A/N: The beautiful Syria ^_^
Don't have much to say. Just read, y'all xD
Disclaimer: An entire story arch would be dedicated to Syria if I owned Hetalia.
Chapter 4: Damascus
28: Different
She wasn't like other Arab girls.
Syria liked to fight. She liked to swear. She could lift heavy things and punch holes into walls. She wasn't afraid of war (in fact, she thrived in it). She held nothing back, she spoke whatever was on her mind without a second thought—and if her boss or her brothers or even her men didn't like it, then it was tough luck for them. Her father once proclaimed that he was the most blessed man in their region, with the gods having bestowed upon him four consecutive sons; and Syria beamed with happiness, because surly, the worst thing in the world was to be a woman.
She grew up thinking that she was a boy. Her father, Ancient Assyria, was responsible for this, because she was the eldest and his successor and the worst thing in the world was to have a daughter take that position. He dressed her like a boy and told her that she was one. He swore and drank in front of her as if it were nothing. He gave her her first and best sword, a huge thing nearly as tall as she was, and gave her armor that she came to were all the time. He was the one who taught her to fight. And she drank all that he taught her like an empty cup takes in water, because she was his successor and did not want to let him down. She was his pride and joy. Syria loved her father, and didn't want to be the disappointment that her brothers were.
Her younger brothers were nothing like her. Jordan was more into books and medicine. Lebanon spent most of his time lost in his own head, daydreaming, spaced out. Palestine was the one she could relate to the most, because he liked to fight, too. But even so, not nearly as much as her. She defended the three of them, weaker states, the prefect pray to the more ambitious Nations at the time. If it weren't for Syria, it's safe to say that her three younger brothers may not have made it to adulthood.
She grew up as a boy, but eventually nature caught up with her and she grew breasts, began to bleed once a month. Her body took on a more sharply form. Her voice never cracked. Everyone, including Syria herself, discovered the truth, and Turkey was so angry that he tried to kill her. But she fought back, not as the son her father always wanted, but as the lady that she truly was. The worst thing in the world was to be born a woman, but it appeared as though she would now have to live with it. She was never one to fight fate.
So Syria was a lady. She was pure, wore the hijab, studied the Qur'an and was just as pious as the next. But she was also a fighter. And fighters always won.
Saudi Arabia once told her that it was as if she was meant to be a man from the start. To that, she punched him in the face.
29: Honor
"Oh, please, don't make me do that!"
"It's for the good of Arab's everywhere, Syria."
He wanted her to marry Iraq, and Syria knew, she knew, that surely her boss had lost his mind. Why else would he ask her to do something so disgraceful? Jordan had been married to him less than a year before. For one man to have sex with two siblings was just deplorable. Heartbreaking, even. Assyria would be turning over in his grave if he weren't up in heaven.
She crossed her arms. "I won't do it."
"Oh, yes you will."
"I will not."
"You will so! You will listen to me and marry whom I tell you to marry! I am the man here, and—"
He never got the chance to finish that sentence, because his own Nation slapped him across the face. He reeled for a moment, before drawing up his own hand, as if he had the indecency to do the same. But she caught him by the wrist before the back of his hand connected to the side of her face, and almost laughed at the size his eyes grew from the shock. She shook her head in mock disappointment. "All you men are alike. Your brain's are like file cabinets, and you all think that women are just here to own. Idiots."
And so, Iraq and Syria never married, her boss never tried to make her do something ever again, and she lost track of all the times Jordan kissed and thanked her for saving the family honor.
30: Marriage
In 1958, Syria learned that she was to marry Egypt.
She remembered him from world meetings but never spoke to him before. From what she could tell, he was very quiet and reserved a Nation who only spoke when absolutely necessary, and often times not even then. He wore traditional clothes and was always trying to sell knick-knacks to tourists and other Nations. From what she could recall, he was handsome enough, around her height, with wide, brown eyes.
Those same brown eyes stared into hers for the first time on their wedding day, and at that moment, Syria remembered some piece of advice that Palestine always told her: The eyes are the windows to the soul.
Egypt's windows were closed. His eyes told her nothing and his expressionless face unnerved her. She wasn't afraid of him. What she felt was more akin to frustration, that she would have to now spend the rest of her life with a man who was very unlikely to open up to her.
