Hussein's story began in Syria, just eight years before he was born or maybe just after the eighteenth anniversary. Hussein doesn't take notice of the anniversary of when it started. When he was a child, what had happened surround his reality every day. A world before it was unimaginable to Hussein. At least when he was a child. His story began in March 2011 when nationwide protests erupted when the president used deadly force to crush a peaceful march. What resulted was long, long years of war. 365 thousand people dead with 500,000 more missing. Divided groups of people, all with their own agendas. International countries moving in–helping or aggravating the civil war was subjective. Hussein's mother, Alya, was only twelve years old when the Civi war broke out and spent her young teen years moving from place to place, trying to avoid the war. When she was fifteen years old, her own parents managed to send her to boarding school in France. Though her home life was almost non existent, Alya blossomed in the makeshift schools and was able to enter boarding school through a scholarship. It was an international school and hundreds, if not thousands, sought that position. However, it was given to a displaced teenager in Syria. A miracle.
Alya's life changed in France. She was overwhelmed with the simple but stable life she was given. Her horizons had grown immensely, meeting people from all walks of life. Alya was introduced to rock and roll, punk, classical. Gone were her days in Syria. Now, she was living the Western life. She loved it. She loved the music, the cigarettes, the concerts, the education. By the age of seventeen, Alya had practically forgotten the war torn country she had come from. Just before she turned eighteen, she met a man named Albert. He was of, with no other word to describe him, beautiful. He turned heads wherever he went. It confused Alya when he took interest in her and ignored all the people around her, even though they did their best to grab his attention. Naturally, as Albert was a Veela, she was attracted to him but she never acted on it or threw herself at him. However, only a few months later, she fell right into his lap–literally. She fell in love and threw herself into the relationship completely.
Six months later, when she was eighteen years old, she fell pregnant. When she told him, terrified and mortified, he disappeared only a few weeks later. Not sure what else to do, Alya turned to her parents, telling them what had happened in a letter. Apologizing, begging for their forgiveness, the letter took up nearly ten pages. Not being able to continue her studies in France, as they refused to let her continue when they found out she was pregnant, Alya was forced to return to Syria. She was kept hidden from the outside world. People were told she was married, that the father had died in a car accident. Six months later, Hussein was born. He was a quiet child. Rarely cried–in fact, Alya would say he never did cry unless he had been hurt. Alya thought there was something wrong with him. Something emotionally missing. Once thought he was a psychopath. Her punishment. However, he wasn't. But he wasn't completely human. He was half veela. Not that he or his mother were aware of this.
However, as he grew up and grew out of his shell, it was clear that Hussein had a short temper and often grew angry when he didn't get what he wanted. Alya, though, never condoned this behaviour. Having returned to Syria, though it's violence had calmed down by then (not completely but enough that Hussein had a somewhat peaceful childhood without being displaced), Alya found herself more of a pacifist than anything and taught Hussein how to control himself. She raised him on peaceful beliefs, that violence was never the answer, that kindness was important, that you could always improve yourself. Hussein, loving and adoring his mother, took her word as gospel and by the age of eight, Hussein was in despair at the state of his country. School was difficult. To get to one of the few primary schools in Damascus, he had to walk through neighborhoods full of damaged buildings, sit in classrooms with walls marred with bullet holes. He was taught how to protect himself in case of an airstrike. Even at eight, though, Hussein had dreams of making a life for himself and his mother. Getting out of Syria. Maybe going back to Paris.
When he was nine, he had his first magical incident. He was playing with some of his friends, playing football, when he kicked the ball with enough force to fly into the net and scored a goal. Thing was? He was on the other side of the field and it really wasn't that possible for him to kick that far. No one questioned it and his peers hailed him a football king. Afterwards, his popularity sore. Everyone wanted Hussein around. It became jarring, then, when he went to Beauxbaton. When he and his family were told about Hussein's abilities, they didn't believe it. But Alya was the firs too come around. She saw the opportunities that the French ministry was offering her son and decided to agree, even if she didn't believe in magic. Hussein was more hesitant. He didn't want to leave his mother alone. He didn't want to go to a strange country that ate croissants. No, he wanted to stay–even if it meant that he would struggle. Unfortunately for Hussein, he had little choice and was on his way to the French school of magic at age eleven.
Hussein didn't know French and he struggled to keep up with the people around him. No one really talked to him and left him well alone. The school gave him extra classes, teaching him both French and English to try and catch him up to his peers. As years went by, Hussein didn't really know anyone. Still that kid at the back of his class. Hussein hated the magical world. He was barely passing any of his classes and he found French jarring. They say it was the language of love. To him, it was the language of utter pain. When he was fifteen years old, he began to develop a crush on a guy. It scared the crap out of him. Especially when the guy kissed him. They dated on the down low for a year or so, the guy constantly telling Hussein it was okay. His feelings were normal. However, everything changed when he was sixteen, on the verge of turning seventeen and entering the final year. His family, both Alya and his grandparents, had died. They were on a roadtrip visiting extended family and they ran over a land mine. It should have been removed a decade before but it had obviously been forgotten. It was only because his grandfather thought he found a shortcut that they ended up being the ones to find it.
It was only a week before Hussein was returning home for summer. Hussein nearly didn't go back to Beauxbatons. But he couldn't stay in Syria without his mum, so he finished his final year and graduated with top marks. This year, though, he immersed himself into the French culture. Like his mum had so many years before him. He continued to see the boyfriend, had friends, and tried his best to ignore his mum and what had happened. Hussein ended up graduating with good grades, far better than he expected when he first entered the magical world. Afterwards, though, Hussein had little idea what to do with himself. Turning his back on Syria, he wasn't quite sure who he was. What his identity is. He didn't feel apart of the magical world, but he didn't quite feel aligned with the muggle world either. Hussein felt stagnant and for a year, simply moved through the motions, working odd jobs. What kept him going was his dreams. Each night, he dreamed of his mother. His childhood. His dreams are what he became excited for, but at the same time dreaded.
Eventually, he woke up.
It was when he was nineteen years old and was kicked out of home. Hussein had been struggling with rent, struggling to make money, and it caught up to him. Booted out of his apartment after forgetting to pay rent three times in a row. Not sure where else to go, Hussein lived in the streets of Paris, moving from shelter to shelter, struggling to get a meal. Six months later, in the middle of winter, he woke up in Hospital after suffering from hypothermia. The police had found him freezing to death in Parc du Champ de Mars. It was the wake up call for Hussein. Here, he met a friendly doctor who spent the next three weeks talking to Hussein through his problems, giving him a shoulder to lean on. When he was discharged, Hussein felt...reinvigorated. He nearly lost his life. He had a second chance and he was determined to take it. Hussein went to university, albeit a muggle one, to study psychology, wanting to give himself a life that helps people. He wasn't quite sure what part of psychology he wanted to throw himself into, but something. He eventually went into social work and by twenty one, he found himself in England, helping kids who have lost their homes and parents. It was a stable life. By twenty two, he found himself recruited into a show. Queer eye. Hussein was queer. He knew it and he was open with it to everyone he met. He accepted the opportunity. It seemed like something good to do.