Sea Side – Part 18

November 13, 2009 at 11:45 am (Damascus, Lattakia, Mediterranean Sea, Syria, Tartous, love, travel)
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by Abufares

Renoir-ConfidencesAmar’s taste took my breath away. Her lips fluttered like a butterfly, brushing a dash of fragrant nectar on mine. They left my tongue athirst and my heart thrashing in its ribcage with raw yet tender hunger. My arms sheathed then swept her off the ground. I kissed her again, squishing her body against mine, my mouth and hers crushing miles and years of empty space and time into gleaming embers.

“Yous…sef!” she gasped a second time. Youssef… Please… We’re in the middle of the street!”

I reluctantly released my hold. Her breasts, pressed firmly against my chest, slowly plowed their way down turning me inside out. The glee in her eyes buoyed me then held my reins. Her closeness soothed my raging passion into a tranquil lake as I realized that she loved me as much I loved her. I closed my eyes and etched the moment in my memory, forever.

I wanted to do that since the very first time I saw her. I reached for the vagrant strand of hair and pulled it behind her ear. It fell back, satin gliding on silk, soft and glistening in the morning sun. I squinted, begging for night to come, for a soft mountain gust to flute through the fields, for the surf to sing, for our silhouettes, hers and mine, to clasp under the moonlight then to collapse where the sand dandles them and the froth makes them one. I held her face and craved one more kiss, then another.

“Youssef!” Oh, the way she says my name. She licked her lips.

“Yes my Amar.” I licked mine.

“Before we go anywhere, I want you to come with me and talk to Yasmina. She really needs all the help and support we can give her.” She signaled for me to wait and climbed the stairs in a blink. Three minutes later she popped her sweet little head from a window and invited me to join them on the veranda.

There was something about Yasmina which captivated a man, any man, who dared look at her for more than a fleeting instance. But with Amar by her side and with the love of Yazan wrapping her shoulders with an invisible shawl, Yasmina turned into an untouchable woman. She was the little sister I never had and her explicit and unbound beauty blended with the mountains and merged with the colorful background. Only the sadness in her eyes remained.

“Yasmina… We will do our best to help but you must know from the outset that it won’t be good news in the end. You have to accept Housam’s fate to set yourself free. You’ve mourned him already and there’s nothing left behind the shut doors of the past. You understand?”

“Thank you Doctor… It’s just that I’m tired of living like this. I have nowhere to go, no one to turn to and I’m…” Her tears blazed then fell. I swallowed hard, keeping my emotions under the lid, flaunting my manly façade for her sake. Amar pulled her chair closer to Yasmina and held her hand.

“Call me Youssef please. You’re not alone Yasmina. Yazan is here and he’s a man who is absolutely and madly in love with you. He would drink the sea if you ask him to. He loves you beyond his capacity to explain and further than your willingness to accept for the time being. I hope we’ll find out that Housam died in his sleep a few days after his arrest and not under torture. This is the best you could ever expect. But if we fail to learn the truth you still need to let go of him Yasmina. He’s gone and he won’t be back.”

Gradually, hesitantly she shook her head in agreement and wiped the tears with the short sleeve of her white shirt. “Thank you Youssef and oh thank you Amar, you’re my only friend.”

The sight of the two women, trustingly embracing reminded me of “Confidences”, a stunning masterpiece of oil on canvas I saw once in a book. Yet Amar and Yasmina were far more beautiful than Renoir or any other mortal could ever convey.

___

I brought her fingers to my lips and kissed them, one by one. “Where would you like to go? Tartous or Lattakia? Mountain or sea? What would you like to eat?” I kept switching views between her gorgeous face and the winding side road.

“Ummm, Lattakia, mountain, barbequed chicken in olive oil and garlic, homemade Arak too, anywhere you can hold me and people won’t stare at us.” It was her turn. She brought my fingers to her lips and kissed them, one by one.

