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.

This place hasn't been abandoned..

When I start writing lines and boundaries disappear, and while I never viewed this as a bad thing, I don't want my writing to cause harm for anyone. For now, I'll let a much more eloquent man do the talking.

Reminiscing Ramadan

So here I am jumping on the Ramadan post bandwagon, like any good blogger would do. In the few years I have been blogging I don’t think I ever posted something longer than a Happy Ramadan post. I think it’s because I’m never really that excited about the month, except for the odd Syrian drama that I look forward to.

My memories of Ramadan are from the time I lived back in Syria. Ramadan then came during the winter time, and this is the only way I can picture it. I remember going to school early in the morning with my friends, in the school yard we would all ask each other if we were fasting or not. The litmus test, if you will, to determine whether someone was lying is in the colour of their tongue. If it was white than you passed the test, otherwise you were taunted. Although there was always one annoying kid who related the white tongue to eating labneh (dried yogurt) in the morning.

At the time my grandparents lived one floor above us, and we would often join them along with my aunts and uncles to break the fast. We would have salads, soup, and all kind of delicacies just waiting to be devoured. The TV would be set to Syria Channel 1, and we would wait for the official call of prayer from the Omayad Mosque, and at that very moment you could hear the call of prayer from the myriad of mosques dotting Damascus. Usually my grandmother would be still busy in the kitchen even after the iftar, working on every last detail of the meal. On occasion, when I got back from school, I would be sent to the neighbourhood grocer, or produce shop to buy this or that. I would ride my bike, fully knowing that I’m going to have a few kilos hanging on each side of the handle bar. On the way I would see tens of other boys, and men running around from shop to another arranging those last minute details.

After Iftar the family would gather to watch a musalsal (Syrian drama), accompanied of course with a cup of hot tea, and any number of great deserts like knafeh, mshabbak, or bakalawa. The streets after Iftar are usually busy with people, some there simply to get out, others to shop for Eid. The atmosphere is more festive than I have ever experienced.

At night, about an hour before the break of dawn, I would get a call from my grandfather to go upstairs and join them for suhoor, the meal that’s supposed to give you that last push for the tough day ahead. On our street one man had stuck to old tradition and went through the alleys of the neighbourhood at night, repeating traditional phrases, while knocking on people’s doors, trying to wake them up for the all too important meal. Ramadan to me was the best time of the year, as I’m sure it is for most people in Syria.

Here in Canada the story is different as you can imagine. Celebrating Ramadan in Canada is like celebrating Christmas in Qatar. You might find people who follow traditions, people who are excited about the month, but the one thing you will never find is the atmosphere. I think this is why I love Christmas time so much. In a way it’s a replacement of the atmosphere I miss.

But I’m excited. Next year Ramadan will creep even closer into summer, and in a few years I will be able to experience the great atmosphere all over again during summer vacation. I will be experience Ramadan during the summer for the first time, and hopefully create great memories of a brand new Ramadan.

Living a Contradiction

Fairouz greets me every morning from my car speakers with her soft, familiar, and highly nostalgic voice. As I listen to her songs in the car I start reminiscing on the times we lived in Homs. I remember how my dad always had the radio turned up every morning to Fairouz, how I used to hear her voice on a cold winter day in Damascus before going to school, how happy it made me feel every time I got in a taxi in the morning with Fairouz playing on every radio station.

I can’t help but notice that as time passes I am becoming more nostalgic and attached to Syria. I was inclined to think, as I have witnessed in others, that as time passes one would begin to become more accustomed to being away. The feeling of belonging I thought would wane with time, but this hasn’t been the case. I prefer to hear news in Arabic, my iPod is filled with Middle Eastern music, and Nizar Qabbani’s words speak to me in a way that I can’t describe.

Sometimes I can’t help but confess that I live a contradiction. I like the culture, familiarity, and feel of Syria, and at the same time I enjoy the convenience, and the opportunities that are available here. As I drive through beautiful cities like Montreal and Toronto, I always find myself wondering why we can’t have a subway, why can’t we have decent roads, why are we not manufacturing?