"Tell me about yourself."
She asked him this on their wedding night, before the clothes came off and they consummated the marriage. She wanted to know something about him, wanted to hear the sound of his voice before she gave herself to him in that ultimate way.
Egypt stared at her for a few good moments; he opened his mouth, and then closed it. It was at that moment that his windows didn't open, but cracked, some unnamable emotion shining out of his eyes and shooting into Syria like a daggers. With that, Syria knew… "You really don't want to be here either, do you?"
Egypt looked away from her. The corners of his lips twitched upwards but then fell into the same place. For the first time, she heard his voice. "Do you want honesty?"
"Yes, especially since that's what I'm giving to you."
He turned back to face her and said very plainly, "There's someone else."
Syria raised her eyebrows. "Really? That's good, since there's someone else for me, too."
Egypt nodded, then whispered, almost to himself, "It's another man."
She stood quiet for a few moments, mulling over this. Another man? Another man… two men… In the end, she could only say, "You better not let Nasser find out."
Egypt actually laughed at that, something short and soft and fleeting. "And what of yours? Your other person?"
"I'll just say… that it's someone who's very close but yet very, very far."
Her husband nodded, serious once again. "I know what that's like." The newlywed's remained quiet after that, looking away from each other, the awkward silence something that Egypt was very used to but made Syria uncomfortable. "Listen, Egypt… since we both agree that we don't love each other, do we really still have to…?"
He gave her an expressionless look, before his eyes lit in realization. "Oh, you mean the sex?" He looked away from her. "We don't. You obviously don't want to, and I…" he closed his eyes. "I don't want to betray him in that way."
"Yeah. Me neither."
The marriage ended in 1961, when Syria left Egypt and declared herself a sovereign republic once again. She liked Egypt well enough, they made good friends at the very least, but she couldn't stand his (their) boss. The problem wasn't that Nasser was a dictator, the problem was that he dictated her more than he did Egypt, and this is what caused her to leave. And Egypt didn't go after her; in fact, he was the only one who waved goodbye.
31: Curl
Syria stared at the curl on top of Iran's head, how it stood so tall and perfect in its spiral shape. It was so distracting that she stopped listening long ago to what Iran was telling her.
"…and that's pretty much the jam that I'm in. I know that you're Arab and Sunni and everything, but… c'mon! Help a guy out!"
She took her eyes off the gravity-defying ahoge to meet his eyes. She blinked once. "I'm sorry… what?"
He clicked his tongue, but repeated himself. Very slowly. "I. Am at war. With Iraq. He had attacked me. For no reason. No one wants to help me. You are. My last hope. Please. Help. Me."
She narrowed her eyes at him, suddenly remembering why it was that her boss had sent her to speak with him. "Damn right, I'm your last hope. But if you want me to help you, you'd better stop talking to me like I'm an idiot. I'm not stupid, in fact I'm pretty certain that I'm smarter than you. Get your facts straight."
Iran raised an eyebrow to her, smirking. "Oh, really? You aren't an idiot? Then why the fuck did you space out the way you did while I was talking to you?"
"B-Because," she stammered out, losing herself for a moment, "your voice is dull and monotonous and I got bored! I was staring at that thing on the top on your head. That curl."
He blushed at that, a deep, scarlet red that was telling, especially since his skin tone was fairly dark. He seemed to be at a loss of words for a few moments, before finally huffing out, "You know what? Forget it about it. I don't wanna ally myself with a pervert." He turned around to leave, but…
Syria grabbed him by the arm, spinning him around so that he would face her. She lowered her face to his and snarled, "What did you call me?"
He remained quiet, before her nails sunk in deeper. Iran winced in pain and then answered, "W-Why else would you be staring at my curl there if you weren't a perv?"
"Um, hello? It's a hair that's standing up on your head, defying gravity like it doesn't even give a fuck about the laws of physics. Of course I'm going to stare! And how can a piece of hair be sexual at all?"
The Iranian glanced away, his blush threatening to return. "You don't know?"
"No," Syria admitted plainly.
He swallowed, audibly. "Then maybe it's better that you don't."