We huddled in each others arms in a small restaurant at the edge of the world. I hugged her to fend off the creeping afternoon cold descending the northern slopes. She leaned her head on me while the sun sneaked in between two peaks. From this distance, even in turmoil, the blue sea looked placid and calm. Yet every passing moment brought us closer to the day she boards that plane and leaves. My joy and gloom wrestled within but I was too happy to let despair get the upper hand. I knew that we will soon have to face our reality but I did not want to think about it today. We have merely started discovering each other and we must have realized by now how painful it would be to part. The more intimate we became, the graver our loss looked and loomed ahead.

“Youssef! I’ve never felt so safe in my life.”

I planted a kiss on her forehead and pulled her tighter; the sea shimmered behind my callow tears. I shut my eyes close and willed them to dry. When she looked up, only a smile remained. “I’ve never been happier Amar.”

___

I have tried to talk to Rayyan several times during the day. His secretary continually refused to divulge his whereabouts or to even give me a number I can reach him at. If I knew him well, he had hired her for her bedroom talents not her tact.

“Doctor Khalil, I have already told you that Captain Rayyan is traveling in Europe and that I will give him your message when he calls the office. And, you’re right, if he doesn’t call in a week he wouldn’t know that you wanted to talk to him at all.”

This time she was rude enough to hang up before I had a chance to give her a piece of my mind. Despair was written on Amar’s face.

“Don’t worry Hayati. I will later make one more phone call and settle the matter once and for all. Why don’t we just enjoy our time together?” I reassured her.

“Can’t you do something now? I want Yasmina to know that we’re trying.”

“I promise I will, but later. Take my word for it; I won’t sleep tonight till I take care of it.”

We reached her apartment a little before midnight. We parked the car under the huge walnut tree and kissed for a very long time. My hands danced over her body and I sensed her tensing then melting under my touch. Knowingly, an unspoken vow to resolve Yasmina’s dilemma before she would ask me to come up pervaded our consciousness. We hugged for an endless minute near the gate and stared inside each other until we exhausted the spoken word. I drove home in silence dreading the next hour yet impatient to get it out of the way.

___

I dialed the almost forgotten mobile number and waited, fumbling with an unlit cigarette.

“Aloo!” A sleepy voice came on the other end.

“It’s me, Youssef. You’re sleeping?”

“Oh, Youssef! What’s wrong? Are you in any kind of trouble?”

“No! Nothing at all. I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Can it wait or do you need me now?”

“It can wait. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“No you won’t. I’m in the villa in Damascus. I’ll be at the Malki* apartment tomorrow at nine in the evening. Don’t forget to bring me flowers. And Youssef, when I see you I don’t know whether I should be mad at you or tell you how much I’ve missed you.”

“Ok Rana. See you then.” My hand trembled as I lit the cigarette. I inhaled then coughed my lungs out. I haven’t smoked in well over a year.
___

*Malki- A posh residential neighborhood in Damascus

© Mariyah Ayoub and Mariyah’s Blog, 2008-2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Mariyah Ayoub and Mariyah’s Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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The Story of Ghassan and Alexandra – Part 9

November 26, 2008 at 5:26 am (Damascus, Syria, family, love, memories)

The last breath of summer hung hot and heavy over Damascus when Ghassan received the letter from Alexandra. He had visited the postal outlet many times in anticipation of its arrival, and until this day, had always departed with a keen disappointment. When the letter was placed in his hand, there was no doubt in Ghassan’s mind from whom it had come. The tiny mauve envelope was addressed in Arabic lettering with an obviously unpracticed hand. As he released the letter from the envelope a lovely, feminine scent accompanied it. Before he read it, Ghassan marveled at the tidy and intricate lettering that formed the words in which he was so looking forward to immersing himself.

In the solace of his father’s courtyard, a place where Ghassan always found privacy and some peace from the busy streets, he began pouring over the precious document. He had not wished to read the letter hurriedly but rather to reflect upon each description, emotion, and memory he was sure he would find within. He had wanted to savour everything she would tell him. Ghassan greatly enjoyed letters and had realized that they can impart so many things about their writers – thoughts, feelings, ideas; more than you might come to understand through a verbal conversation. Of course, that all depended on the skill of the writer and whether or not they purposely withheld information from their reader. But then, as much can be learned from what isn’t written as is written. For the most part, however, writers tended to be more free with their thoughts and he hoped the same would be so for Alexandra.

