in the unspoken rules of survival in Syria I did not yet understand. It is my mother’s friend leaning in, her voice barely above a breath, so that no one, not even Bashar Al-Assad, could overhear, explaining to my mother how proxy servers work. It is my child’s mind imagining a mysterious, glowing silver CD that could hide thoughts from the world.
Syria is tucked into the corners of memory, scented with jasmine, and folded into daily conversations long after we stopped traveling there after 2010.
Cyprus
If Syria was jasmine-scented streets and markets, Cyprus was salt spray and sunburn. When I was not spending summers crossing the Syrian border, I was on Cypriot beaches. It is baking under the sun. It is eating mushroom steaks the size of my face. It is sneaking off with my brother to buy chunky KitKats that did not exist back home. It is my mother’s Iraqi friend, who owned at least ten cats and crunched hot peppers like popcorn while watching TV. It is daily Lindt chocolates under my pillow, like tiny treasures from a secret fairy who happened to wear a hotel uniform. Everyone else got one, but somehow I always come back to a little mountain, as if the staff had conspired to spoil me.
It is an ice cream truck under a heat so thick it felt alive, and the courage of speaking in a local tongue, the girl scooping strawberry ice cream with a grin, handing it over without a word. It is the first lesson in bending toward the local tongue, in reshaping myself so the world can hear and understand me. Cyprus is the warmth of discovery, sun dripping across my shoulders, and freedom carried on the breeze.
Egypt
Egypt is the weight of winter clothes packed for a trip, the stubbornness of a child determined to keep warm despite her mother’s gentle warnings. It is the pyramids under a harsh sun, sweat soaking through a burgundy hoodie, and a first hieroglyphics t-shirt that would follow me everywhere.
It is my first camel ride, ending in tears and snot. It is mummies that make a child nearly pee herself. It is the butterfly ring my father bought me. It is the first elephant I ever see. It is gliding across the Nile in an Egyptian galabiya and Aladdin-looking slippers, reenacting Titanic, me as Rose and my father as Jack, laughter spilling across the water, uncontained and warm. Egypt is the last time my family felt whole, carried in every step, every smell, every sunbeam reflected off ancient stone.
Türkiye
Türkiye was a dream come true, even though it is a common travel destination for many. For me, it was more than that. It was the first trip I saved for with my own money because my mom had always wanted to go but never could. I wanted to make her dream come true. After that first journey, I returned a couple more times, each visit adding new colors, smells, and textures to my memory of the country.
Türkiye is culture woven into every corner, in the cobbled streets, the aromas drifting from food stalls, the music spilling from cafés, and even in the people. It is the way faces light up when I speak Turkish with them. It is the hotel receptionist who remembers my birthday from my passport to send me a platter of colorful fruits to my room as a gift. It is hotel staff who follow me on Instagram and check in even when I stay somewhere else on my next visit.
It is arak and kebabs and bulgur served in a place where the music rattles the walls. It is a taxi driver asking for a song, and when I choose Sezen Aksu’s Biliyorsun, he smiles, tells me to stop being sad, switches to Rakkas, and starts dancing with me. It is men flirting with eye contact, bluntly asking for a number, yet still smiling when the answer is no.
It is snowy days that feel like a scene from Home Alone, with snow so soft it does not bite my cheeks or fingers the way it does back home. It is leaving my mother alone in a café for a moment, only to return and find her deep in conversation with strangers, her Arabic blending seamlessly with their Turkish. It is bustling markets, throngs of people moving like rivers, so full and alive that my mother sometimes worries how she will get out if she faints. It is Kurdish boys singing in their language, voices rising in defiance against a government that has long tried to silence them, and for a moment the crowd sways with their courage. It is a police car pushing through the crowd, officers standing on its edge with their hands wrapped in something I had never seen before, sharp-edged glass worn like a glove, ready to crush their music back into silence.
It is forgetting my fear of heights and climbing Galata Tower, only for my knees to give in and start shaking on the way up, but then forgetting all of that fear when the view opens up, Istanbul stretching endlessly under a clear, blue sky.
It is endless sweets, baklava dripping with syrup, lokum, and sütlaç. It is holding an umbrella in the rain, walking through the streets with simit in hand, venting about life to my mother as the droplets fall around us. It is men saying that the rain arrived with me, as if I carry good fortune in my footsteps. Even in the harshest winter, Türkiye felt warm to us.