I would love to apply my education to help Syria out, and I look forward to the day the economy opens up and foreign investments begin to pour in. Reading posts on FW: gives me hope, and something to daydream about, Breakfast At Mora’s pulled the thoughts out of my mind and showed me that I’m not alone. Perhaps the only way to cure the contradiction is by bringing the best of both worlds together, maybe it’s easier said than done, but one can at least dream.

Bublic Transbortation

Damascus is in a dire need of a metro system, or trams at a minimum. There's plenty of affordable transportation in Damascus, but unfortunately all forms add to the pollution in the city, and not to the mention the traffic mayhem everybody complains about. Every time I ride in a taxi here, I wonder how the drivers do it. It takes a special kind of person to go through the stop and go traffic on a summer day in Damascus.

I heard that there were tram lines in Damascus years ago, the tracks of which are still visible in some parts of Damascus. Tram lines don't solve the traffic issue, but they certainly curb tons of pollutants away from the already thick Damascene air. Metro lines on the other hand solve both problems. Underground is the way to go, especially in a densely populated city like Damascus.

I realize that I'm not the first to come up with the idea of a metro in Damascus, in fact I heard that there are some plans for a metro system here, although I'm not sure about the construction status. Constructing a metro in a busy city like Damascus is certainly a huge engineering feat, requiring tons of man power, planning, and probably over 20 years of construction. But it's worth it. Cities like London, New York, and Berlin had metros as early as 1905, I think it's about time we catch up. While in the underground in Berlin, I couldn't help but notice pictures at every station showing the evolution of the metro system at that specific station. The first pictures in the stations mostly dated circa 1900.

Other than cutting down on pollution and traffic jams, a metro system makes it easier to find a predictable form of transportation from A to B. While waiting for a taxi or a minibus you're at the mercy of the driver, time of day, and luck. With a metro system the metro would come at regular intervals of time. No longer will a person need to stand in the searing hear waiting for a taxi to come by. Predictability is a huge luxury.

A metro would also make it easier for tourists to navigate through Damascus. Having been to a few countries where I was completely clueless about the language, I can't imagine how I would have seen the city without the metro. I honestly don't know how a tourist can get around here without a tour guide. Minibuses have signs in Arabic, most taxi drivers don't speak a hint of English, and even the new city buses have the destinations written in Arabic. At least with a metro all you need is a map, and you know exactly where you are.

Having said all that, I don't see Damascus getting a metro any time soon. Maybe the concept of a metro is too foreign. Or maybe the real problem is what to name such a system in Arabic. Would it be called "Ta7t il Ard," or would the word "metro" get bastardized like every other word here and get turned in "mekro"? For all we know the name is all that's keeping us from getting a mekro…metro system.

In Damascus and blogging again!

I can finally sit down and write a post after a long absence. The trip started on the afternoon of May 10th, and ended a few days ago in Prague. The itinerary saw some changes along the way, some places were added while others were taken off. Looking back on it, I can't pin which city was my favuorite or where I would like to live if I had the choice. Some cities seemed better just because we were lucky enough to meet up with cool people in the hostel we were staying at, while others were boring simply because the weather wasn't cooperating. I can write on and on about the elegance of Paris, the antiquity of Rome, and stunning mix of nature, people and religions in Granada, but I'll leave that for future posts.

One of the best parts of the trip was meeting people. I made many good friends along the way and established connections across the world. Nothing beats meeting a few travelers at a hostel, and then going out to experience the
nightlife and sharing stories of places visited and experiences had.

The last leg of my trip is Syria, where I'm writing this post from. I plan on visiting cities as many place as I can while here. I want to visit Aleppo, and Homs, and any other place you guys recommend. It's kind of ironic that I was able to get myself anywhere in Europe where I didn't speak the language but I find it difficult to get my self to tourist destinations here.

For those who were asking for pictures, I assure you lots were taken (over 2000) and I will be posting some of them on Flickr when I get back to Canada, since the connection speed here is super slow. For now I'm going to bask in the ambiance as well as indulging in an unlimited amount of shawarma, falafel, and argileh!

