As I sit here writing this essay in the comfort of my Irvine, CA, home, I have tears in my eyes. While I am blessed to be in the U.S., I am also far from many of those I love the most. I remember how most nights in Damascus, my children and grandchildren would surround the dinner table. But the war broke that union. Like many other Syrian families, the war has separated us by oceans and continents. One of my sons lives with his wife and three children in the United Arab Emirates, another with his wife and two children in Turkey.I'll never forget the sights and sounds of the crowded streets in Damascus during Ramadan. As the sun set, people would rush home to prepare for iftar, or the breaking of their fasts. One by one, kitchen lights would start to flicker through the windows, and the smell of the nightly feast would fill the air. There would always be a knock at the door from a neighbour eager to share their most delicious homemade dish. Then suddenly, the streets would fall silent. The call to prayer would ring out from hundreds of minarets across the ancient city, the same way it has for more than a thousand years, inviting people to once again eat, drink, and pray.The call to prayer still rings across Damascus. Maybe one day, I'll be able to hear it again. I am here now and grateful to be in the United States. Even during this time of heightened Islamophobia, where Syrian refugees and Muslims are often portrayed by politicians, and one presidential candidate, as dangerous , I am truly touched by the sense of community that we have in Orange County.