As our final day in Aleppo ended, we raced to a vantage point to watch the sunset in the old city. As we reached the top of the hill and snugged into our jackets to escape the breeze, the cold quickly subsided as we became inundated by locals who wished to say hello.
Amongst them was a group of girls no older than 12; they were particularly friendly and curious. It was somewhat unexpected, not the curiosity but the nature of their questions, “Have you been to a Billie Eilish concert” one girl yells, another “I love your eyeliner”. Every question about pop culture and appearance took me back as they were dressed ultra-conservative, and their grasp of English was excellent, all learnt through YouTube.
I am starting to think I have just made a group of best friends until one girl’s voice raises, “Why are you in Aleppo, why?” as she opens her hand in a w-formation and rolled her eyes. This little girl polarised me, and I was left speechless. Her tone and delivery throw me off the standard response; she clearly has something to say. My suspicions are correct as my answer, “I want to see Syria”, leaves her unsatisfied. She looks at me, and I start to wonder what this girl’s beef is, then remind myself of her age, “Paris, you cannot sass a kid out”, so I laugh it off. She was too cognizant, outsmarting me at every turn, “Why? Why? People here are crazy; why would you want to come here?” as she rolls her index finger around her ear. I want to be honest with her, but I can’t seem to string the words together; it feels both insensitive and age-inappropriate. This girl from Aleppo seems to see straight through me, “I asked you a question, hello?” as she wobbles her head. Eventually, I say, “Your country intrigues me. It is different from mine” She warms up; the answer wasn’t untrue and she knew it.
After a 10-minute interrogation, she began to let her walls down; as much as she was driving me crazy, I admired her intelligence and fearlessness. I even asked her if we could start over, asking a 12-year-old to start over. Can you believe it? We introduce ourselves; I say my name, and she says hers. Before I can say anything, she leaves me stunned and starts to cry, “I hate my name, I hate my name, I will be stuck here forever, and my name makes it so much harder”. I hug her, lost for words and afraid of creating false hope. I tell her my honest opinion, “Your name is beautiful”, but these scars are more profound than any words I can speak. It was gut-wrenching, so clear her abilities, so much she could offer the world, so much she wanted to “If I could be anything, a doctor or a teacher maybe, I want to help people”. I wanted to do something for her, but I couldn’t; I am an ordinary girl, and the world isn’t always friendly to Syrian refugees.
I have thought about the girl from Aleppo since that day, wondering why her life and place of birth determine and limit her life. I have gone back and forth trying to comprehend how there is a little girl on the other side of the world who is smarter and likely more capable than I am yet left with substantially fewer opportunities. Instead, bearing the price of her government and those who do badly around her.
I hope I see the girl from Aleppo again.
PARIS HAILWOOD 
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