The Story of Ghassan and Alexandra – Part 1

October 28, 2008 at 3:26 am (Germany, Stuttgart, family, love, memories)

One cold evening in the winter of 1955 in Stuttgart, Germany, Ghassan Ayoub was taking a walk after finishing his last mid-term exam at the University. He had left Syria a year earlier to continue his education in Engineering and Germany had seemed like the appropriate place to finish such a degree. The weather conditions that evening made him question that decision. The snow swirled in the frosty wind as he made his way toward the bright lights of the Gaststätte (restaurant) and opened the large wooden door. Once inside, he was immediately greeted by the scent of wood smoke from the large hearth and was blanketed in warmth.

A cozy arrangement of tables nestled amongst the dark wood frame of the restaurant. Ghassan found a small table next to the window and arranged his chair so as to be able to observe the room unnoticed. Most of the other guests were middle-aged to elderly Germans, so far as he could tell. They spoke quietly or focused on eating their hearty food. The large table in the centre of the room provided Ghassan with the most entertainment. It was surrounded with a boisterous group of young women. They chattered excitedly and laughed merrily. He had become transfixed on the way a particularly attractive woman was tossing her long, blond hair about when he suddenly noticed another woman seated beside the blond whom he found far more interesting.

There was something to be said for poise. As the other women became increasingly loud, a petite, fair skinned woman sat quietly watching and smiling. She was clearly enjoying the entertainment but seemed shy and reserved – too much so to become involved in the conversation. Her large, blue eyes glistened with intelligence and her diminutive features gave her a look of a porcelain doll. Her auburn hair glistened red as the light from the fireplace threw an amber glow around her. Ghassan observed that she was well dressed but not ostentatious. When she did speak, her voice was quiet – he couldn’t hear it from his table. Ghassan found, as the evening wore on, that he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

There comes an uncomfortable moment when the watcher realizes that he has been caught. The blond, assuming that she was the object of Ghassan’s glances, made a shrill announcement to the fact. He, embarrassed, made quick study of the contents of his plate and kept his head down as peals of laughter filled the room from the women’s table. After several minutes of frivolity, the conversation returned to its normal pitch and Ghassan resumed breathing. He didn’t want to be caught by the blond, but he had to fight with the impulse to look again at the beauty beside her.

Finally, Ghassan’s impulse overtook him and he looked over at the women’s table. This time he was met by the gaze of sparkling blue eyes softly outlined by long, dark lashes. The faintest of smiles curved the delicate lines of her ruby lips. It wasn’t a smirk, or a warning that she would give him away, but rather a warm salutation. Ghassan’s heart raced. He had to do something, find some way to communicate with her. Walking over the table was completely out of the question. Or was it? Sure, he had been the laughing stock, but what else could they do. Laugh more? Perhaps, but he was willing to take the insult in order not to lose this woman to the vastness of the world outside the door of the restaurant.

Ghassan quickly wrote his phone number on a piece of paper he had in his briefcase and rose from his table. He was sure that this action was inappropriate but he could think of nothing else. He gathered all his courage and took a few steps toward the table. The women suddenly became very quiet. The blond smiled broadly and flipped her hair again but Ghassan barely noticed. He was looking at the fair one. She was posed so elegantly in her chair and looked up at him still holding her warm smile.
“Hello. I am Ghassan.” He said in a heavily accented English.
“Hello, Ghassan, I’m Alexandra.” Her voice lilted with a Scottish burr.
“Alexandra.” Ghassan allowed the name to caress his tongue like a wine taster with his wine. “It is a pleasure.”
With that, he produced the paper with his number and placed it in her delicate hands. As he turned to leave, a collective gasp arose from the women’s table. Ghassan smiled to himself and walked out into the winter’s night. (to be continued)

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Om Abed

October 21, 2008 at 3:52 am (Damascus, Syria, family, friends, home, love, memories)

Last evening, as the last threads of twilight spun a tapestry of gold, red, and amber across the Damascene sky, Om Abed took her last breath. She taught me from the time I was a small child to stop and marvel at nature’s artistry. She was particularly fond of dusk but last night her eyes were clouded and dim at that magical hour. I tried to describe it as best I could at her bedside but my words faded as did the life in her.

Om Abed was our family’s neighbour and friend. She had been like a surrogate mother to my mother who was missing her family back in Europe. Her son is best friends with my brother, Ghaith, since childhood. Om Abed’s home was our home and vice versa. I never remember a time when I passed her door that it was not open and that someone in the neighbourhood wasn’t visiting. The wonderful smells of her cooking that wafted through doors and windows were so alluring, no one could resist a treat from Om Abed’s kitchen.

It had seemed to me that, physically, Om Abed had always been old. I was surprised to learn that at her death she was only 75. This outward appearance often fooled and lulled people with less than honourable intentions into a false sense of security. Om Abed’s mind was sharp as a tack. She could put anyone in their place, if she chose to. But she rarely did. She was always composed and kind. She was like a superhero to me – someone who never seemed to unravel when the going was tough.

It will be that sparkle in her eye that I will miss the most, the sparkle that let you know that she knew. And when you were done complaining, she’d tell you something that you would have never thought of. You’d go away with a much clearer view of any situation. Om Abed always knew what was going on or so it seemed. But she never gossiped which is perhaps why she was so trusted by everyone. She was the person you went to when you couldn’t tell your own parents.

