June 21, 2008 at 9:58 pm (Jinni, family, friends)
A clairvoyant friend of mine recently informed me that I have a “fire spirit”, of the benevolent sort, attached to me. In order to believe this, I have to take two leaps of faith: one that it is possible for someone to be clairvoyant, and two that the Jinn actually do exist. Oddly enough, it’s actually easier for me to believe in the Jinn than in clairvoyance. That may be due to the ramblings of my dear departed Grandmother. As a child it was always suspected that my behaviour was directly affected by a Jinni. The phrase “A’oo Thu Billahi min Ash Shaitan Arrajim” (O God, I seek refuge in You, from Shaitan the rejected) was launched in my direction too many times to count. Perhaps dear Setti knew more than the rest of us were willing to give her credit for!
For those of you who are unfamiliar, the Jinn (جن) are Middle Eastern, folkloric spirits who are believed to have existed before humans. The word Jinni was incorrectly translated as Génie when the French translated The Book of 1001 Nights. Therefore, the West knows them as the genie; a somewhat deviated version of the original Jinni. It is said that they were created from smokeless fire as humans were made from the earth. They live, die, procreate, and have free will as humans do. The Jinn were incorporated into the Islamic faith, the most recognized being Iblis (the equivalent of Satan). In Islam and pre-Islamic folklore, the Jinn come in four forms: the Ifrit – who is arrogant and powerful; the Marid – the most powerful of the Jinn and the one able to grant wishes; the Sila – who can take any form (human or animal) and are very intelligent; and the Ghul – a mischievous shape shifter.
As ghoulish as the thought may be that one may be travelling around with me, I’m actually not bothered by it. If I allowed myself to believe in it, I might actually be comforted by it. I was told by my friend that this spirit, apparently male, has been with me in all of my previous lives and guides me. The Jinn have a rather bad rap in the Middle East and some people may suggest that I’m possessed rather than guided. Although I sincerely doubt a Jinni possession would be so mundane! I’m wondering if he may be the reason I always pick the slowest line at the supermarket, or always manage to smack my head on the lowest branch. All joking aside, I have arrived safely to where I am now in life. Do I have a Jinni to thank or my own dumb luck? Who really knows…
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June 16, 2008 at 7:54 pm (Damascus, Syria, Tishreen Park, roses)
You love the roses – so do I. I wish
The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
Then all the valley would be pink and white
And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
Like sleeping and like waking, all at once! – George Elliot
I must have been the only person crazy enough to be out walking in mid-day. The heat was unrelenting and seemed to occupy even the shadiest of corners. We are only approaching summer here, at which time the heat will be far more intense. My body, however, has not yet become accustom and today beads of perspiration formed on my arms and tickled my neck as I meandered slowly through Tishreen Park. The turtle doves were silent and the city’s hum was soft and lulling. Twenty years ago I would have been resting like everyone else, but on this day my mind was restless – a restlessness that seems to intensify the more one tries to calm it.
Eventually, I found a shady spot near a bed of roses and wilted onto the bench aptly positioned for rose viewing. I, however, rested my head on the back of the bench and closed my eyes. Instantaneously, the thoughts and visions that were causing my restlessness started parading their endless stream of worries across my inner eyelids. I quickly opened my eyes again and stared up through the branches of the tree at the bluest of skies. The sun peeped through the pale green leaves creating a halo around my view – an effect like a dream sequence in a movie. The utter beauty quieted my mind and body and suddenly I became aware of scents and sounds to which, seconds before, I had been completely oblivious.
Although there wasn’t much of a breeze, the leaves of the tree fluttered and rustled in harmony to the buzzing insects and the chirping birds. The din of traffic suddenly seemed so removed, almost non-existent. My body further relaxed and I breathed deeply. Slowly the subtle, sweet, and alluring scent of the Damask Rose caressed my senses. I closed my eyes again, and inhaled, not wanting to let go of everything I had just discovered. This time, no concerns violated my peacefulness. Bright, inverse images of my new found world danced and shimmered in the darkness of my eyelids. The scent of the rose persevered filling my airways again and again permeating through my entire body.
