What does home mean for you? and what does it mean for you to be expelled away from that home?

When forced to leave, how much can someone pack in a bag under shelling with the little time he/she has, with a million thoughts in mind about how they might never be able to get back home.

How would you feel about the things left behind after getting to the point where there is no turning back?

We asked the people forcibly displaced from #Ghouta about what they miss the most and what they left behind. Those are five real stories about the #ForcedDisplacemnt. Five of thousands others that share the same pain.

Dima Nachawi drew this album based on 5 real stories from Ghouta



“My father was well educated, liked to read a lot, very handy with wood crafts, and was very skilled with gardening. He created an amazing garden on our roof. When we got displaced I wished if I could bring the whole roof with me for my daughter to play in. There was another thing that touched me even more, a notebook where my father used to write notes , history, dates and events. I wish I had brought it with me”




“One of the things I wish I had the chance to take with me is a necklace that my uncle’s wife gave me for my birthday before I got married. That necklace stayed with me after I got married and took a special meaning after she was killed, but due to the heavy shelling I couldn’t go back home. I wish I had taken it with me to always remember her”




“I wished if I could bring my whole house with me when we got displaced. The most thing I was saddened by is my bed. I’m not sleeping comfortably without it. Even during the intensive shelling I used to argue a lot with my husband about sleeping on my bed in the apartment upstairs instead of sheltering in the basement”




“My husband is in detention since the early days of the revolution, I don’t know anything about him. My son and one of my daughters left the country. All I have left of my family are, a married daughter, my youngest son, and Bara’a my middle daughter.

It was always me and my Bara’a, she was my beloved daughter, my companion, and my friend. She was all I had in life. We went on a visit to my other daughter, and there was a lot of shelling, that shelling took my daughter away from me. My daughter was covered with blood all over, she stayed awake for a couple of minutes in my arms, but she was gone when the paramedics got in, I was helpless, I couldn’t do anything to ease her pain or save her, or even get hit instead of her.

I like the hometown I grew up in like everyone else, but after Bara’a was martyred, I don’t care much about anything, I couldn’t even wonder around my house because every corner reminds me of her. I have a feeling since my daughter was martyred that she is not buried underground, that she is rising above me smiling her well-known smile. Even before the displacement I couldn’t visit her grave because of the heavy shelling.
My Bara’a is not left there alone. I carried her with me in my mind and heart”




“I was very determined not to leave without my parents. Even though I’m married, but I was living near my parents and I spent most of my time with them. I wished to stay with them, but I couldn’t, and they refused to leave with me. They wanted to spend their last days in their homeland and not to find out what being expelled feels like. I don’t blame them but I wished if I could put them in my suitcase and take them with me”