"But what is—"
"Anyway, why don't we start over?" the shorter Nation extended his hand to her. "Hey there, my name is the Islamic Republic of Iran, but you can call me Iran for short! I'm an awesome Nation, pretty much the best of the best, and of course, naturally, I am envied. I think this is why no one wants to help me out in the war that I'm currently in against my neighbor. My neighbor is a real douche, have you met him? His name is Iraq, and he's an annoying pervert who smokes too much and molested your little brother, Jordan. In any case, you're my last hope, since you haven't really allied yourself one way or the other. Let's unite to teach that dumbass a lesson, eh? I promise I'll hold him down while you stomp on his balls!"
Syria, who had been listening this time, smiled. "Well, I don't think that I could ever turn down such a tantalizing offer. And I've always been one to side with the underdog." She took his hand, and they shook on it. "You have yourself an ally."
"Sweet! This is gonna be so awesome! You aren't like other Arab girls. This is gonna be great."
"So we're friends?"
"Totally."
"So, as friends, can I ask you something?"
"Sure, what?"
"What's so sexual about that curl on your head?"
"Damnit, you aren't letting this one go, are ya?"
32: Fundamentalism
Syria supposed, pan-Arabism was a nice idea in theory (along with communism and fascism and anarchy) but she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something very wrong with it. Something was brewing in the air, something ugly, something sick, perhaps a virus of sorts. An illness that would infect them all in the worst way.
If they lived in separate houses, then the virus wouldn't spread as quickly, and a cure could perhaps be found. But if they all lived in the same house, then they would all get sick, and they would be too weak to stop it. No; after she divorced Egypt, she vowed that she would never marry again. Not only for her own good but for the good of all Arab's everywhere.
"What are you doing?"
Syria looked up and saw that it was Morocco who was speaking to her. The latter was a small country, a skinny girl with severe features, but she had an imperialistic spirit. She liked to dominate people. Syria turned away from her and answered, "I'm building a moat."
Indeed, Syria was digging a trench all around the boarder of her house, about 7 feet deep. Even taller than Russia or Sweden or Afghanistan. She was covered in dirt and had a shovel in her hands, all that she was using. She worked with herself and herself alone, with no help from her boss or even her own people—but, to their credit, none of them even knew of their Nation's secret project to distance herself from the Arab world. Surely, if they did know, there would be an uproar.
Morocco cocked her head to the side, pouting bit, trying to look innocent. She was trying too hard. "A moat? What for?"
"I want to keep the others the fuck out of my house."
"What others?"
"What is this, 20 Questions? I swear you're so damn nosy!"
"Relax," Morocco advised in a soothing voice, deceptive as ever. "I'm just curious. Who don't you want in your house?"
"Everyone," Syria spat. The older Nation then smiled cruelly, "Especially countries like you."
"Ouch." Morocco pressed a fist to her chest. "That hurt, Syria."
"I don't care," Syria deadpanned.
"So, you're trying to isolate yourself? But, but, the other day, I saw you talking to the Persian, acting all buddy-buddy with him. So, you're abandoning the entire world for that nobody?"
Syria's jaw clenched. If she weren't 7 feet deep inside the earth, she would have without a doubt punched Morocco in the face. "Iran has nothing to do with this." Well, perhaps he does, but that's none of your business anyway. "Keep his name off of your lips, unless you want a very serious problem with me."
"Oh, so protective, I see!" Morocco studied Syria for a moment, then frowned and shook her head in mock-upset. "But he's so ugly, though! You're way prettier than him, you'd look way better with Iraq. Weren't you two supposed to be married? Eh, whatever. Anyway, but yeah! I can't believe that you're fucking that short little loser!" Morocco placed her hands on her hips and said in an authoritarian tone, "If I were your boss, I'd break all relations with Iran and sow your vagina shut to keep you from being such a whore."
By now Syria's face was beat red in all her rage. "You stupid piece of shit. You speak such garbage to me, and then you have the nerve to ask me why I don't want to be around our kind anymore. This is why! You're all so damn ignorant and self-righteous that it makes me sick. I'd kill myself before living in the caliphate."
"Oh!" Morocco squealed. "You let it out! You're not trying to block yourself off from everybody, just us Arab's!" The smaller Nation leaned back a bit, then spit out a knot of phlegm at Syria. It landed on her left cheek. "Have fun with the Persian and all his friends, then. If you won't be our bitch, then you'll definitely be his!"