Initially, Ghassan was not disappointed. As he began reading, her words washed over him like a soft sea breeze – gently with a whisper of eternity. He found her reflections thrillingly fresh and innocent. He wished so much to be with her as much as she had written that she wanted to be with him. But suddenly the wonderful thoughts and feelings vanished, as quickly as they had arrived, as he read about Alexandra’s father’s reaction to Syria. A deep chill came over him.

“Politics!” he growled to himself and rose to pace the courtyard. “This cannot happen!”

Ghassan had come so far through some of the most turbulent times in the history of Syria. As he was growing up, Syria was dealing with an occupation, struggling for and with independence, immersed in the second world war, suffering general upheaval and several coups d’etat. Nevertheless, Ghassan had made it through high school and on to university, and was finally accepted at a foreign university to finish his studies. And now, that he had found the love of his life, the Cold War was going to separate them? A flood of emotions and uncertainty surged through his body.

Ghassan resolved that he would do everything in his power to make sure that he shielded both Alexandra and their love from the claws of bigotry created by the current political situation the world was facing. He would look her father in the eye so the man would see that he wasn’t dealing with a country but rather a person; a person whom his daughter loved! But perhaps, he thought, he was overreacting. She hadn’t actually told her father about him, she had just asked about Syria. But still, if he had such a negative reaction to the country, surely he wouldn’t be more positive about those who inhabited it. And then a more sobering thought occurred to Ghassan. What if his pursuit of her drove a wedge between Alexandra and her father? He would, then, be responsible for destroying her family; alienating her. Would she hold it against him and he would be left with nothing to hold?

Ghassan’s staggered as his eagerness to return to Stuttgart had been quelled. (to be continued)

9 Comments

Another Musical Post

November 18, 2008 at 6:36 am (Damascus, Syria, love, memories, music)

One of the most popular songs in the Middle East in 1955 originated from the Egyptian film Days and Nights (Ayam We Layali). In the film, the star, Abdel Halim Hafez, an Egyptian, serenaded the heroine with I’m Yours Forever (Ana Lak Ala Tool). I can’t say with any authority that it hit the Syrian airwaves that summer, most likely it did not. But perhaps you can imagine, anyway, that Ghassan was listening to it as he composed his letter. You can play it below:

Ana Lak 3ala Tool

Alternatively, if you cannot use the player, the direct link is Ana Lak Ala Tool.

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The Story of Ghassan and Alexandra – Part 7

November 18, 2008 at 6:30 am (Damascus, Syria, family, love, memories)

July 1, 1955

 

My Dearest Alexandra,  

As I sit here at my desk, the sunlight that is now streaming through my window and warming and brightening every surface reminds me of you. Most things remind me of you in one way or another. Every glorious aspect of Damascus in the summertime has a hint of Alexandra. The fresh light of early dawn as it transforms everything in its path, lifting the heavy blanket of night to reveal the splendor of the city. The melodious chatter and laughter of children beneath my window as they fill the streets and alleyways with their play. The eternal turtledove as it lulls us from our afternoon slumber with its soft cooing. The mouthwatering aroma of Damascene cooking as it wafts from every window. The colors of the setting sun as they streak across the evening skies and mingle with the darkness. And the sweet scent of Jasmine as it hangs magnificently in the night air.  

The day we went to Wilhelma constantly runs through my mind like a motion picture. I see your face, your beautiful face, as you looked up at me in the flower market. I remember your eyes wide with awe when you first looked at your surroundings in the park. I think perhaps you belonged there, the loveliest of all the lovely flowers blossoming within. I feel your hand in mine as I led you. It seemed as if it were made just the right size to fit there. I think of our kiss; the softness of your lips filling me with a passion I had never experienced before. And I will never forget our embrace as we parted that day; the warmth of you against me. Those moments will be forever etched in my memory.

