I am Syrian by nationality, by passport and by blood.

Let me start by saying that I’m not sure if I have the right to speak about the suffering of Syrians, and I’m careful not to put my own experience ahead of theirs. This article is neither about politics nor is it about explanations. It’s merely a way to share some thoughts on a land I thought I knew.

I was born and raised in Qatar. I have visited Syria, but I have spent only three months of my life there. My parents had to travel a lot before coming to Qatar. Both of them really believed in finishing their education, so they decided to make sure to put their work and education above all the obstacles they faced in the Arab World.

My mother had always made sure I knew what it meant to be Syrian. In minute detail, she would describe the traditional Syrian house where she grew up in Damascus: the fountain in the middle, the river that ran beneath it and the fat house cat they had … I have never been there, but I know it by heart.

When people would talk to me about my country, I realized I have a strange relationship with Syria. I don’t know it like the Syrians who live there know it; I don’t know the names of every street and town, but I know it enough to be infinitely attached to it.

Coming to NYU Abu Dhabi was the first time I had to say my nationality out loud. Before then, I didn’t have to answer where I was from. It had been obvious to me in Qatar. I remember the first time someone asked me that question here. It took me a moment to process before I said I was Syrian. Of course I was. It was about realizing my identity and its context in broader terms.

I created a memoir film at the end of my freshman year to begin exploring my relationship with Syria. The prompt was to create a film of less than five minutes that spoke about our identities at that time. It revolved around my childhood and had my relationship with Syria, the stories of my mother and my religious identity all interlocking to create a framework for the narrative. Creating that film made me think a lot harder about why I was connected to a place I had visited only once in my life.

The summer of 2011 was supposed to be my summer as an adult in Syria, and my family and I were planning to buy plane tickets ahead of time. It was supposed to be my chance to get to know this place that was a part of me. I wanted to do many projects in Syria, including my thesis film at NYUAD. No one actually expected the protests to go on for more than a couple of months.

Then the revolution began and I started to realize the situation was more complicated than that. I began to learn more about the different sects and religions and the construction of power in Syria — how, in its particular complexity, it is different from other Arab states.

My plan really was just to go and witness the country in the way that I had imagined it from the stories I had heard since my childhood. The Syrian women whom I had seen in the media were of a specific, stereotyped subset of society, and I wanted to go back and document a truthful experience of Syria and its people. It soon became clear that this would be an impossible project for the near future.

Now three years have passed and I am a senior about to graduate. Much has changed. The Syrian sights that I wanted to see my whole life, like the Umayyad mosque in Damascus, have now been partially or completely destroyed. I feel bad about the architecture and the history, but it’s an even greater tragedy to consider the enormous number of people who have died and disappeared during the conflict. Over 100,000 people have died. No Syrian is untouched by this conflict. Because of that, there is so much that needs reconstructing: our history, our culture, our collective identity and, more importantly, the human losses, which have made scars that could take decades to heal.

I don’t think we understand the extent of the violence happening in Syria right now, and the people who do know what’s going on don’t wish to talk about it because it’s too sad, too depressing. I try my best to stay connected on a daily basis in a more humane way, rather than through words and reports that often have their own narratives or are removed from the individual people. I follow anonymous photographers, like Lens of a Young Halabi, who regularly upload photos on social media platforms and focus on human lives, losses and families. At the end of the day, politics don’t matter. What’s important is the impact of this conflict on actual human lives. Trying to stay connected to the images of those who are suffering is important because I never wish to arrive at the point where I’m desensitized to the violence that is happening.

The conflict has affected people in different ways. I met Syrian families around the world who have not celebrated anything since the beginning of the conflict. Relatives on my father’s side of the family have cancelled weddings — it’s too hard to celebrate while this is going on.

Now I’m doing another film project about Syrians, but it was a struggle to start the project when I felt like I don’t have the right to speak on behalf of Syrians.

The project is about a man who has lost his family. To me, the conflict is about family and loss. My biggest fear is to lose someone I love, and in this film I am trying to deal with this fear, considering how for many Syrians, that fear is a reality. The project became a way for me to create a narrative that will tell the true essence of loss.