Two weeks later, news spread across the Middle East that someone had lit Morocco's hijab on fire, incinerating most of her hair. Syria remained strangely quiet on the matter.
33: Arrogant, Stupid, and Homeless
Jordan was perhaps the only Nation Syria knew whose ego was just as big as Iran's.
Jordan, the youngest brother, was perhaps the most meticulous, neurotic, egotistical Nation that she knew. He was well aware of how good looking he was, and of his intelligence. The man knew his worth and perhaps overestimated it just a bit, crippling others not with fists (as Syria did) but with words. He had a sharp tongue, and was not only unafraid of putting others in their place, but in fact reveled in it. This was why most Nations stood away from him, why he had so little friends in their region. The only one who Jordan could perhaps count on as an ally was Iraq, his ex-husband, the one Nation who gladly fanned the flames of Jordan's ego. Iraq openly fawned over Jordan, unashamed of the feelings that he still had over the smaller country, and it almost made Syria want to gag at how pathetic it all was.
"Father would've given me the inheritance, if you hadn't tricked him into thinking that you were a boy."
"Sure. Just keep telling yourself that, and maybe one day it'll be true."
Lebanon was perhaps the only Nation Syria knew who was just as idiotic as Italy. If not even dumber than that.
Lebanon, third born in the family. He was known in their family for having virtually no common sense. He was always either daydreaming or doodling or out in the woods climbing a tree, and he rarely did anything that his boss ever asked of him. He liked to run around singing loudly and out of tune, always giggling to himself even in the most serious of situations. He opened his borders to anyone and everyone who wanted to live in him, and was then surprised when religious and ethnic divisions arose so deep that it erupted in civil war. The pain for him had been intense, and he wouldn't stop crying, so Syria took pity on her idiotic brother and intervened in his civil war, trying to bring it to an end. But when it did end, all the thanks she got was Lebanon yelling at her, something about ulterior motives.
"You're so horrible, Syria! Such a bitch! Just get out of my house already!"
"Okay. Next time you have a civil war, don't come crying to me."
Palestine was perhaps the only homeless Nation that Syria knew of that actually deserved a home.
Palestine, second born in the family. After World War Two, Israel broke into his house, beat him up, and declared that all Palestinian lands belonged to him. And this would've been fine with Syria, she may have even laughed at Palestine's luck, but what irked her about the whole situation were special circumstances that others had made for Israel. She knew, and Jordan knew, and Lebanon knew, that if it had been anyone else, had Iraq tried to take over Kuwait (for example), the whole entire world would have intervened on Kuwait's behalf. So what was so special about Israel that made it okay to kick Palestine out of his own house? And what made it worse was then even after all of that, after they all tried to take his home back and lost every time, Israel continued to bully Palestine, conduct air strikes, restrict him in the worst ways possible. But until they could take his house back, Syria took care of Palestine.
"I love you, Syria. You're such a good big sister."
"Thank you. Just that alone makes it all worth it."
34: Like Others
Her two best friends were Cuba and Libya. Two men.
They could walk together trouble-free in Havana –at worst, people there would at times stare at Syria because of her head scarf, something that she grew used to. In Tripoli, more people stared, mostly at Syria, not so much because of her hijab, but because she was traveling with two men who she was obviously not related to. And then there was Damascus—Syria's heart. They received the worst treatment there, slurs and the dirtiest of looks. They were all directed at her, of course. The three of them never did anything particularly wrong; they'd just be talking and laughing, acting like normal young adults, but everyone hated them (her) for it because she was a girl, and girls weren't supposed to act that way. It was perhaps the one aspect that she hated about her life above everything else, that she wasn't a man. She liked being a woman, she accepted her fate, but she had to admit, life had been so much easier when she had been a boy to the world—then, only Allah knew the truth, only Him and not even herself. She hated how she was objectified, seen as "less than", because life's gamble had left her as Ancient Assyria's only daughter instead of his first son.
She supposed that the only reason why she felt so strongly about it was because she knew was it was to be a man. The other female Arab's—Oman, Yemen, United Arab Emirates, Qatar, Bahrain, Morocco, Mauritania—weren't as disturbed by society as Syria was, because they had never known the other side. They didn't know how good it felt to be a man, to be able to do and say whatever you wanted. They didn't know. They didn't—
"Why was 6 afraid of 7?" Cuba piped up.
