Sea Side – Part 12

October 2, 2009 at 10:24 am (Canada, Lattakia, Mediterranean Sea, Syria, Tartous, home, life, love, memories, travel)
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by Abufares

You look perfect together
Good luck ;-)

I read Farid’s short message on my mobile phone and simpered quietly. He was probably having fun with the guys in Lattakia but thoughtful enough to send his words of support. He and May, his wife,  have tried to hook me up with an interesting friend or a pretty relative a million times over the years. I always appreciated their concern but also felt awkward. There was nothing inherently wrong with me. For all practical purposes I “am” a decent man, a little distant perhaps but not out of hauteur. I was rather coy with genuine modesty, weary with the burden of broken promises and despaired of ever finding a woman; the woman who would change my outlook on life and give me meaning and purpose. I often dreamed of an Amar illuminating the dark of night in search of me. And, having found what she was yearning for my moon would spawn silver rays of light turning the invariant gray into a rainbow of bliss. No longer would I fear the treacherous shallow waters, jagged with knives of coral and ragged with spears of rock. She would show me the way, a lighthouse beckoning at me, be safe my Youssef, I’m here for you… forever.

We reached the entrance to the little garden surrounding the quaint building where she was staying. The landlord, Walid, lived with his family on the ground floor. Up the flight of stairs, Amar told me, two little apartments shared the western veranda with a magnificent view of the sea. I was not gawky at all when I took her little hand in mine and kissed it softly. I had a long way ahead to reach then to hold on to her and I had no intention whatsoever to be careless. My mind was perfectly clear, my heart calmly set.

“Goodnight Amar”, I spoke softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning and bring you the stuff you need from the bookstore.”

She hesitated then, “Are you sure I’m not monopolizing your time. I mean really Youssef. You must have responsibilities, some sort of obligations…”

“Please stop it Amar.” I interrupted. “I’m on summer break. Sure I drive a couple of times per week to the university in Lattakia but not out of necessity. I mainly go to have an espresso at a corner cafe in the Amerkan area. There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing than spending my time with you. Besides I’m truly and genuinely in love with castles and fortresses. I plan to show them all to you. As lovely as Sea Breeze and this village are you still need to see the rest of the coast.”

It was her turn to interrupt me. “And there’s no one else I want to have as my guide. But, …” She hesitated again, “you know that I would be leaving Syria back to Canada in a month, and…”

“I’ll be here at nine. I’ll bring breakfast, Msabha and Fool from the old town. I’ll also bring the hot Mashrouh bread from the bakery. Pickles, fresh green mint, I think I’ll skip the onions though.” I laughed for her.

“I like onions”, she said, “and I have no reason why I shouldn’t eat them. Do you?” She had that lovely mal’ouneh look on her gorgeous face again.

“Not at all. I’ll bring onions and lots of garlic just for you.” I laughed, earnestly this time. “Get the table set and tea ready on the veranda so that we eat then leave. The Marqab Castle is not far but if we were to see it all we should give ourselves ample time.” I grinned, the very same way she told me less than an hour ago over by the sea that she really liked before she, for no reason at all, changed the subject.

—–

I was getting in my car near the front entrance of the cafe when I noticed a solitary man waiting by the highway for a micro-bus to take to Tartous or some small village along the way. I have seen him before. He was staring at me from the kitchen’s door when I had my little talk with Yasmina yesterday.

“I’m going to Tartous,” I said, “and if you’re on my way you’re welcome to hop along.”

He dithered for a passing instant then opened the front passenger’s door and climbed in without uttering a word. He stared through the windshield as if he was driving and didn’t give me a second look.

“I’m Youssef Khalil.” I introduced myself. “Can you please fasten your seat belt?”

He rolled his eyes in disbelief. He wanted me to realize that my request was too nerdy for his big and silent type persona. I could care less. He complied though but remained uninterested in pursuing any further conversation. For five complete minutes, I drove in silence and totally ignored him.

“I’m Yazan,” he proclaimed all of a sudden. It was dark and I couldn’t see his face clearly. He kept, however, looking ahead while he talked. “So you are a doctor, I hear! A gynecologist perhaps?”

“You know Yazan”, I replied without taking my eyes off of the road, “A friend of mine, a physician, once told me that the best specialty in medicine for the purpose of pursuing and picking up women is pediatrics. The mothers are fit and young. Besides, when a perfectly healthy woman comes alone to the doctor’s office with her child, dressed up, smelling nice and looking pretty that’s the best any doctor could ever dream of examining, with his eyes if not with his hands at least. Gynecology is too messy and way over-rated in my opinion.”

He burst out laughing and finally thought that I deserved being talked to. “I’m sorry. I knew you were an English professor. Yasmina already told me. I’m Yazan Moussa. I’m the cook at that dump.”

“So you are responsible for that most delicious Mezza and the sea food delicacies. By the way, the Sea Breeze is not a dump at all. I honestly think it’s the best little restaurant I’ve ever been to.”

