ApplePHONE

 I snapped a photo of Yara’s phone, casually resting on the desk next to her as she worked on her laptop. The modern, pink Apple phone stood out, a vibrant contrast to the quiet, studious atmosphere around us. It was a subtle detail, but one that spoke volumes. For twenty years, I’ve been photographing this connection between people and their phones—these devices that, while small, have become so integral to the way we live. They are not just tools for communication, but symbols of how we connect to the world, to our pasts, and to our futures. Her phone, in that moment, seemed to capture something deeper about who Yara is—where she’s been, and where she’s going.

Yara is a student at the University of Toronto, and we’ve bonded over a shared love of library hopping—searching out the best spots to settle into, the quiet corners where we can lose ourselves in the pages of books. But she is more than just a fellow student. I find myself thinking about her often—about her past, the Syria she knew as a child, and the way she carries that history with her. Her phone, resting quietly beside her laptop, seemed like a small artifact of the present, a present that’s been shaped by a life lived across continents, in a world that is constantly shifting.

Yara left Syria at six, in 2007, just before the country was consumed by the flames of war. I wonder about the memories she holds from those years before everything changed. What was Damascus like back then? The city, so rich in culture and history, wasn’t yet the fractured place it would become. The streets, the sounds, the smells—all these pieces of her childhood must still be there, tucked away in her mind, waiting to be remembered.

The Syria she left was a country teeming with diversity—Druze, Alawites, Sunni, Shia, Christians—each group coexisting, each with their place in the social fabric. There were tensions, of course, but the kind of violence and chaos that followed the outbreak of the civil war was still years away. She remembers a Syria that was, for a time, stable, and I wonder how that memory shapes her view of the world now. Her family, she tells me, was moderate, grounded in a faith that embraced a more peaceful, less rigid interpretation of Islam. Her parents, kind and thoughtful, instilled in her a sense of belonging to both Syria and the world beyond.

Yet, like so many who leave their homes behind, there’s an underlying sense of displacement in her. Yara speaks Arabic, but she doesn’t read it. It’s a connection to her roots, but not one she fully engages with. She’s caught between two worlds, her identity split in ways that are hard to express. Her childhood in Syria is a distant memory, one she can’t quite return to. And the version of Syria she carries in her heart is a far cry from the reality of the country today.

Her modern phone, sitting on the desk while she typed away on her laptop, seemed to embody that tension. It’s a tool for her to connect to the world now, a bridge to the present, but also a reminder of how technology has become such an integral part of our lives. For Yara, like many others, her phone is a lifeline—a way to stay connected to her family, her friends, to the world she left behind, and to the world she’s now building in Toronto.

I watch her work, thinking about the stark contrast between her academic life now and her experience growing up in Syria. She loves biomedical sciences, though she harbors a certain aversion to chemistry. It’s a curious thing—her dislike for a subject so central to her field of study. Perhaps it’s a rebellion, a quiet resistance against the structured, demanding world of science. But she presses on, navigating the challenges of her education with the same quiet determination that must have helped her family navigate the political pressures of their homeland.

In between her study sessions, we talk about things that seem distant from chemistry and biomedical sciences—like Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut. I shared my odd interpretation of the novel, something about aliens and humanity, and Yara listened, entertained by my musings, even though I’m sure she was distracted by the looming chemistry test on Friday. Her eyes, though, never lost their spark, even when I felt guilty for taking her focus away from her studies. It was a small moment, but one that encapsulated something important about our friendship—how we were both searching for meaning in different ways.

She doesn’t speak much about Syria, but I sense its presence in everything she does. Her grandparents still live there, and I can’t help but wonder how that affects her. It’s a place she’s left behind, but it’s never truly gone. It’s in the way she moves, the way she talks, the things she loves. It’s in her heart, even if it’s buried beneath the layers of a new life, a new identity.

The pink Apple phone—resting there on her desk—was a small, almost inconsequential thing, yet it held so much meaning. It was a symbol of the quiet transition she’s undergone, from a child in Syria to a student in Toronto, navigating the complexities of a world that’s both familiar and foreign. That phone, like her journey, is a bridge between the past and the present, between the life she left behind and the life she’s building now. It is as much a part of her as the memories of Syria that still shape who she is.

As I left that day, I took one last look at the phone on the desk, and I couldn’t help but think about how much we carry with us without ever fully realizing it. The past, the future, and everything in between—all of it, captured in a simple object, resting quietly on a desk beside a student, who is, in so many ways, still finding her way home.

P.S.

An appendix of sorts, a final note on Yara, which feels necessary though perhaps incidental. Beyond her intellect, which I’ve come to admire, there is her undeniable beauty. At 23, she is stunning in a way that is as effortless as it is extraordinary. Her skin glows with a natural radiance that reflects the youth and vitality of someone who has cared for herself—not out of vanity, but out of respect for the body she inhabits. Her physical beauty is striking, certainly, but it is the way she carries it, with a confidence that doesn’t need to announce itself, that makes her all the more captivating. It’s a beauty not only of form, but of presence. The kind of presence that draws you in and keeps you there, not just because of how she looks, but because of who she is. There’s something about the way she moves through the world—graceful, purposeful—that makes you take notice. It’s a quiet, magnetic allure. And though it’s impossible not to acknowledge, it’s never what defines her.

or in the style or the books she likes so much:

An addendum, if you will, about Yara—though perhaps, a confession of sorts. Beyond the sharpness of her mind, there is an undeniable allure, one that can’t help but captivate. At 23, her beauty is breathtaking—effortlessly radiant, like a rose that blooms with the first light of dawn. Her skin, luminous and smooth, bears the kind of glow that seems almost ethereal, untouched by time or care. But it is not just her looks that arrest your attention—it is the grace with which she carries herself, a quiet confidence that effortlessly shines through.

Her beauty isn’t one of loud declarations or bold gestures; rather, it lingers in the subtle movements, the way she tilts her head when she listens, the soft curve of her lips when she smiles—like an unspoken promise. The kind of beauty that doesn’t demand admiration but simply receives it. It’s a sensuality that isn't just in the curves of her form, but in the quiet power of her presence. And though you can’t help but notice it—how could you not?—it’s never what defines her. There’s something deeper that pulls you in, something that transcends the surface, and leaves you entranced, not by her beauty alone, but by the mystery of who she truly is beneath it all.