A New Beginning. Cafe Bayt

A New Beginning. Cafe Bayt.

When I first met Ziad in the refugee camp, I didn’t think anything could grow in a place like that, not hope, not dreams, and certainly not love. The camp was a world apart, with its dusty streets and crowded tents, where every day felt like a fight just to hold on to a shred of normality. But Ziad… he had a way of making you believe in better days.

I was a teacher before the war, and I spent my days in the camp helping children remember how to dream. Ziad, an engineer, was always busy fixing things—water lines, tents, whatever he could. He had this determination that pulled me in, like a gravity I couldn’t resist. We’d talk for hours about Damascus, about the bustling souks and the coffee houses filled with the aroma of spices. Those conversations became a lifeline, a reminder that we had lost so much but hadn’t lost everything.

One evening, as we shared a plate of lentils, he looked at me and said, “Amal, when this is over, let's open a café. A place where people can feel at home again.” His words stayed with me.

Our wedding was simple as we had no family. We had just each other. 

Months later, our application to come to Australia was approved. When we landed in Sydney, I felt relief but also fear. It was so big, so loud, and so far from anything we knew. The first few months were the hardest. I worked in a bakery, learning how Australians loved their morning coffee and sweet pastries, while Ziad drove a delivery van, navigating a city that felt like a maze.

But we never forgot the dream. We wanted to bring a piece of Syria with us—a place where people could taste our food, smell the spices, and feel the warmth of home. The problem was we had no idea how to start.

One night, as I scrolled through my phone, I found a course at a [local community college: Small Business Start-Up Essentials](https://www.sydneycommunitycollege.edu.au/courses/Business-career-development/small-business). I showed it to Ziad, and for the first time in weeks, I saw the spark in his eyes again. “Let's do it,” he said.

That course changed everything. It wasn’t just the lessons on business plans or budgeting; it was the people we met, the teacher who believed in us, and the way it made us believe in ourselves. We’d sit together after class, sketching out ideas for our café, which we decided to call Bayt. It means “home” in Arabic because that’s what we wanted it to feel like—for us, for anyone who walked through the door.

Now, we’re looking at a small shop in a Sydney suburb, running numbers and imagining tables filled with mezze platters and steaming qahwa. It feels surreal, standing here with Ziad, knowing how far we’ve come.

There’s still so much to do, but I believe in us. This isn’t just about opening a café. It’s about building a life, about taking everything we’ve lost and turning it into something new. And I know, deep in my heart, we’re ready.