From Homs to Wellington: The Taste of Belonging

Hanadi Hammad Al Bakhas

In Syria, water was never just water. It carried the taste of belonging.

I was five years old in my grandfather’s garden in Homs. Summer wrapped the day in warmth. Butterflies wandered through the air, flowers leaned towards the sun, and my little cat followed me wherever I ran. I was the first grandchild in my mother’s family, and everyone treated me like I was something precious. I grew up surrounded by love, convinced that childhood would always feel that safe.

After hours of playing, I became thirsty and walked to the old water pump beside the garden. I held my cup tightly and pushed the heavy metal handle with all my strength. Nothing happened. I tried again. Still nothing. My uncle, who was only eleven years old, saw me struggling. He smiled, pulled the handle down with both hands, and suddenly clear, cold water rushed into my cup. Later, my grandfather washed grapes and fed them to me one by one.

Years later, I can still remember the taste of that water. It tasted of earth, summer, and home.

Not long after, my father began building our new family house. My mother would tell me about the bedroom she wanted to make for me—a room fit for a Disney princess. I believed her. I imagined every colour, every corner, every dream waiting for me there.

Life had a different plan.

My family left Syria and spent six years in Lebanon before arriving in Aotearoa New Zealand in 2018. Those years in Lebanon were difficult. Living somewhere you do not always feel welcome teaches you how complicated the idea of belonging can be.

Then we arrived in Aotearoa. I remember looking around the airport and seeing people welcoming us. Everything felt simpler. More importantly, I felt safe. I was ten years old, and I was beginning again.

My first day at school in Auckland became one of the happiest days of my life. I walked into the classroom and told myself that, one day, I would become a doctor. For nights afterwards, I fell asleep imagining myself wearing a white coat. I made a promise to myself: I would never give up, no matter how difficult things became.

That promise became even stronger when I realised that my parents needed help navigating a country whose language was new to all of us. I decided to learn English not only for myself, but so I could help my family and make sure that nobody could take advantage of them because they did not understand the language.

Within two months, I had learned the basics. After we moved to Wellington, it took me less than six months to become the translator my family relied on. Learning English happened quickly. Finding my voice took longer.

One of the ways I found that voice was through poetry. I write poetry, and my writing has become a way of carrying my Arab identity with me. Through my poems, I write about memories, home, belonging, family, displacement, and emotions that can sometimes be difficult to express in everyday conversation.

Even while building a life in Aotearoa, I do not want to lose the part of me that comes from Syria. Writing allows me to keep that connection alive. For me, poetry is a bridge between where I come from and where I am going. It allows me to carry Homs with me—not only as a place I remember, but as a part of who I am.

One memory from school has never left me. My teacher divided the class into groups of five to solve a maths problem. I had so many ideas. I knew what I wanted to say, but did not know how to express myself in English. I went to the bathroom and cried. I was frustrated because I knew I was capable of contributing, but I did not yet have the words.

Still, the little girl inside me kept saying: You are strong. One day you will get there.

For years, I dreamed of becoming a doctor. But in Year 13, I discovered something different. I realised that I was drawn to law because I wanted to understand justice and stand beside people who might not have a voice.

I changed some of my subjects, moving away from biology, chemistry, and physics and focusing more on language. I began reading about lawyers and the justice system. I knew that becoming a lawyer would be difficult, but I also knew that difficult did not mean impossible. When I told my parents, they were happy. They could see that I had found something I genuinely cared about.

The path to university was not straightforward. I was short of the credits I needed, and for a moment it would have been easy to see that as the end of my dream. Instead, with support from Richard Barrett, I enrolled in a business programme at WelTec in Petone. I worked hard, earned the results I needed, and eventually made my way to university.

That second chance became the beginning of my real dream.

Now, I am a second-year Law student at Te Herenga Waka—Victoria University of Wellington, studying law alongside politics. Reaching my second year of Law was one of my biggest dreams, and being here today makes me incredibly proud.

But I am not stopping here. My biggest goal is to complete my law degree and become a criminal lawyer. I am excited about what lies ahead and determined to keep pushing myself, even when things become difficult.

University is not always easy for me. Sometimes I sit in a law, politics, science, or geography class and do not understand something straight away. When that happens, I can become overwhelmed. Sometimes I need to step away from my desk and let my mind breathe. I walk for a while. I give myself a little time. Then I come back, my mind feels fresher, and I try again.

That small routine has taught me something important: taking a step back is not the same as giving up. Sometimes it is how we find the strength to continue.

There is one moment, however, that still confuses me. Sometimes I look at my grades and start crying. I do not always know whether I am crying because I am happy or because I am remembering how difficult my journey was. Maybe it is both.

I look at those grades and think about the little girl who once stood in a classroom with so many ideas but could not find the English words to express them. That girl is still part of me. Now, she is getting high marks at university.

Today, as President of Vic Without Barriers, I think about students who arrive carrying fears that no one else can see. I want them to know that struggling does not mean that they do not belong.

My family remains one of the biggest reasons I keep going. When I saw how difficult it could be for my parents to navigate a new country, I wanted to become stronger—not only for myself, but for them.

I used to dream about wearing a white coat. Today, I dream about wearing a black one. But the promise has stayed the same: I will not give up.

And when I think about home, I still return to that garden in Homs: my uncle lifting the heavy pump for me, my grandfather feeding me grapes, my mother telling me about the Disney-princess room she wanted to make for me.

Those memories did not disappear when I crossed borders. They travelled with me. Like the water from that old pump, they still live inside me. And they remind me that belonging is not simply a place we leave behind. It is something we carry with us, wherever we go.

“عبرتُ الحدود، لكنني لم أترك وطني خلفي؛ حملته معي في لغتي، وفي شعري، وفي كل حلم سعيتُ لتحقيقه.”

“I crossed borders, but I did not leave my homeland behind; I carried it with me in my language, in my poetry, and in every dream I pursued.”