I had wished that we were able to see one another a last time before returning to our respective homelands. I wanted to hold your hand again and to feel you in my arms. I regret that I could not tell you how much I’d miss you to your face. Rather, I will have to be satisfied with the sweet echo of your Scottish lilt as I remember it from our phone conversation before your departure. Your passionate words left me reeling both with joy and longing. Now that we are only half way through the summer, that longing has become overwhelming. If only I had a magical chariot that would bring you swiftly here now. But I do not so I must believe that you will write as we agreed.

With this letter I send you my affections and hope that it finds you well and happy. In my mind I am already waiting for you in Stuttgart.

All my devotion,
Ghassan

(to be continued)

5 Comments

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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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?

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Ramadan at Home

September 4, 2008 at 9:28 pm (Canada, Damascus, Ramadan)

When the brain and the belly are burning from fasting, every moment a new song rises out of the fire. – Rumi (from On Fasting)

Honestly, for several weeks now I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of something to write. I like to keep my blog current but what’s the use in rambling about something inconsequential? I could talk about my screen door that squeaks irritatingly each time I go onto the balcony, I could talk about the little spot of mold in the corner of my bathroom that won’t go away no matter how much I bleach it, or maybe I could tantalize you with tales of the annoying carpet that lies in the front hall and never fails to trip me on the way by. No? Well, the fasting, unlike as promised by Rumi, has not summoned the muses in anyway.

I know, I know, I’m completely missing the point. Well, I’m not really. I’m grateful to be with my family after spending so many Ramadan holidays away from them. Damascus is a wondrous place during this time – especially the bakeries and sweet shops! For my Canadian friends to appreciate, it’s like Christmas here! While in Canada, it was a struggle to celebrate, with any kind of enthusiasm, one of the largest observance in the Muslim calendar. Of course going to Mosque, the Iftar and Eid ul-Fitr meals at the community hall, and getting together with other Muslims was uplifting at best. I don’t mean to underrate the experience in Canada – the sense of community that was created by the holiday was very meaningful for those of us who were missing family. But here it’s different. Its more than just getting together with those who have something in common with you. It’s amazing and very special.

Spiritually I am truly awestruck and inspired by the generosity of my fellow countrymen at this time. From this, I can honestly say I get a renewed faith in mankind. Neighbor helping neighbor – or even more than that, a complete stranger – the downtrodden and the hopeless given a second thought, burying the hatchet between those who have fought and lost touch; these amongst many other acts of kindness and community, are gratifying in a way that transcends my regular outlook on life and the general state of the world – or our little part of it. What if we carried this throughout the year? Of course, a good Muslim should – actually a good human should. (Risk of being preachy but isn’t intended…thinking more about my own actions). But once the holidays are over its easy to be consumed by the rigors of everyday life and to find difficulty in rising above it to see beyond those in the inner circle of our lives.

Ramadan has its basic meaning that is common to all of us, but beyond that it has a slightly different meaning to each of us. To one it may be a time for absolution, for another it may be a time for family, to another it’s perhaps a time for spiritual re-awakening, and the list goes on. It could be a combination of all of the above or just one that is particularly sacred to us. Anyway, enough conjecture – I know only what it means to me. This year, I am experiencing it as though it were the first time again. It has provided a great time for reflection and introspection as well as reading and enjoying leisure activities – and most importantly spending quality time with those I love.

Well, I guess Rumi was right after all. After re-reading this post I actually surprised myself. I didn’t think I had that much to say about Ramadan, or about anything, but why wouldn’t I? Sometimes words can come out of just writing. There was a bit of a song rising from the fire. Oh and what a fire it is! I never quite get used to it…but enough complaining. Ramadan Kareem to all my fellow Muslims and friends. May the month be a blessing upon you.

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Freedom!