Nuclear Syria

Rough Sequence of Events:

Syria’s airspace is invaded by Israeli jets

Syria claims (later confirmed by the Pentagon) that munitions were dropped

World stays silent

Journalists begin to speculate on what the target was, and why it was targeted

Speculations that Israel was testing Syrian radar begin to emerge

American sources using Israeli intelligence apparently talk to journalists

Syria has an underground nuclear facility, with ties to North Korea

Journalists now speculate that Syrian nuclear facilities were the target

Articles appear left and right, quoting intelligence that the target was Syrian nuclear facilities.

If medicine is developed as fast as stories are spun in the media, then cancer would have been eradicated a long time ago.

Summer time adventure

Much like rare celestial events this week’s events will take centuries to repeat themselves. People get excited, prepare cameras, and travel from far and wide to observe, and in this case participate in the phenomenon.

The event is a cambing trib, including Syrians from across Canada. Ihsan is coming from the beautiful, but horrendously boring PEI, Sean is coming from the neat and tidy capital, and Bassel will be joining us from Toronto. Throw in a little get together on Thursday with Zaid Fahham who is in Toronto at the moment, and you get the rarest occurrence of blogger/Syrian meetup ever.

One of the interesting things about this trip is how we are all connected. I met Bassel at a BBQ a few years ago, Bassel met Ihsan and Sean in Montreal last summer and I met Ihsan through blogging. I know Zaid through blogging and through his brother Amr. Ihsan knows Zaid and Amr from Syria. The six degrees of separation seems to be at work again.

The meat is marinating, the coal, man2al, and argileh are all waiting to be used, all that’s left is for the company to arrive, and the rest of the Syrian bloggers…

Keep posted

Nizar Qabbani - السيرة الذاتية لسياف عربي

This poem was posted earlier by a fellow Syrian blogger, Gardenia. I decided to share with the readers an audio file of this poem, said by the man himself, Nizar Qabbani. The poem could not be more appropriate, especially with the recent jailing of Egyptian blogger Kareem. Enjoy the file, and sorry to non-arabic speakers, I would try to translate part of this poem, but I don't think I can do it justice.

أيها الناس:
لقد أصبحت سلطانا عليكم
فاكسروا أصنامكم بعد ضلال ، واعبدونى...
إننى لا أتجلى دائما..
فاجلسوا فوق رصيف الصبر، حتى تبصرونى
اتركوا أطفالكم من غير خبز
واتركوا نسوانكم من غير بعل .. واتبعونى
إحمدوا الله على نعمته
فلقد أرسلنى كى أكتب التاريخ،
والتاريخ لا يكتب دونى
إننى يوسف فى الحسن
ولم يخلق الخالق شعرا ذهبيا مثل شعرى
وجبينا نبويا كجبينى
وعيونى غابة من شجر الزيتون واللوز
فصلوا دائما كى يحفظ الله عيونى

أيها الناس:
أنا الأول والأعدل،
والأجمل من بين جميع الحاكمين
وأنا بدر الدجى، وبياض الياسمين
وأنا مخترع المشنقة الأولى، وخير المرسلين..
كلما فكرت أن أعتزل السلطة، ينهانى ضميرى
من ترى يحكم بعدى هؤلاء الطيبين؟
من سيشفى بعدى الأعرج، والأبرص، والأعمى..
ومن يحيى عظام الميتين؟
من ترى يخرج من معطفه ضوء القمر؟
من ترى يرسل للناس المطر؟
من ترى يجلدهم تسعين جلدة؟
من ترى يصلبهم فوق الشجر؟
من ترى يرغمهم أن يعيشوا كالبقر؟
ويموتوا كالبقر؟
كلما فكرت أن أتركهم
فاضت دموعى كغمامة..
وتوكلت علىلا الله ...
وقررت أن أركب الشعب..
من الآن.. الى يوم القيامه..