I thought briefly about the timelessness of the rose – how it has been engrained on the human psyche. It graces all forms of art; visual, textile, carvings, poetry, and prose. It is the jewel in any garden or bouquet and has come to signify so many things depending upon its colour – especially red for love. Historically it has been referred to since ancient times and is now grown and renowned internationally. Today I have gained a full appreciation of its seductiveness.
I sat serenely on the bench until distant chatter of other park-goers signaled that it was time for me to move on. The day had other things in store for me. I left with the reassuring thought that I could always return. I had found my little piece of paradise in the city.
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June 13, 2008 at 1:17 am (Canada, home, memories)
(Further to This Old House 1)
As I rose to ready myself for the morning, I was distracted by something so familiar I almost hadn’t noticed it. It was familiar but not in recent memory. Only two bedrooms in the house have beautiful bougainvillea growing around them – the bedroom I grew up in and my father’s study (which is my current bedroom). The sun had risen to a level that it caught the backs of the pink bougainvillea petals. Nestled on their leafy vines, they create an organic form that resembles stained glass. The effect threw a fuchsia glow on my white washed walls. Bougainvilleas cannot grow in Canada which, while I was there, was much to my disappointment. I missed them so but, strangely, I’d almost forgotten how glorious they were and how lovely to awaken to.
More than anywhere else in the house, the kitchen holds the strongest memories for me. Being the only daughter I spent more time in that room than my brothers. And all the time I spent there was with my mother. It is fortunate for me that Sadeer and Aida had not gotten around to changing it. This morning I relished in every crack, chip, and malfunctioning appliance. One crack in the countertop, in particular, had me laughing out loud. Many years ago, my brother, Ghaith, who had envisioned himself a budding chef at the time, had burned a pan of fried Kibbeh. In his frustration he had grabbed the pan too closely to the element, consequently dropped the heavy iron pan on the counter, cracking the tiles in 3 places. The spoiled Kibbeh flew everywhere and the air was blue with my brother’s words of discontent. My mother ushered Ghaith out of the kitchen to tend to his tender fingers while she and I cleaned up the mess. We laughed so hard that our sides hurt. Poor Ghetho!
The appliances must be original to the house. They are so ancient it’s a miracle that they still work. But as I admired them this morning, the thing that really struck me was how like new (aside from the style) they looked. I remember my mother constantly scrubbing them. Today they still glisten. Only the stove is slightly temperamental and requires just the right touch to get the elements to heat. In Canada, appliances are expected to work for only 10 years – then you buy new ones. What a waste, I say, and what a missed opportunity to reminisce.
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June 11, 2008 at 11:57 pm (family)
I suppose it is possible that due to the upheaval in my life right now, my self confidence has been somewhat diminished. That, in turn, may explain the ease at which I become upset at criticism directed toward me. However, I really don’t care about the psychology right at this moment – I’d really like to muzzle my brother. Currently my euphoria at returning home and the joy I felt travelling down memory lane have been shattered.
I have four brothers. Sadeer is the oldest, then Adnan, Ghaith, and Marwan. Marwan and I have always been at odds. Perhaps because I had usurped his position as the youngest or perhaps because our personalities are such that we can never be in agreement. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t surprise me that he has been the most vocal with his criticisms but it’s still extremely irritating. My best friend, Nadia, has suggested many times that I should ignore him. I try. But have you noticed that when you have your own doubts (justified or not) about your actions, that other people’s criticism of those actions become magnified in your mind?
