A Dream Interrupted

It was a sunny day, but you wouldn't be able to tell from the shade created by the ever rising apartment blocks surrounding the street. I was walking swiftly back home back from an errand, passing by Ghada’s pharmacy at the top of our street, turning left towards our alley. I was carrying something in my hand, looking up towards our balcony. Home was merely a few steps away, and then just as I laid my eyes on our house door I was awakened by a text message. I was so close to reaching my destination. Annoyed by the text, I read it, purposely ignored it and went back to sleep. I thought to myself can’t I visit home even in my dreams?

Last time I was in Syria was during winter of 2009. I took the opportunity to go there for a whole month while I was between jobs. In fact one of the conditions of accepting my new position was being able to go home for an extended period of time. I had a routine whenever I went back. The first morning I would take a stroll in the neighbourhood, pass by my best friend’s house, buy some falafel and hummus for breakfast, and take in the sights and sounds that only an expatriate would miss. Sights like yellow cabs fighting their way through the traffic, sounds like the ones of the roaming fruit sellers, and smells, well, those of diesel fumes emanating from the infamous microbuses. On the next day I would visit Old Damascus, to go to the souqs and stop to smoke shisha and have tea at a café. Every day of the visit was planned without really being planned. I knew what I wanted to see and I just let my feet and heart lead me in whichever direction they pleased. Every corner I came across was a memory renewed, and with every forgotten sight seen again was a smile.

Every time I left Syria I know deep inside that next time I visit most things would have stayed put. Sure building got a little taller in our alley, the falafel shop owner expanded his restaurant, and a new pirated CD store opened up on the corner, but beneath all that everything stayed the same. You still have to fight your way to get onto a microbus, taxi drivers complained to you about the congestion, and the chaotic nature of government offices remained unchanged.  It was miraculous to see how a country could function given all the corruption.  Somehow though, the ever resilient Syrian meandered their way through the system and made things work. The country kept ticking, and I kept returning to a place that I’ll always call home, knowing that I’ll be able to visit that falafel shop, pass by my old school, and make a pit stop at the grocery store where I bought all my candy as a kid. Abed the grocer, still recognized me, and always asked me how things were in Canada.  

But for the first time in 40 years, things have changed, so dramatically so that I can’t fathom the feelings I will have upon returning home. I was due back on April 18, 2011, and just like before I had planned the trip between jobs. This time however the paper work didn't make it through the embassy, not because of the usual corruption but due to an event that many hadn't even imagined. Next week marks the last week at the job I started right before the revolution. This time however I’m sitting thousands of miles away behind a computer screen hearing news that breaks the heart, looking at pictures of rubble, the rubble of the falafel shop that I always counted on visiting on my first day back. 

A picture of a one of those familiar streets that lead to places dear to my heart.