Syria and Libya looked at each other, then back to Cuba, expecting an answer. The Latin American smiled wryly and shrugged. "Because 7 was Arab."
"Are you sure? 7 could just as easily be Latino," Libya mused. "I mean, put an Arab and a Hispanic side by side, and I can't even tell the difference."
Syria sniggered, and because they were in her territory one of her more chauvinistic men shouted out "whore!" but she ignored it because she had to. She wasn't a man. She never would be. But she didn't want to act like the typical woman, either.
She supposed that, in the end, she just wanted to be Syria.
35: Devotion
She rescued him from Iraq, stood by him through it all, and loved Iran, no matter what.
"Hm, you know, Syria?" Iran asked one night, after another heavy battle with Iraq. They were in a border town, a field covered in dead bodies—Syria didn't quite mind it, and Iran just tried to ignore it. They sat on the ground together, facing each other, only the light of the stars shining down on them to provide some form of light.
"What is it?" Syria murmured. She was tired.
"Did you ever have a first love?"
Her eyes widened. A first love? She paused for a moment, before murmuring, "No. I didn't."
"Huh, that's weird. Well, maybe not, you are pretty young and all." Syria didn't know what he meant by that. If anything, she would be older than him. "I had a first love once, ya know."
"Really?" Iran didn't strike her as the type to fall in love. "What was she like?"
"He." Iran corrected. "Yeah, he was this little warrior dude. A Nation, like the two of us. The oldest of four brothers." Iran turned his head and looked up at the sky. It was indigo and hazed with a light fog. "He used to carry around a sword almost as big as he was, and always, always wore his armor. He was his father's pride and joy, and he used to defend his three little brothers, weak countries who probably would have died if it weren't for him." Iran smiled fondly, his eyes sparkling as he went on. "He was real, real serious, and didn't take any shit from anyone, but deep down he had a really good heart." Iran looked back down at Syria. "He was an Arab, you know. Just like you."
Syria glanced up at him, her bronzed cheeks glowing with a faint blush that Iran couldn't make out in the darkness. She averted her gaze down to her hands. "Oh, really? What was his name?"
Iran waved her off. "Not important. It doesn't matter what his name was. He's dead."
Her head shot up. "D-Dead?"
"Yeah. He was around until the first World War." Iran turned away from her. "But then, for some reason, Turkey killed him."
Syria's mind was going a million miles a second, and she couldn't swallow the lump in her throat. After a few long moments, Iran picked up again.
"Once, he told me that no matter who came into my life, no matter how much they loved me, he would always love me more than any of them." Iran smiled, but unlike all the other times there was a touch of tragedy to it. "I believe him, too. I mean, there's proof all around me, even now. He loves me still."
Iran turned away from her again, and Syria closed her eyes. Tried to count the number of years that Iran was alive.
36: Static
Out of them all, she was the one who everyone expected to stay the same. This was before March of 2011.
A/N: Historicalness explained!
28: Okay, let me explain this family tree: Once upon a time, a big, hairy man named Ancient Assyria fell in love with a pretty young woman named Philistine. They fucked and had babies: Syria, Palestine, Lebanon and Jordan. Syria and Jordan together make up what was once Ancient Assyria, while Palestine, Lebanon, and Israel make up what was once Philistine (hey, for all you Christians out there, Philistine comes up in the bible! You know, that crazy story with all the marching and shouting!). Anyway, as with all cultures, in Arab culture it doesn't matter if the girl is first born—the oldest son is getting the inheritance. But, with Nations, my head canon tells me that this would be invalid: no matter what, the firstborn inherits the land, even if the firstborn is a girl. As in the case with Ancient Assyria and Syria. So, to save face, Assyria raised his only daughter as his son, something that poor little Syria didn't even know until she hit puberty (you know, like a certain Hungarian).
The only historical reference: Turkey tried to kill Syria? Yes, in 1915, Ottoman troops started to pound Syria, most notably in the Massacre of Hama. Syria claims this to be genocide, though Turkey denied these allegations.