He softened up quite noticeably. I could see that he was not a talkative man but when we both faced each other in the car I felt an authentic goodness emanating from him despite his effort to conceal it.

“So where did you learn how to cook,” I asked truthfully interested.

“Oh, I traveled the sea for many years. I worked as a chef on large general cargo ships and been all over the world. I learned a trick or two about cooking but look where I am now.” He painted his face with a sarcastic smirk, not at all convincing.

I don’t know what got into me but it was the first thing that came to mind. “Perhaps you are there because there is something you can’t stay away from.” I obviously meant someone in particular and we both knew it.

“You can drop me anywhere you like and thank you for the ride.” He said quickly as we barely entered the city from the north. I was not sure whether my incursion further irritated him or not. He was a difficult man to read.

I insisted on driving him all the way to his apartment. He lived in one of the newer neighborhoods of Tartous, the Sixth Project as it was called. I knew it by name but rarely went there, if hardly at all. We shook hands and an ephemeral trace of a smile appeared on his facial furrows and lines rather than on his mouth. I was far from gifted when it came to possessing omniscient faculties but I had an overpowering feeling that Yazan and I would meet again. Not casually for I might see him every time I go to the cafe. It was more arcane than that. Something told me that our fates converged for a purpose tonight. For a person like me, who could be described as agnostic at best, the feeling was very unsettling.

—–

I drove along Mar Elias Avenue toward the Corniche. At the second fountain, where Cinema El-Nejmeh once proudly stood and brought the magic of the movies to my doorstep, I made a right turn down Al-Mina St. The theater, like everything else I loved about my city had disappeared and only survived as an engraved memory in my head.

“I was born in Kingston, Ontario.” Amar told me as we walked earlier on the beach. “I would love to be able to show you around some day, especially in the fall.” Like a little child she spoke excitedly, looking back and forth at me then toward the distance West. “On a sunny day, when the trees are bright with color and back-dropped with the gray limestone of the buildings, it can almost feel as though you’re walking in a dream. It’s hard to explain really. But whenever someone mentions Kingston, this and the bright blue waters of the lake come to mind.”

I never wanted to be anywhere else. Even in London where the whole world was at my feet, I missed Tartous. When I returned, however, I realized that I was missing her in a different time, a time which had ceased to exist all together. I stood on my balcony, a generous glass of Scotch in hand, captivated by a late evening fog descending on the harbor and thick enough to obscure all view of the sea. I downed my drink with a consuming thirst and instantly felt the amber tendrils caressing my being. The mist dissipated and vanished like magic in thin air. Beyond the black silhouettes of shore cranes and the dancing lights of moored ships I saw the colored trees, the limestone buildings and the bright blue waters of a lake. I was yearning for a place I had often visited in my dreams. I opened my eyes and swallowed hard, my longing inevitable. At long last, I was homesick.

© 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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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?

7 Comments

Contretemps

July 8, 2008 at 3:21 am (friends, home, memories)


An unforeseen event that disrupts the normal course of things.


Its funny how things move along as you might expect and then one day something happens, something occurs to you that completely changes everything. It changes the way you think about things, the way you carry yourself, the way you react. I thought my life was going in a specific direction…one of healing and renewal. But shortly after my return, I was set on a course that I cannot turn away from. I haven’t written of it before now, because I wasn’t sure how to present it. Its deeply personal and yet I want to tell the world about it. Who would have thought at 38, I could feel like a silly teenager with a crush. But there it is.

I’ve known this man for years – since I was born actually. He, being best friends with my eldest brother, was always there, always part of my life…until our lives took us in different directions. He was like another brother – playful and teasing – yet more patient and more gentle. He walked back into my life the night of my return no longer a young man but a dignified, intriguing gentleman. Due to convention, acceptable behaviour, and years of separation our reunion was reserved but our shared fondness of one another was still evident. That had not surprised me, but what did was that I realized how attractive he is.

Suddenly he’s all I think about and he really doesn’t give me a reason not to. He’s frequently at my brother’s home in the evenings sipping coffee and chatting about politics and the like with Sadeer. When I’m not needed by the children, I join them. I often find my attentions straying from the discussion to admire the way his greying hair falls in waves at the nape of his neck, the way his eyes change from a smoky quartz to midnight when he’s passionate about the conversation, or the way his elegant hands caress his coffee cup. His manner of speaking is sophisticated and intelligent – captivating actually. His voice lingers in my ears for hours after he has departed.

He doesn’t leave me pining. In fact, his gestures reveal an affection for me that leaves me with a feeling of comfort. He still calls me Beeseh, which he has since I was small and rambunctious. He has always said it with a gentle smile but the softness that was in his eyes then has now been replaced with an intensity that I can’t ignore. It feels as though we’re in this dance bringing us closer but not close enough to say that we were dancing together. Either way, it’s a beautiful dance and one that I hope to continue enjoying.

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This Old House 2

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.

4 Comments

This Old House 1

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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