{"id":3646,"date":"2024-08-06T19:58:26","date_gmt":"2024-08-06T23:58:26","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/hennaplatform.com\/?p=3646"},"modified":"2026-06-17T14:44:43","modified_gmt":"2026-06-17T18:44:43","slug":"the-world-is-not-a-small-village","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/hennaplatform.com\/en\/the-world-is-not-a-small-village\/","title":{"rendered":"The World is Not a Small Village"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

This article is part of Mafaza Digital Zine that explores the concept of survival. You can read also: The Republic of Wounded Bodies<\/a> by Nabil Muhammad, The Governance of Hope<\/a> by Hsain al-Shehabi, Apocalypse in the Body<\/a> by Kinana Issa, To Fall from Nowhere<\/a> by Nour Mousa, Identity Survival in The Diaspora <\/a>by Ola Barqawi, Living Wounds: Violations & Victimhood<\/a> by Sasha Zack,  To Be Understood Without Talking<\/a> by Shaunt Raffi, and Furnishing Memory<\/a> by Ali Zaraket. <\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Read the Arabic Issue here<\/a>.<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Translated from Arabic by Hazem Jamjoum
<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

__________________<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Raja Salim<\/h1>\n\n\n\n

A Syrian-born journalist and editor based in Canada. She reports on Syria, displacement, and gender, and writes essays that approach public questions through private memory and place. Her work insists that evidence and intimacy are not opposites: that a public record and a single life can sit in the same piece, each doing what the other cannot. She studied Communication and Women’s Studies at Concordia University in Montreal.<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

__________________
<\/em><\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOn average, Americans prefer to keep about 18 inches of distance between themselves and another person during a casual conversation. The theory of proxemics was developed by the anthropologist Edward T. Hall in the late 1950s and early 1960s. While serving in the U.S. Army, Hall observed the distances people kept from one another and found that different cultures perceive personal space differently. The British tend to require more space, while Eastern Mediterranean Arabs are generally more comfortable with closer conversational distances.\u201d[1]<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In recent decades, the word distance<\/em>, in its abstract and immaterial sense, has come to occupy a wide place in social and cultural life. With a growing awareness of the individual self, personal space, and the privacy of others, distance has become a need, a demand, and an expectation: the distance between the individual and the group, between one person and another, between a group and society, between one society and another, and between the self and itself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

While the abstract meaning of distance was deepening, its material meaning was beginning to dissolve. Digital technology has changed the physical nature of distance, as captured by the first slogan attached to the digital age: \u201cthe world is a small village.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This essay is a return to my own experience of moving from Syria and its surrounding countries to Canada. More specifically, it is an attempt to think through how the idea of distance shaped the first three years of that experience more deeply than any of the other expected factors. Eight years have passed since that move. I believe that is enough distance to speak of the experience from farther away, and perhaps from a wider view. <\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\"\"
Peggy\u2019s Cove, Nova Scotia, 2016<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

This is me. If you look closely at the photograph, you will find me standing beside the lighthouse, facing the Atlantic Ocean. The photo was taken from a relatively far distance on my third day in the Canadian province of Nova Scotia, on May 21, 2016.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That was my first confrontation with distance in both its physical and symbolic forms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After leaving Syria, I lived for four years between Lebanon and Turkey. During that time, I never felt truly far from the country, nor cut off from it. The sky there was an extension of the sky back home. The sun stood at the same distance from our windows. Night arrived at the same hour. As far as the eye could see, at the end of the horizon, even when we could not see them, we knew our houses were still there, a dawn or an afternoon away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the edge of the ocean, there is no room for imagination. Contrary to what novels and films suggest, imagination receded in the presence of the ocean. The elements seemed to conspire against my memory and against the force of my imagination. I am, after all, a Cancer, with a permanent place in the world of imagination; fantasy is part of my reality.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the horizon was far, and what lay beyond it was unknown. The sky was unfamiliar, hidden behind dense clouds. The rocks beneath me looked stern. I kept repeating to myself: the world is a small village, the world is a small village, the world is a small village. The phrase became the useless incantation of the new place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe world is a small village\u201d <\/strong>is a slogan that carries a luxury and a privilege available only to a very small number of people in this world: those who are not forced to flee their countries; those who choose to move through the world out of curiosity, travel, and discovery; those who have the privilege of going wherever they want, whenever they want, and then returning home by choice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As for us, we are expected to accept our new settlements and to create our own distances: from our feelings, our desires, our causes, the places we love, and everyone we love whom we left behind. To survive in the new place, I had to make use of the physical distance, 8,200 kilometers, in order to accept the fact that I was very far away. And from there, I had to create an inner distance from the other place, the faraway place.
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ways of Outwitting Distance\u00a0<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

