First night in Damascus

My grandparent's mini garden on the rooftop of the house, featuring herbs, peppers and pomegranates

I raced through the hallways of the Airport, eager to retrieve my bags, and see my family. I had finally returned after a 5 year absence. The customs officer was welcoming, and unlike I expected I entered the country with ease. My preparation prior to the trip had paid off. I then had to wait for my bags to come around the carousel. The plane was still being unloaded, and the minutes passed by like hours. I knew that one police officer and 30 meters was all that separated me from my family. My bags arrived, I unloaded them quickly, and decided to drag them along instead of waiting for a cart to become available. The police officer asked to check my bag, I opened it for him, and a minute later I was walking towards the great hall in the airport.

I noticed that they modified the airport since the last time I’ve been there. Instead of walking out through a 4 metre opening, I now had to follow narrow curved path out of the customs area. As soon as I turned around to face the crowd the people, I saw my grandfather there, right at the front of the crowd holding his cane and smiling. As I was greeting him, my cousin Ehab showed up and led me to my mom, brother and uncle Mohammad, who I have seen for only 5 hours during the past 10 years. We went outside to the parking lot, loaded the bags, and squeezed ourselves into the car, and headed towards home. As we got on “Airport Road” I was taken back by the dense pollution in the air. I was really irritated by the diesel smoke, generated by hundreds of aging mini-buses. I started to wonder to my self whether the pollution was there during all the years I lived in Damascus, or if it worsened during the past few years. I noticed how calm, and seemingly desensitized everybody in the car was to the poor air quality, including my mom and brother. It then hit me that the pollution had been there all along, I just had nothing to compare it to.

As we made our way through the city, I was glad to see shop signs written in Arabic and hearing people speak a familiar dialect. As we got closer to home, my cousin started quizzing “do you know what this street’s called?”, “where are we now?” I got most of the answers wrong. Half an hour after leaving the airport, we were approaching the roundabout leading to the Yarmouk refugee camp. The street was packed with people, restaurants filled the streets, and cars were lined bumper to bumper. But I didn’t mind, I wanted to take a look at the shops that lined the streets, which ones are still there and which ones disappeared. As the shops became more and more familiar I knew we were close. We made a right turn from the main street, and suddenly I was overwhelmed with familiar sights. The tiny street hadn’t changed much, except for the odd store here and there. A minute later and we were turning into our Hara (alley). The first thing that I did was look up to see our balcony, to take a look at my grandparent’s house. We unloaded the bags and I started making my way upstairs. As I was doing so every sense of mine was experiencing déjà vu. My memory seemed to suddenly liven up with visual cues. The colour and shape of the tiles, the small water faucet below the stairs, the electricity meter, my grandmothers grocery cart, and many many other features that mean nothing to anybody else, but all the world to me.

When I made it upstairs I was greeted by my aunt, grandmother, and cousins, some of whom I did not recognize. During the next hour my aunts and cousins started to make their way over. One of my cousins bought 20 different brands of chips as a welcome home. Cell phone suddenly started popping up, pictures were taken, and jokes were being told, “Omar, smi3t akher nokteh?” (have you heard the latest joke?) was a phrase that was repeated often. My grandmother then suggested that we get some traditional Shami food for my first meal back. Two of my uncles and I, got into the car and made our way to the “Meedan” quarter, famous for its traditional Shami food. I cannot describe the feeling of being thrown back into Shami culture after a five year absence. Everything from the way the Hummus dishes were decorated to the phrases like “2morni m3allim!” felt new to me. I felt like a tourist at home. After buying the foul, mssaba7a, and falafel we headed home teased by the smell the whole way back.

It was an unforgettable night.