July 18, 2008 at 7:15 pm (Canada, Damascus, Syria, friends, weather)


Exhilaration is the Breeze
That lifts us from
the Ground
And leaves us in another place
Whose statement is not found

Returns us not, but after time
We soberly descend
A little
newer for the term
Upon Enchanted Ground
-Emily Dickinson


It’s intolerably hot. At least, it is to me. Its so hot that my entire essence of being is sluggish. Its hard for me to believe that I’d actually forgotten how hot Damascus in July is. Was it ever really this unbearable when I was growing up? Probably it was and that’s the way it had always been. I knew nothing different so my memory doesn’t hold that information as it would something extraordinary. But now I do know.

Canadian summers are like Syria around the end of September. The temperature, even with the humidity, rarely rises above 34 degrees. The weather seems to work in cycles. One only has to tolerate the heat for three or four days at a time. Once you think that you can no longer bear the mugginess, the skies suddenly blacken. A magnificent thunderstorm rolls in, announcing its arrival with forceful booms and strikes of lightening that look as though they will split open the sky – an awe inspiring site. Once the storm moves off you can almost hear the entire region exhale a collective sigh of relief as the air behind the storm is cooler and clearer.

That sort of relief doesn’t exist here in Damascus in July. On some days as I look up at the blue skies and the searing sun, I’m reminded of the scenes from movies about the desert. The camera pans across the sands to the blazing sun and the orchestral music crescendos to a screech. This, of course, is normally followed by a scene starring a kettle of circling vultures. But I digress. Its almost as if we’re trapped on the inside of an enormous paper weight. Nary a breeze nor a rain drop can enter, only the rays of the sun.

Complaining to my fellow sufferers seems superfluous. Most of them seem less energetic than usual but no one seems to grumble much. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but let the odd grievance slip past my lips. To my surprise, they did not fall on deaf ears. Several days ago, I was whisked out the door by my gentleman friend to the shiny, leather seats of an old Mercedes convertible. After tearing, practically unyieldingly, through the narrow and busy streets of Damascus – God knows how we didn’t receive a single scratch or dent – we hit the highway. This is the point at which I released my death-like grip on the door handle and gave myself fully to the exhilaration of an open top car cruising at healthy clip.

I couldn’t help myself. As my hair swirled around me like flames fanned by a strong wind, I threw my head back and screamed with complete glee. I threw my arms in the air, catching as much wind as I possibly could, with perhaps a desire to take off in flight to the cooler skies high above the earth. I didn’t care that the highway was straight and boring, or that the wind was hot and dry. It was this feeling of utter freedom that I needed to lighten my spirit. My companion chuckled at my childlike expressions, seemingly pleased that his idea had been so successful. I am sure that he, too, felt the unencumbered joy of exhilaration.

8 Comments

Walking and Music

July 3, 2008 at 3:51 pm (Canada, Damascus, exercise)

It all starts with the food. Lots and lots of good food. Since I’ve been back in Damascus, I just can’t get enough. Thus, the need for exercise has increased dramatically! Back in Canada, I spent a lot of time walking – a lot of people did. I’m not talking about strolling, I’m talking about a good brisk walk as a form of exercise. Walking, running, biking, rollerblading were a common pastime for many people in Canada. In Damascus it’s a bit of a rarity. Sure, people stroll leisurely or run to cross four lanes of traffic but you don’t see a lot of people out for a “jog”. That being said, there may be a good reason for this. The streets are not overly accommodating to this sort of activity.

Nevertheless, in the evenings, after dinner, I pull on a tank-top, my yoga pants, and strap on my big, white running shoes, plug myself into my MP3 player and hit the streets and the alleys of my neighbourhood. I’ve managed to map out an eight kilometre route for myself and have been able to avoid most of the areas of large amounts of traffic. It’s a bit of a hazard wearing earphones when walking the streets. Its difficult to hear the cars and motorbikes coming up behind me. So I try to stay as close to the side as possible – while avoiding getting poked in the eye by numerous, healthy vines. Do I get looks? Oh yes. Do I trip over kids playing in the alleys? Oh yes. Do I enjoy it? Oh yes.

