My Hope Hit: The song that transports me home

When I listen to ‘Baytek Ya Setti’ by Fairuz, I’m transported. It’s nostalgia, it’s connection and it’s home. The song takes me back to my grandmother’s house in Syria, the scent of her cooking, the warmth of her stories, the memories of the mattresses we used to sleep on, on the floor.

Fairuz is Lebanese and is one of the most beloved singers in the Arab world. I have her picture hanging on my wall because I adore her so much. Her voice is like home. In ‘Baytek Ya Setti,’ she sings about meeting an old woman who reminds her of her grandmother. The lyrics describe the house in such detail – the sofa, the mattresses – it’s like stepping into any Syrian home. For me, it’s my grandmother’s home. She helped raise us, always nearby, always telling stories. The song brings me back to her. It’s impossible to listen to it without crying. It just feels like love.

Maysa.

“Music is home. It reminds me of my parents, especially when I hear a song they used to love. It brings life, movement, joy, connection – music makes people more connected and closer to each other. It brings emotions that I probably won’t be able to just say out loud. Music is life.”

To me, the song conveys warmth. I am back in my grandmother’s house, a long, long time ago, and she is doing everything she can to heat us up during a cold winter.

Winter is not my favourite season. I was born in December, but I’ve never liked the cold. In Syria, even in winter, there was still light. I remember coming home from school with my siblings, all of us sitting down for lunch, then studying together. Sometimes the electricity would be cut and we’d study by candlelight. That sense of family, of being together, is what I miss most during winters in the UK. Here, it gets dark so early, and that makes it harder.

‘Baytek Ya Setti’ connects me to my grandmother, to my childhood, to Syria. It’s a reminder of who I am and where I come from.

“Syria is home – it’s the place I belong to. It’s my roots. It’s where I know I’ll get back to at some point. It’s friends. It’s the language that I speak. It’s the music that I love and all the memories attached to it.”

I grew up in Latakia, a city on the Mediterranean coast surrounded by green forests and beaches. I used to walk to school with my twin brother and we’d explore the hills together. My father encouraged me to learn English from a young age. He told me, “English is the cosmopolitan language – you’ll need it.” He used to listen to BBC Arabic every morning, and the sound of Big Ben became part of our daily life. I dreamed of London.

I came here in 2016, and although I was glad to be in a safe place with electricity and water, adjusting to life here wasn’t easy. The education system was different, and I missed home deeply. But London welcomed me. It’s a diverse city, full of people from everywhere, and I love that. I love that I can study what I want, explore different opportunities and that I am surrounded by people who support refugees and understand what we’ve been through – not because they have to, but because they care.

One of the most powerful moments for me is when I return back to London from travelling and the officer at the airport says, “Welcome back home.” They probably don’t realise how much that short greeting means to someone like me, who can’t go back home. But in that moment, I feel seen.

After the conflict in Syria began, I started learning belly dancing. It wasn’t something I grew up doing formally, but in our culture, dancing is everywhere: at home, at weddings, at celebrations. When I came to London, I tried taking classes, but they didn’t feel genuine. Many of the teachers weren’t from the region, and the knowledge and cultural roots of the dance were missing. That’s why I decided to start my own belly dancing school.

For me, belly dancing is the only way to dance to Arabic music. Whenever I’m asked why I love belly dancing, I think it’s like asking someone in Latin America why they dance salsa – it’s just how you move to your music. But belly dancing has been misunderstood and misrepresented. It’s been sexualised and stereotyped, and I wanted to change that. Through my school, I aim to decolonise belly dancing, to show people that it’s not about seduction or your physical appearance – it’s about connection, joy and power.

If you’re looking for another song to uplift you, I’d recommend ‘Watani’ (My Homeland) also by Fairuz. In it, she sings, “You are so tiny, but you are as big as the world.” That’s how I feel. My village may be small, my country may be small, but it feels as big as the whole world.

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