Tunisia
Tunisia is where I first felt heat wrap around me like a living thing. It is where every morning at five, the light would spill into my room and I would wake up to find people already in the sea, seeking relief from the heat, their heads bobbing like tea bags from a distance. It is where beaches were alive even at dawn, and I understood why. The water was a sheet of turquoise that promised endless refreshment and escape.
It is where I chased relief in the form of ice cream, laughing as it melted faster than I could eat it, streaks of chocolate and strawberry running down my hands and staining my clothes. It is where tuna and hot sauce graced the breakfast table with unwavering loyalty; a culinary commitment I could not quite make, to the shock of those around me. It is the warm, sweet smell of bomboloni curling through narrow streets. It is political conversations flowing effortlessly in cafés, along streets, in every corner, as if people carried fearlessness in their bones and blood.
Tunisia is kindness braided with confidence. It is where people made me feel like I had stepped into a place both familiar and completely new, a breath of fresh air in the middle of the region I call home. It is where I learned to carry my own grocery bag, a small act that spoke volumes about care for the land. It is mornings with cappuccinos and croissants that made me feel just a little bit French. It is where I met my first Algerian, exactly as I had imagined and even more, warm, welcoming, and delighted to hear that I was originally Palestinian. It is sunsets painting the sky in pinks and golds over the Mediterranean, a quiet reminder that the world is vast and alive. Tunisia is a place of resilience and fearlessness.
Morocco
Morocco felt like home, as if someone had put me on a plane, tricked me, and returned me to the place I already knew. The air carried the same warmth, the same generosity, the same welcoming spirit that made me feel instantly at ease. It is where people are fiercely loyal to their country, moving with the care and pride of ambassadors, determined to give me the best experience possible. It is where a taxi driver hands me coffee and water as a welcome to the country, steam curling from the cups in the morning sun. It is where every bite of food tastes like it was homemade — tagine, couscous, pastilla — each flavor layered with history and love.
It is where money slips from my clumsy hand and strangers chase after them with a smile, returning them as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It is where flags wave at every corner and portraits of the monarchy gaze from walls. It is where the streets hum with a mix of old and new, tradition and modernity blending so seamlessly that I forget I am still in the region. It is where people fill my days with tours across cities, eager to show every hidden beauty until my body aches.
It is walking into a home and being embraced by families I have never met, sitting on cushions while warm meals steam in front of me, followed by Moroccan tea poured in glasses and delicious pastries. It is a country of contrasts, where Italian, Japanese, and Levantine food exist, yet the taste of Morocco always calls me back. It is hearing a dialect so difficult, yet people patiently soften their words into standard Arabic so I can follow, folding me into their conversation as if I belonged. It is old, kind aunties in the market who help me choose gifts for my family with gentle hands and twinkling eyes. It is where the Mediterranean greets the Atlantic, a meeting of waters that feels so magical.
It is where I reach out to touch a random plant, only for someone to tap my hand and warn me not to, because it is used for black magic. Morocco is a land of pride, care, and surprise, a place where every encounter, every meal, every gesture felt alive, intentional, and unforgettable.
Lebanon
Lebanon is my second home. I have been there multiple times, and each time I left, I felt as if my heart had refused to follow me back. Perhaps I left it there on purpose, or perhaps it has chosen to stay, willingly and fully, convinced that it belongs there. While my grandmother had Jordan become her refuge, her siblings had Lebanon become theirs. But for me, Lebanon is not just where my people are. It is where pieces of me I did not know existed came alive.
It is where my first love was born and raised. It is where I learned to be myself without armour, to be vulnerable, to be brave, to be clumsy and unpolished. It is him standing at the end of the arrivals gate, always with a bouquet of daisies in his hands that must have taken him hours to find only because they are my favorite. It is the smell of za’atar and fresh manakish curling out of bakery doors on crisp mornings. It is the hum of Christmas markets. It is an old pub with walls that hold decades of names, confessions, and drunken poetry. It is walking the Corniche with my hand tucked into his, the waves licking the stone, his big, warm brown eyes catching mine as he said, “I love you.” It is the pictures he took of me with Raouché in the background so he would have something to hold onto when I was gone. It is the stolen secret kiss in the streets, hearts racing, making sure no one saw. It is the waiter stopping by our table, catching our hands linked across it, smiling as he wishes us to be married one day. It is me and him, leaning close, already debating what to name our first child. It is Lebanese beer sweating in our hands, an entire bottle of Jager poured recklessly between us, our voices raw, sharp, clashing over why he liked a girl’s picture, the air thick with tension and heat, my chest tightening; and in that chaotic blur, I first saw how possessive I could be. It is us sitting cross-legged, knees almost touching, my voice breaking as I tell him about my father. It is his tears falling with mine, and with a trembling hand, he reaches across the small space between us, brushing away what he cannot stop himself from feeling too.