Marwan has always striven to be an outstanding citizen, a follower and enforcer of rules – both civil and religious. You might ask why that is a problem and for the most part it isn’t. He’s a good husband, father, and employee. He’s made a good life for his family. Marwan has set a high standard for himself and others and if he feels you don’t live up to this standard, he judges you and ultimately condemns you. We all judge to a certain extent, either consciously or not, but to Marwan the world is very black and white. There’s no wiggle room.
I don’t want to get into the details of my marriage but this is topic which leads to the biggest battles between the two of us. From my point of view, I’m lucky to have escaped the marriage alive with my mind still in tact. From Marwan’s point of view I didn’t try hard enough to please my husband which led to him expressing his displeasure by physical means – a man’s right “according to the Quran”. I’d really like someone to show me where this is expressly written in the book.
Frankly I really wonder if this is about me or more about him; about how he feels that my returning as a divorcee has brought disgrace upon him. I can’t believe that he would actually want me to be harmed. I think he may be embarrassed to tell others about my return and the reason behind it. Whatever his thinking, I don’t see a conclusion to this argument forthcoming. We are both strong willed and I intend to continue defending myself – holding my tongue is not my forte.
For now, I think a walk up Al-Katib and a peek at the old jaunts would do me some good. It’s a lovely evening. Ma’a Salaama.
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June 11, 2008 at 2:21 am (Damascus, Syria, home, memories)
It amazes me how the eccentricities of a house can bring back so many memories. Little things like keyholes, certain scents, flowering vines, and cracks in the counter top takes you back to a day or feeling of the past so quickly it can take you off guard. Since my brother inherited the home, he and his wife made quite a few changes – new paint, new furniture, and some modern upgrades. But the general character of the home has remained in tact. This is especially true in the kitchen which they hadn’t had a chance to touch before Aida’s death.
My first experience with these memory triggers happened upon awakening this morning – my first morning in Ash-Sham (Damascus) – to the sound of the muezzin. I hadn’t paid much attention to the room my brother had assigned me when I went to bed, I had been so tired. But as the morning light shone through the window, I suddenly became aware of my surroundings. It used to be my father’s study. Now gleaming in white paint, shiny marble floors, and crisp bed-linens; the room holds no resemblance to its past. I felt awkward, almost uncomfortable as I had never been allowed in the room as a child – even my mother was forbidden to enter. My only access to the room had been through the keyhole. I would watch my father, sitting in the dim light, curtains drawn, smoking cigarette after cigarette and reading the daily newspaper or the latest literary masterpiece. Every surface was cluttered with papers and books. Through the keyhole, the corners of the room weren’t accessible to my view. I imagined the room was much larger than I now realize that it is.
It has been said that scent triggers the strongest of memories and I believe this to be so. Sadeer had placed my prayer mat neatly in front of the east-facing window. It had been years since I prayed but in my desire to rediscover my heritage, I felt compelled to do as so many of my fellow Syrians would also be doing at that very moment. As I knelt to pray, the unique scent of my parent’s home filled my nostrils – spices, mixed with tobacco, perfume, incense, and my mother’s cooking. To you that may sound like a noxious combination, but to me it held so much comfort – so much so that my prayers were extended this morning. The scent of my mother’s perfume was something that I found particularly compelling. I hadn’t had access to it for years. After my prayers I sat on the edge of my bed for a very long time and thought about her.
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June 5, 2008 at 6:17 pm (Damascus, Syria, family)
The joy of reuniting with family is difficult to fully capture with words. When I saw my brother’s face in the crowd at the airport I sobbed with joy and sadness. Even though I had seen recent pictures of him, I still held in my mind the image of him as a young man. Before me, though, was an aging man with grey hair, who was beginning to look very much as my father did just before I left for Canada. Sadeer is my eldest brother by eleven years but we are by far the closest of all five siblings in my family. As I embraced him I was so thankful that I could do so, but I also regretted the years that we had spent so far apart.