#1. The shortest route to Syria\u2014the stomach<\/em><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

There is no room in the bags of those fleeing war for anything that is not necessary or essential. Neither the nearness nor the distance of the destination allows for anything beyond what is needed for survival and for proving one\u2019s identity. Even if circumstances allowed us to carry more, what bag, however large, could hold memory, identity, habits, and daily rituals?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the first step on the ladder of priorities sits survival: saving oneself, reaching a safe place, avoiding death. There is no instinctive or social dispute over the place survival occupies. But what about living?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Living becomes possible through everything that cannot fit into bags: a taste that condenses what we long for, a smell that makes the house warmer, or the shape of a dish that opens our appetite for another day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Those estranged from their countries do not lose their appetite for their food, no matter how long their years abroad become. \u201cThe stomach remains resistant to every programme of integration and adaptation,\u201d my friend Hussein Gharir once told me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Here I am, I who used to describe the longing of the estranged, the displaced, the exiled, the refugees, for the food of their countries as \u201cemotional fragmentation.\u201d I have become one of them. Food has come to carry dimensions much larger than taste. Holding on to a way of eating, or to a certain flavour, is one of the few things left to us from a previous life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For those who have changed house, career, and land, they are entitled to keep a habit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In our countries, every season had its food, every occasion its dish, and every tooth its colour. Small details in the form of taste or smell can colour the day and dispel loneliness, even if only for a few minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All of this is beautiful. But in the end, distance has the final word. No sooner does the dish, saturated with memory, identity, and familiarity, come to an end than distance returns to stand at the kitchen window, staring directly into the centre of your eye as you wash your plate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

#2. Philosophizing<\/em><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

The measure of time depends on our thoughts.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The measure of distance depends on our feelings.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

For the unburdened mind, a single day is an entire age.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

For the large-hearted, a small room is a vast in-between.<\/em>.<\/em>1<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

In Japanese culture, there is a concept known as Ma. It is described as a pause in time and an emptiness in space that life needs in order to grow. The Japanese writer Kiyoshi Matsumoto describes Ma as a Confucian philosophy of the distance between two edges, between a beginning and an end: a pause in time and space in which we test life.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is the equation of silence instead of sound, absence instead of excess. It is the momentary pause in speech that gives meaning to what is being said, and the silence between two notes that makes music. The concept originally draws from Buddhism, where it expresses the essence of emptiness. Matsumoto cites a poem by the twelfth-century hermit Saigy\u014d:<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sound of water,

the mountain storm,

in absolute emptiness,

becomes the only friend

of this distant hermitage. <\/em><\/em>2<\/a><\/sup><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The new place imposed new and shifting techniques for dealing with it. One of them was to think about everything around me philosophically, to drape over the purely material conditions I had to face whatever philosophy seemed appropriate to the moment I was living and the feelings I was experiencing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Each time I read about a culture or a philosophy that approached the self, distance, or time in a new way, I adopted it and tried to apply its rules to myself. I became both the laboratory mouse and the experiment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I studied the social media accounts of friends scattered across the different places where exile had left them, and I spied on the techniques of coexistence they had developed. One chose to live in a neighbourhood with an Arab or Eastern Mediterranean majority in order to soften the feeling of estrangement. Another followed the path of spirituality, reconnecting with herself, her identity, and her past through meditation and the harnessing of energy to summon states from a life that had passed. Another rushed into a relationship, had children, and formed a substitute family. Another rejected the new reality altogether, and neither his strength nor his surroundings helped him continue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Social media, for its part, fails to refine the skills of adaptation and endurance. I close the windows overlooking Beirut, Berlin, Paris, Vienna, and Istanbul, and return to my bed, in my room, in Halifax, in Canada, in North America, about 8,200 kilometres away from \u201cthere.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A day, two days, a week, two weeks. My energy for philosophising things, for creating new dimensions for them, runs out. All the delicious writings, the poems, studies, and journals, fail to pull me once again out of this raw reality.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