- Nizar Qabbani

Syrian Bloggers: Free Kareem

We, as a community of Syrian bloggers, condemn the arrest and sentencing of Egyptian blogger Abdel Kareem Nabil Soliman for the peaceful expression of his dissenting views. We ask the Egyptian government to reconsider its decision to arrest and prosecute Abdel Kareem. The stated reasons for their action include the preservation of the public peace and state security, and the prevention of incitement against Islam. We contend that his arrest will achieve neither. Silencing such dissenting voices as Abdel Kareem’s, serves only to strengthen the hands of extremists who will not shy away from violence to achieve their goals. Moreover, we remind the Egyptian government that his arrest and prosecution violates at least two articles (see below) of the 1948 United Nations universal declaration of human rights to which Egypt was a signatory.Relevant United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights articles:Article 18. Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion; this right includes freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom, either alone or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance.Article 19. Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers.Such rights for freedom of expression are also enshrined in the 1990 Cairo Declaration on Human Rights in Islam and the 2003 Universal Declaration of Human Rights by the World's religion. [Original Source Abu Kareem]

When are we going to learn to give the basic right of free speech?
When are we going to open our minds and take criticism openly as a form of self expression?

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.

While we're on the topic...

All my post ideas recently have been the quite serious, time consuming type. As much as I like to think I can organize my time well, it seems like I'm always sleeping late, getting up early (for work), and chugging through the day with the aid of the magic liquid that is Coffee..

That being said, here's a picture I took from the plane when we made a pit stop in Aleppo.... well...to re-mahrook.... if you will

technorati tags: arabic, funny, plane, picture, fuel

Saying farewell to the Dokaneh

You can see a dokaneh on the right of this picture. This is not the dokaneh talked about in this post

If you know anybody who grew up in Syria, then chances are they will have many stories to tell about the “dokaneh” they used to frequent as kids. Dokaneh is a term that describes a mini grocery shop selling common everyday supplies, and most importantly: chips and candy. In any typical street in Damascus your are bound to find at least one dokaneh, where the owner is sitting outside sipping tea and eating (fasfes) sunflower seeds.

As a kid I would visit the dokaneh nearest to my house on a daily basis. My mom typically gave me my daily allowance after school (which ended at 12:30 in the afternoon). I would then run, or later, bike to the dokaneh to spend my allowance on chips and candy. Upon arriving to the dokaneh I would quickly figure out the best combination of candy and chips that I can get for my money. Everyday would be a slightly different combination, all depending on what I felt like eating on that particular day.

In the summer time my cousins would arrive from the UAE and Saudi and we would make group trips to the dokaneh. Our most frequented dokaneh was Abu Ahmad’s, whose dokaneh, was, and still is, located at the end of our Hara (ally). Abu Ahmad’s brother, Abu Shawqi also had a dokaneh meters away from Abu Ahmad’s, but we never went to his dokaneh, although he sold my favourite pop brand “Jallab.” Abu Shawqi had messy hair, always wore a frown on his face, and had a grubby looking, unpainted dokaneh. Based on location, candy selection, and relative friendliness, my cousins and I decided to make Abu Ahmad’s our dokaneh of choice.

His dokaneh had a few tables at the front, where he displayed tens of items including hard candy and gum. In the back he had two fridges where he kept his commercial bought, and homemade popsicles. His homemade popsicles were made out of diluted plain yogurt, with a bit salt to give it the required punch. All in all, Abu Ahmad supplied us with the sugar and calcium needed for all the running, biking, and soccer games that characterized our summers.

This year when I visited Syria, I noticed that Abu Ahmad had renovated his dokaneh with large glass windows sealing the dokaneh from the street. I’m not sure why, but I didn’t actually go in the dokaneh, although looking back on it now, I think I should have went in and relived the dokaneh experience.

A few days ago my mom came to my room and told me “Abu Ahmad passed away.” After asking her whom she referred to, all she had to say was “sa7ib dokaneh” for me to know who it was. Farewell Abu Ahmad, you will be remembered.