While everyone talks about death rates in Syria, what I picture is a friend back there playing her trumpet. I remember her refusal to leave Syria, despite the critical security situation.
She was the only one with whom I shared the first act of the play that at the time I was working on. We read it together, and she started composing a soundtrack on her warm brass instrument. What she told me before I left remains vivid: “A trumpet player has a long deep breath. My breath is long and deep enough, so I am not going anywhere. I’m staying here.”
She paused and added: ”Music must remain in our country.”
Our farewell was not goodbyes and hugs, but a passionate melody she blew through her trumpet.
I left.