#3. Self-rebuke<\/em><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

TThis technique contradicts the idea of silence instead of sound. Here, the inner voice returns, loud, to remind me that I am inventing a crisis for myself out of \u201cnothing,\u201d and complaining about a reality that many people would consider a dream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I think: I am safe from war, deportation, arrest, and fear. I can start my life here quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But is this not selfish? And can individual survival be considered survival at all?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I am not speaking here of the survival of an individual against the destruction of her country. I mean the survival of one person against the rest of her family and friends.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSurvivor\u2019s guilt\u201d has become a powerful presence in our lives, naturally, after the war in Syria. The living feel guilty toward those who died. The unharmed toward the wounded. Those who did not lose their homes toward those who were displaced and dispossessed. Those who left the country toward those who stayed. Those who left for Europe or the Americas toward those stuck in neighbouring countries. Those who obtained residency toward those living without papers. Those who were able to say goodbye to their dead toward those who were denied farewell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And so the journey of guilt continues without end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But what if?<\/em><\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I ask myself endless questions. What if I had remained silent in 2011 and had not taken part in the movement, however modest my participation was? I would be in Syria today, regardless of whether I would be alive or dead. What if I had taken part in the revolution and remained in Syria, practising my work as a journalist outside regime-controlled areas? At that time, such areas did not officially exist. What if I had supported the regime? What if I had never left my small city, had lived, married, and had children, leaving the changing of the country to those more capable of changing it? What if the revolution had succeeded? What if Syria had never lived through this war? What if I lost my memory?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo not be ungrateful,\u201d I rebuke myself again. Focus on the survivor and forget the guilt. In the end, you survived, and the guilt will take its time to resolve.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

#4. \u201cHow narrow life would be without the spaciousness of hope<\/strong>\u201d<\/em>3<\/a><\/sup><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Just as my energy for philosophising reality had run out, I could no longer bear to continue the journey of guilt as a \u201csurvivor.\u201d I began to search for a horizon I could look toward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At times, I consoled myself with the thought that the war would end, the tyrant would fall, and we would return to the country. At other times, with the thought that obtaining the passport of the new country would offer me the chance to return to a place close to Syria. Sometimes, I told myself that time would allow me to adapt to the new place, to love it, and to become part of it. Sometimes, I looked at physical distance as a real chance for survival, one that had to be used to begin a new life. And sometimes, I admitted that survival itself is a destructive goal, that imagining its achievement is an illusion and a betrayal of our cause and our demands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A friend once asked me whether I still identified myself as a refugee or a foreigner in the new country. I told her that I did not want to give up this identity willingly, because giving it up would mean forgetting the reason that had brought me to this country in the first place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That answer was an acknowledgment that survival is not necessarily achieved by fully accepting the new reality, nor by rejecting it entirely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first step toward positive thinking was to change cities. And in the tricks friends use against estrangement, there is always a useful precedent. I chose a city dense with \u201cforeign\u201d and immigrant communities. More plainly, I chose a city where white people are not the majority: Montreal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There, Arabs from the Mashreq and the Maghreb, Kurds, Armenians, Latin Americans, Africans, Indians, Middle Easterners, and others walk the streets together. In this city, no colour overwhelms another, and no way of life overshadows another. You feel that you are not special, and not the new arrival everyone rushes to meet and whose story everyone wants to hear. Here, you can be no one, if that is what you choose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the new city, I met people who resembled me in both form and substance. We shared identity, concern, cause, and memory. We tried to develop our tools for survival together. Sometimes we succeeded in supporting one another, and sometimes we failed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At times, we shared blame and self-rebuke, asking ourselves about the morality of our arrival in a country built on the dispossession of Indigenous peoples from their lands; a country still discovering mass graves of Indigenous children who were once taken from their families and placed in Catholic schools designed to erase their identities and replace them with a white colonial one, only for them to end up as bodies beneath their stolen land.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What if we said no to Canada? Where is that innocent land, free of blood and sin? And if it existed, would we have enough control over our own fate to choose it as a place to settle?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Document That Toppled Distance<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