It has suddenly struck me now, as I write about Om Abed, that I didn’t really know the real her. I can tell you all about what she has done for everyone else, but her own story has never been fully told. She never talked about her dreams or desires. She told many tales but they were always about someone else’s adventures, someone else’s experiences as they related to the topic at hand. But who was SHE? I can only surmise that she didn’t feel she had to be more than she was. She was fulfilled simply by the life she had. She was a wife, a mother, then a widow, and a neighbour. She was a cook, a coffee cup reader, a housekeeper, and a friend.

As I reflect on her belongings – I am helping her son go through them – they don’t impart anything either. There were no items of sentimentality in her home, no books except the Quran, no souvenirs, and no bric-a-brac. She once told me that her family and friends decorated her home and that their words were like poetry for her soul. At the time I thought she was just flattering us, but now I think perhaps she was just being honest.

It’s amazing how a person can be like a cornerstone. You take for granted that that cornerstone will always be there even to the point where you don’t really notice its importance. Then that cornerstone is removed – its strength is taken away – and you clearly see the hole that is left behind. The entire neighbourhood seems unsettled. Om Abed will never know how much she brought to each of our lives – those of us who were lucky enough to know her. God bless her and rest her soul. I will always see her sparkle each day as I watch the sun’s last rays meet the night sky.

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Another Day in Paradise – Thoughts on Poverty

October 15, 2008 at 4:11 am (Blog Action Day, Poverty, blogging, music)

Poverty is universal. You can see it in any country of the world. In some places its far more prevalent than others, but the effects are the same on all those who suffer because of it. There is enough money in this world to eradicate poverty and yet, it is spent in other ways…a large portion of it on things that cause further destruction. Do I need a for instance? About.com features an article outlining the US military spending on the Iraq war alone. They put the total at around $800 billion. Think of what that money could do to better people’s lives.

I don’t have a global solution to end poverty. Governments are not easily swayed to aid in this crisis. My only idea revolves around the individual. Like anything, change can only happen when enough people take it upon themselves to do something. Perhaps you give to a charity, donate food, help at a shelter. Maybe you’re the kind of person who goes right to the front line. To be honest, I can’t say that I’ve done a lot to help. I’ve donated money and that’s about it. When I pause to think about poverty, I always vow to do more. But it never really pans out, because I’m not really sure what to do and what will be effective.

Many bloggers are involving themselves in this blog action day. I plan to do a lot of reading today and perhaps get some ideas as to where I can start to help in my area (see http://blogactionday.org for more posts). I’ll leave you with a most poignant song on the issue by Phil Collins. I happened to be listening to it the other day and it always makes me pause and think. My hope is that it will have the same effect on you. Perhaps we’ll all stop to listen to the small pleas for help on our own streets. What do you think you’ll do?

Another Day in Paradise

She calls out to the man on the street
sir, can you help me?
Its cold and I’ve nowhere to sleep,
Is there somewhere you can tell me?

He walks on, doesn’t look back
He pretends he cant hear her
Starts to whistle as he crosses the street
Seems embarrassed to be there

Oh think twice, its another day for
You and me in paradise
Oh think twice, its just another day for you,
You and me in paradise

She calls out to the man on the street
He can see she’s been crying
She’s got blisters on the soles of her feet
She can’t walk but she’s trying

Oh think twice…

Oh lord, is there nothing more anybody can do
Oh lord, there must be something you can say

You can tell from the lines on her face
You can see that she’s been there
Probably been moved on from every place
‘Cause she didn’t fit in there

Oh think twice…

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Creature Comforts

October 8, 2008 at 2:24 am (Damascus, Syria, family, home, memories, music)

Everybody has a comfort place, a nest, where they go to relax and unwind. I’m not necessarily talking about someplace away from the home, but rather a refuge inside the home. It’s a place where you can be you. You can put your feet up, lounge in your underwear (if you so desire), drink your cup of choice, and read or watch TV, listen to music or contemplate your navel. It’s somewhere where time seems to stand still, if only for a little while. Perhaps you pull a blanket around yourself to keep out the cold, or put on headphones to keep out the noise, or maybe even curl up with someone special and lie in silence together. You might even drift off for a bit in a cozy cat nap or a deep slumber. Whatever you choose, it’s your place and your body knows it.

The left corner of the couch in my brother’s (once my parents’)salon is my place. In fact, it’s been my spot for as long as I can remember. I swear to you that the cushions there have taken on the shape of my body. The couch was there when I was growing up. We sat dignified on it for family portraits, we crowded one another on it to watch important broadcasts (and some not so important), we were lectured by our parents on it, and we had deep discussions (and some not so deep) with our friends on it. But the couch is resilient. It has a charming worn appearance yet still the tapestry glows with its original colours. It is inviting and as comfortable as it looks…if not more so.

In my corner I usually curl up in comfy clothes with a good book and a cup of Jasmine tea. Sometimes, in the evening, when my niece and nephew are asleep – the best time to go to my spot – I bring with me a glass of red wine to go with my book. I occasionally use that time to pour over old photo albums – to reconnect with loved ones distant or gone. When I’m really fatigued I switch on the television and spend an entirely mindless existence on the couch watching a movie or a series. Or some days I just stare out the window and let my mind wander where it pleases as a sonata flows melodically in the background. On the grey and rainy days I wrap myself in my mother’s mauve, crocheted blanket. My nest is a heaven of warmth and nostalgia.

Where is your comfort place and what are your favourite pastimes there?

7 Comments