In the darkest hour of the night I see myself studying medicine so that I can send my mother medicine.

“Mom! Mother? I beg you, wake up!” I called my mother who passed out on the line while calling. I was silent for three minutes, feeling paralyzed and looking helplessly at my mother. I thought this was the end for her. Later I spoke to my brother. “She has had this much more often since you had to flee.” She went to see a doctor in Aleppo a while ago. She told her that she is not the only one with these kinds of complaints. “All my patients have psychological problems after nine years of war. People have lost their homes, lost relatives or no longer see their children because they had to flee.”
The war in Syria not only cost many bodies, but also left horrific traces in the hearts and minds of the Syrians. Children, women and men have seen parts of the body and blood lying on the roads, their neighborhood being bombed. It has not resulted in blood and death alone, but in psychoses and depression among civilians.
“Your mother probably has a post-traumatic stress disorder,” said a Dutch doctor I know. A psychiatric problem is no longer something to be ashamed of in Syria, as it was before the war. Everyone is bothered by it now. Nevertheless, there are no good doctors in Syria for people with psychiatric problems. In recent years I have been able to offer good help to my mother from the Netherlands. I saved as much money as possible for her. When they no longer had a home, they could rent a new home. When food became very expensive in recent years, she could still buy it because I had provided her.
But now? I can’t sleep because I don’t see a solution. In the darkest hour of the night I see myself studying medicine, so that I can send my mother medicines from the Netherlands. I feel desperate.

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