Sadeer inherited my parent’s home in the area of Damascus near At’Tahrir Square. It is a four story apartment building, the top two floors belonging to our family. This is where I am living – while taking care of Sadeer’s two young children. Sadeer recently lost his wife in a horrific car accident and has had only sporadic help from other family members. Now in the situation I find myself, basically alone and unemployed, I felt it was a calling of sorts to help my brother.
Why, you might ask, would I leave a successful career to watch my brother’s children? After all, my career was really the only real success I had had in my life. And for several years it was all I had. After analyzing my life, I concluded that I had lost much of who I was, leaving my profession as the only thing that characterized my identity. I believe that by returning to my place of birth and becoming reacquainted with my family will help me to regain my sense of self. Only then will I pursue my career again, hopefully at the University of Damascus.
My entire family was waiting for me at Sadeer’s when we arrived. My brothers, their wives, their children, and some close family friends were all there. My heart was rapt with happiness when I saw their faces. I was giddy, literally giggling as I grabbed each one of them to hug the life out of them. Even as I write this, my face breaks into a broad smile. At that moment, in the glow of their love, the pieces of who I was were beginning to reconnect. When I held Sadeer’s children in my arms, I felt grounded with a sense of purpose. Something I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Of course, as we all know, dealing with family isn’t always sunshine and roses. There will be quarrels and disagreements. One of my brothers has already voiced his displeasure that I left my husband – a good Muslim girl should stick it out, so he claims. But more on that later. For now, I’m prepared to handle the ups and downs – probably because I know that these are the people who will always love me unconditionally.
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June 5, 2008 at 12:50 am (Canada, Damascus, Syria)
This is the second time in my life that I’ve packed up and moved to a foreign land. The first time I was nearly 20. I came to Canada from Syria to attend University as a foreign student. It was terrifying and yet extraordinarily exciting. It’s easy to adapt to new surroundings when you’re young and outgoing as I was. I made friends quickly both within the Syrian community and without. University was fascinating – so much so that I continued to work there as a researcher after graduating. Then I settled down with a man whom I thought to be a decent man – one I could raise a family with. I had become a Canadian and fully intended to stay. But life doesn’t always proceed as you might expect it to.
For years I longed for my homeland but was unable to visit for one reason or another. I dreamed of the way things were growing up; the places we used to go, the smells and sounds of the streets, the music, the food, and mostly the happiness. I remembered, fondly, the security I felt being with my family – my parents. But time has a way of creating a fantasy in one’s mind, a utopia of sorts. To me, Syria had become more than it was. As a child you don’t understand the politics, the bureaucracy, and the inefficiencies. I was aware of some of it, but when I left I was still sheltered from a lot of it. As the years passed in Canada, there came a point where I would constantly criticise my adoptive country. “This would never happen in Syria.” I would say.
But what did I really know of Syria today? I followed the news. But what of that was filtered? I heard complaints and concerns from my brothers. But I told myself that they were complacent for what did they have to compare their country to? It didn’t matter what I read or what people said. I wanted to keep my dream alive. After all, wasn’t my homeland in my blood? A part of who I was? I needed to hold onto what I perceived as its perfection.
Now I’m 38, divorced, childless, jobless and just returned to Syria. As my plane flew into the Damascus airport, my stomach lurched. I had nothing with me but my luggage. But no matter, I was overjoyed. My emotions got the better of me. I wanted to leap from the plane and kiss the ground. I didn’t…but I wanted to. As I walked out of the terminal, my senses were activated. A warm, gentle breeze greeted me and carried with it the scents of a hundred things that I recognized all at once but could never relate to you each one. The heat of the sun caressed my skin as it had done so many years before. It wasn’t the same sun that shone on Canada. It was more intense, more brilliant. Then there were the sounds that one would only hear in Syria, or so I believe. There was an endless cacophony of car horns, humming motors, and chatter – Arabic chatter, loud, joyful, forceful, exhilarating chatter. I was home. Only time would tell how “home” would receive me.
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Mariyah
abufares