Normally, I listen to dance music because its tempo is quite fast and it gets the adrenalin pumping. Something like Can’t Fight the Moonlight. I blaze a trail up and down the streets completely in a trance. I don’t really think about anything or notice anything except maybe a pleasant breeze. Last night, however, I decided to try something different. I put on the album by Fadl Shaker – Allah We’allam. Its slow and melodic. I had to work a bit harder to keep my pace up, but there were too many advantages to ignore.

As Mr. Fadl crooned away in my ear, I became very aware of my surroundings and my mind started whirring. I noticed the way awnings fluttered in the breeze, people talking and smiling at one another, the sweet faces of small children playing, and the way the sun caught the edges of flower petals and leaves. I enthusiastically composed this and other posts for my blog. I thought about friends and family. It was kind of the same effect that music in a movie has on you. You could look at the same scene twice, each with different music and come away with two completely different feelings from the scene.

I returned home before I knew it, hot and tired, but relaxed. The dance music always left me high – I had a difficult time coming down but last night, I had no trouble settling down and slept like a log! This isn’t to say that I’ll never listen to my dance music again, but now I’ll not shy away from a little variety.

4 Comments

The Solace of Salah al-Din (صلاح الدين يوسف ابن أيوب‎)

July 1, 2008 at 6:38 pm (Damascus, Saladin, Salah al-Din, Syria, memories)

It has been years since I visited the shrine of Salah al-Din, the great Sultan of the Ayyubid dynasty – currently made famous in the West by the film “Kingdom of Heaven”. In the East, Syria in particular, he has always been a hero. His memory is larger than life. Many, who feel hopeless in today’s conflicts, have prayed for a leader with the wisdom and strength of conviction of Salah al-Din to lead them out of hardship. As a child, I was in awe of his statue which looms larger than life outside of the citadel, not far from the tomb. I also remember visiting his tomb numerous times as a child and a teenager. None of these visits, however, held the magic or sombreness that my recent visit did. Perhaps now I have more of an appreciation of who he was and what he accomplished. Or perhaps it was because I was alone in the tomb – a feat which is almost unheard of – that I was able to absorb fully my surroundings.

The tomb, on the surface, is nothing more than a tomb. Its construction is a combination of stone, metal, glass, and wood, illuminated by small windows and fluorescent lights. The wooden crypt, draped in a shroud, stands, almost humbly, next to its German, marble counterpart. But as I entered the mausoleum, every inch of my body was covered in goose bumps. The idea that the great Salah al-Din’s remains were before me, was almost overwhelming. This was as close as I could possibly ever come to the man, which was closer than many had a chance to get – maybe even closer than those warriors who fought in his armies. But it wasn’t as though I could observe his chivalrous actions, or listen to his wise words – my only real reference were the stories I’d read of him, the words from which now fed my imagination and filled my soul with such delight.

As I stood motionless in front of his sarcophagus, I tried to imagine what he would think of today’s world. Many thoughts crossed my mind. But in the end, I thought if he were standing next to me, he would likely look at me with his intense, dark eyes, and smile softly. Then, before I could utter a word he would say something far more astute than I could ever conceive. That daydream ended abruptly in the kind of tears that well out of frustration and then gently caress the cheeks in streams of sadness. When I finally became aware that my frequent sniffing sounds were echoing in the chamber, I felt ashamed. I was glad that no one was there to hear me snivelling like a child. I wiped my face with a tissue and placed my hand on the wooden frame of his crypt. The words “Remember who you are.” filled my head.

I exited the building with my chin held high and a renewed sense of purpose. This, the need to recapture my sense of self, was entirely the reason I’d returned home. A visit to the great Salah al-Din proved to bring me one step closer to my goal – that little nudge to keep going – something I was not really expecting when I set out earlier that day. I walked by the citadel and stood for a while longer at the base of his statue and smiled up at him. Allah yirhamu – God rest his soul.

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