It is a tiny balcony in his family’s home, so crowded with his parents, siblings, and potted plants, tea cups warm in our hands, shisha smoke drifting lazily upward. It is our laughter rising above the music at my first drag show, the colors and glitter still clinging to my mind days later. It is me and him in Harissa, holding candles, praying we stay together no matter where life leads us. Then we step inside the church, repeating the same vow to God, just in case there is more than one; even though we are both Muslim, our whispered words hanging between faiths, desperate, hopeful, and entirely ours. It is long drives with the windows down, the wind rushing in, sometimes filled with music and laughter so loud we could not hear ourselves think, other times sharp with the silly irritations only intimacy can produce.
It is the weight of my head on his shoulder and the fabric of his jacket damp with my tears every time he drives me to the airport. It is the weight of time pressing down as we pull up to the drop-off, both of us pretending there was still a minute left when there was not. It is me running through the terminal, heart pounding, because he had insisted on keeping me for every possible minute before the gate closed. It is looking out the plane window and wondering which part of Lebanon below still held my heart, and knowing that next time, it would claim more of me.
Taiwan
Taiwan was my longest flight, and I prepared as if I were traveling into another world. I downloaded every playlist I loved, stuffed my phone with movies and shows, and carried the fattest book I owned. I was certain I would not sleep, nervous about snoring and being silently judged by strangers who were probably snoring themselves. Instead, I slept like a baby for the entire flight, the hum of the plane rocking me into effortless slumber, never touching a single song, page, or scene.
Taiwan’s airport felt like stepping into a place that was both old fashioned and organized, a space where every detail was considered. From there, I took a bus to my hotel, the ceiling glowing with cool blue LED lights, the seats neatly cushioned with red headrest covers. Outside the windows, the city unrolled like a living painting, trees swaying, colors blending, glimpses of history tucked between modern streets. I had never imagined what Taiwan might look like, and I had not searched for pictures before arriving. It was stunning, alive, and new in a way that made my chest tighten with wonder.
It is where people walk with the elegance of a fashion editorial. The way they dress, the precision of their posture, even the glossy, art-like nails of the women seem like glimpses into the future. It is streets so ordered that even a traffic light is not enough to stop a man from standing ready to help people cross. It is kindness that carries a quiet weight. It is people who are respectful yet hold firm boundaries, something I later learned is an unspoken way of creating personal space in such a densely populated place.
It is brief, polite conversations, strangers calling me “Madam,” and men approaching only if there is a strong reason. It is the young woman in a shop, shopping just like me, who noticed my hesitation over a label written entirely in Chinese. She leaned in without hesitation, her voice soft, translating word by word, and then suddenly brightened, glowing as if the room itself had shifted. She guessed I might be British, her eyes sparkling as she told me she had studied there. With a sudden movement full of excitement, she unzipped her jacket to reveal a bright red “I love London” shirt, as if she had been carrying this secret for me alone. We laughed together, two strangers in the middle of a shop, the sound spilling around us like sunlight, warm and unrestrained, until the truth of my not being from the UK surfaced and made the laughter even lighter.
It is the smell of noodles, rich chicken broth, and spices that could comfort a soul. It is bubble tea in almost every hand. It is walking down long streets that feel safe, familiar, and strangely like home. It is me and my friends blasting Arabic, Spanish, and Indian music, spinning and dancing in the middle of the street, three languages and three rhythms intertwining under the neon glow with no one judging. It is choosing soju over beer, passing the same cup between us, adding Italian songs to the mix, and when the warmth of the drink settles, letting the rhythm carry us into bachata beneath streetlights that paint everything gold.
It is hugs on street corners, laughter spilling into the night air, and secrets whispered with the quiet certainty that they will stay here. Taiwan is a place alive with kindness, color, and rhythm, a place that left its pulse inside me long after I left.
What a pleasurable reading experience.
I look forward to reading your other pieces.
I can’t even believe you give me the time of day 😅, you’re incredible and have such a deep sense of experience I just wanna say thank you for sharing always.