A few days after receiving my Canadian passport, I booked two flights: one to Cairo and one to Beirut. I wanted to visit cities I believed were closest to Syria, in distance and in culture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In those two cities, I felt I had regained sovereignty over myself and reduced the physical and symbolic distance between me and my culture, my natural place. I returned to the self I had been eight years earlier. I spoke my language and blended into the culture of the place. I lived under the same sky. The same night descended over me, and the same sun rose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In \u201cour countries,\u201d my accent exposed me as Syrian. Owners of furnished apartments, hotels, or any service requiring proof of identity would hesitate to receive me as a Syrian. But the moment I revealed that I held Canadian citizenship, faces changed, eyes brightened, expressions opened, and prices doubled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The truth revealed itself once again: I could move freely through the streets of Beirut and Cairo because I was a Canadian citizen. Good. That truth put an end to the \u201cemotional fragmentation\u201d I had allowed myself to live through and returned me to reality: the reality that says the earth, in its entirety, is occupied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This visit coincided with the invasion of Gaza in October 2023. The very sky I had dreamed of living under again was raining bombs and rockets over Gaza. Night carried with it the fear of waking up to a new massacre. The air was heavy with the smell of death and gunpowder, and souls were leaving the earth in waves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I walked through Beirut. In the morning, I saw grief and helplessness on people\u2019s faces. At night, I saw anger and refusal filling their throats as they gathered in front of Arab and Western embassies to demand an end to the genocide in Gaza.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the time, the war was not yet two months old. Today, we are approaching a year of genocide. What is certain is that nine months ago, tens of thousands of lives were dreaming of some future, lives with a horizon to look toward, before each became remains beneath the soil of its own land.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the plane back to Montreal, questions circled in my head. Was the world always this ugly, and we had simply not understood its truth because we were young? Will we survive by some miracle in the final episode? Is survival a goal that can be reached?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The plane lands. I prepare to get off. Here I am now, returning to \u201cmy home\u201d in the other half of the world. I leave the plane with the phrase repeating in my head: the world is not a small village.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I murmur to myself:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

I think I brought the war with me<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

on my skin, a shroud<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

circling my skull, matter under my nails.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It sits at my feet while I watch TV.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hear its damp breath in the background<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

of every phone call. I feel it sleeping<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

between us in the bed. It lathers<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

my back in the shower. It presses<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

itself against me at the bathroom sink.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

At night, it passes me the pills, it holds<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

my hand, I never meet its gaze.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n

  1. MA: Place, Space, Void May 16, 2018 \/ HIDDEN JAPAN. Gunter Nitschke<\/a> \u21a9\ufe0e<\/a><\/li>
  2. MA: Place, Space, Void May 16, 2018 \/ HIDDEN JAPAN. Gunter Nitschke<\/a> \u21a9\ufe0e<\/a><\/li>
  3. Quote from al-\u1e24usayn bin \u02bfAl\u012b bin \u02bfAbd al-\u1e62amad al-A\u1e63fah\u0101n\u012b al-\u1e6caghr\u0101\u02beiyy \u21a9\ufe0e<\/a><\/li><\/ol>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

    Raja Salim – Reflection on Distance and Survival<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":3919,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"[{\"content\":\"MA: Place, Space, Void May 16, 2018 \/ HIDDEN JAPAN. Gunter Nitschke<\/a>\",\"id\":\"6788a68d-a403-4e8b-a34f-fe6ed55a18bc\"},{\"content\":\"MA: Place, Space, Void May 16, 2018 \/ HIDDEN JAPAN. 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