Not much history here, other than Syria's childhood and establishing that she's a boss. Like, it takes guts for anyone to punch a guy like Saudi Arabia in the face. Especially if you're a girl. Especially if you're an Arab girl.
29: The Arab Federation of Iraq and Jordan lasted from February 14, 1958 to July 14, 1958 (FIVE MONTHS. THAT'S SHORT, EVEN BY HUMAN STANDARDS). This union came to be out of the pan-Arabism philosophy and the desire of some to create an Islamic caliphate in the Middle East (aka, one big country for all Arabs). It all fell apart once it's ruler, King Faisal, was disposed in a military coup.
Iraq and Syria were supposed to merge into one country in 1978. Iraq used to be ruled by the Ba'athist (Renaissance) Party, before the 2003 US invasion. As I write this now, Syria is currently ruled by the Ba'athist Party. In 1978, both countries were ruled by this political party and wanted to merge, but all negotiations for this fell apart once Saddam Hussein took power in Iraq and cut off all ties to Syrian Ba'athists.
With that said, it was really Iraq who stopped this wedding, but Syria wasn't too thrilled about it either, remembering how badly she was treated by Egypt's boss while married to him. Plus, knowing Syria, she would have thought the whole idea was repulsive just because Iraq used to be married to her little brother. She'd also be put off by Iraq's inability to take much of anything seriously, and as for the bad blood that existed between Iraq and Iran… heh. Even if they had gotten married, the union probably would have lasted for four months, tops. That is, if Iraq and Syria didn't kill each other first.
30: The United Arab Republic, comprised of Egypt and Syria, began in 1958 and ended in 1961, when Syria seceded from the union. Again, pan-Arabism and the caliphate played a huge role in this. Um… Syrians were pretty oppressed during this time, seeing as the leader of this union, the notorious Gamal Abdel Nasser, was an Egyptian nationalist who didn't want to share power with Syrian Ba'athists. But I would say, seeing as they're both really serious and no-nonsense, Egypt and Syria themselves would have gotten along just fine, though.
31: IRAN HAS A HUGE AHOGE ON TOP OF HIS HEAD, AND YES IT IS HIS ENGORGEOUS ZONE. And Syria would be quite fascinated by it. The end.
32: …just my take on pan-Arabism, and the fact that Syria has seemed to withdrawn any desire to merge with any other Arab country in an attempt to create some sort of caliphate. Now, she just wants to impose her will onto others, but she doesn't want to marry anyone anytime soon. So, logically, to keep all potential suitors away, she has built a moat all around her boarder.
As for Morocco… well. Syria and Morocco don't really get along. If you look at post-independent Moroccan history, it's quite apparent that if this were another place and time, there would be a Moroccan Empire in North-Western Africa. Morocco claims West Sahara and is absorbing that place little by little (controls about 80% now), and as Mauritania was trying to organize her own independence, Morocco kept on preying on her, not at all shy about her desire to absorb Mauritania into her territory. It's quite scary.
Morocco hasn't been as pro-Arab as the other Arab states, but even so… she doesn't like Syria, and would say anything to get under her skin.
(And as for her hair, don't worry. It's all grown back by now.)
33: WELL. SYRIA AND HER BROTHERS.
Jordan is stuck up… just because he is. He's managed to avoided a lot of the problems that have plagued the other Nations in his area, and also happens to have a highly developed medical field (the best in the Middle East, apparently). Also, I guess if it were possibly, Jordan would have inherited Assyria's lands because he made up the other half if Assyria back in Ancient times, even though he's the youngest.
Lebanon is cute, and he's also really liberal, but he can also be just clueless sometimes. And ungrateful to his big sister.
As for Palestine… obviously, Syria's hatred for Israel is a bit more personal, considering the whole Golan heights fiasco. But Palestine definitely plays a huge role, too. When it comes to family, Palestine would be, like, the one bright spot for Syria ^_^
34: BEYOND THE AXIS OF EVIL LOVE. And the modification of a really corny joke lol
35: *crickets chirping* …I'm not touching this one with a 40 foot pole. Make of it what you will.
36: You know the protests in the Middle East? Syria's late like a motherfucker; hers just started last week. But better late than never, right? C:
That's all. Next is my love, Libya :3