The story began on a hot Spring day of April 2010. Without my mother’s knowledge, I flew out of Austria and landed in one of the world’s oldest and continuously inhabited cities, where the roots of Moorish Spain were born: Damascus. For a first-time visitor in a Middle Eastern country, Syria had instantly left me in a euphoric state as I couldn’t get my eyes off a fascinating landscape that flashed before me. Damascus gave me a lasting impression of a harmonious coexistence between the three religions, which reminded me of what Al-Andalus was supposed to be like: a mosque standing next to a Catholic church and a Jewish synagogue. Traveling further West, I ended up in Palmyra, where I got to contemplate the ancient Roman ruins proudly standing all over the vast desert. I can still hear the noise of the markets and chaotic traffic that lingers in my ears and strongly recall every story behind the portraits I did with the people, even the time we almost got attacked by a pack of wolves in a cave. With the inviting aroma of shisha, I would always find myself sitting with strangers inhaling the smoke that filled up the air. Despite these experiences, I chose not to tell my mother about this journey, knowing that she would worry so much about me (I just sent her a post card that arrived a week after my return). However, it would bother her even more if I decided to go there these days. Returning to Syria may be out of the question, but, looking on the positive side, the least I can do is to pay a tribute to this country by taking another glimpse of the final year before its tumultuous period.