Six Weeks in Syria: Third World Productions

Does this car look like it was just in a fender bender 24 hours ago?

March 31^st 2016

Third World Productions

Howling winds have been the soul mates of our dark nights these past few days, meshing with the loud booms and shakes of cannon fires. No one really complains (although it’s tempting sometimes when you’re trying to keep warm). We had a family recently visit us from Aleppo and they told us—after eight hours of driving through rubble and checkpoints—that they get two hours of electricity every ten days. The same goes for their running water. So we sat in silence tonight then decided sleep was the best solution.

I can’t sleep though, because both my mind and my ears are on overload. The extreme dichotomy that exists here is about to send me into some type of shock. Outside my window right now, at midnight every café on the rooftop of the swanky hotel is blasting music loudly, as it has for three hours already, like it does every night since we arrived. My grandmother, mother and I looked out the balcony in amazement at the sights and sounds. Balloons and birthday songs (five times), old Arabic songs from my childhood, wedding songs, classic Arabic songs, people howling and clapping, and much more. I realized nothing has changed and nothing will ever change as long as Arabs stay this way.

Life goes on, I know, it needs to in order to rebuild and find stability, but why aren’t Syrians capitalizing on what they have?

Our car was in a fender bender last week that left our bumper out of place, badly chipped and the tail light smashed. No one was hurt and the poor girl that hit the car still apologizes to me every time I see her. Here’s the kicker. I got into a car accident almost two years ago that left my baby Kia Optima in the same exact predicament. The lovely gents at the body shop informed me that I would not have a car for six weeks and no one but little old me would have to pay for a rental. Six weeks of renting a car is no walk in the park, but thanks to work and 100 miles of daily driving, I had no choice. Exactly six weeks later, my car was back and in pristine condition. No matter how much I had asked for the possibility of expediting the process, I got shot down.

Guess how long it took our car to be repaired here? Come on, take a guess. No more than three hours. Guess what else? They did not, I repeat, did not, charge us to replace the entire bumper (as every single other manipulative car body shop does) because they actually repaired the bumper itself, reassembled it to its proper position, gave it a nice paint touch up, and then replaced the cap on the tail light. That’s it. My mom and I had to pick up our jaws from the floor as we stared at the car that less than 24 hours earlier was wrecked.

We have legitimate talents and resourcefulness here in Syria. Syrians find garbage and make it useful treasure, I kid you not. The tarps from aid organizations are turned into blankets, tents and umbrellas that provide shade for pickle kiosks. A little girl at the shelter turned the large crate that carried the food, into her own clothes rack. Syria was that one place that decided to create something itself instead of succumbing to corporate foreign ownership.

It breaks my heart to know that such raw talent and wisdom exists among the land with streets and streets of free flowing trash. Since I was a child I hated this the most about Syria; the never ending trash all over because littering isn’t technically illegal. Everyone’s excuse about why they don’t care when tossing their tissue or soda bottle in the middle of street? I’m just one person; my refrained trash isn’t going to make a difference.

Yes, yes it is. You are one person and therefore one current of change. You don’t know who may see you and learn to do the same. You don’t know how your child will perceive your action to patiently hold your empty cup of hot chocolate in your hands despite the long trip until you find a bin. You don’t know how you can empower a group of your friends who care so much about their country to start a weekly clean up organization that does the dirty work and raises awareness.

Daily I am hearing, “There are no jobs,” but I visibly see numerous jobs around every corner. Not just picking up trash, but almost every store I pass has an Arabic HELP WANTED sign on their door. The problem is this pride that a job at a sandwich-making job is beneath me so I would rather starve and let my family suffer. Cleaning homes is low class work and I’m not going to even think about it.

Jobs exist here right and left, people need to just open their eyes. I don’t think Arabs are trained to have a social radar, as in that altruistic focus of what does the world need from me today. Syria’s needs are throbbing each second and yet nothing really happens.

I’m not saying the good has run out—I mean just the other day a man saw us stopped in our car by our entrance and knocked on our window to let us know he’s parked a few cars down and is leaving if we want his spot. We all “awwwwwed” in the car because if you’ve seen Syria on a regular non-crisis year, driving and parking is a nightmare, so just imagine what it’s turned into now—I’m only saying there needs to be a greater effort of physical change. Simply cupping your hands and uttering a few words to God nonchalantly aren’t going to bring about change. And this change is for those Syrians here in Syria and those outside. I know a woman who has personally cut down her meals into more modest portions to save up funds and donate to refugees. I know another woman who has vowed to not attend weddings/parties and I tagged along with that effort as well. I couldn’t get myself to dress up, doll up and then dance the night away while other Arab girls were getting married in shelters and underground basements beneath missiles and gunshots. I have quite a few friends who got utterly offended but I really didn’t care. I found it offensive that they got offended.

This was the key reason behind my refusal to host a wedding. I didn’t want the ballroom, the DJ, the music, the three course meals, the dance floor. All I really wanted was jeans and a t-shirt on stage saying our vows at the same spot our “love” initiated the year prior. I did, with the inclusion of a dress. I did face a lot of heat though, by everyone. “You’re not going to have a cake? A private ballroom so you can have your hair done? It’s going to be outdoors at some festival? What the heck!?! You’re not going to feed people?”

Nah bro, I wanted to feed starving Palestinian and Syrian children. I wanted to start my ever after on the right foot, not the debt foot. I’m not saying we should be miserable, I am saying we should be MOVED! There are so many steps towards change that can be done, so many talents and dreams that could be manifested in volunteerism to better help this nation. The problem is Arabs—especially Syrians as I have seen all my life—find it beneath them to volunteer. It’s a shame or something. Me? Do something for free? Why waste my time?

Then on top of that, they laugh off significant jobs that need to done because it’s not up to par with their supposed class. Me clean the streets and the parks? Me help someone clean their homes? That’s not my status.

Fine, if it’s beneath you to do the tangible work yourself, how about learning to minimize the extravagance? Does every woman need to do her hair at the salon? Does everyone need to celebrate their birthday in an utterly obnoxious and loud party for 30 people at a café till midnight with hookah and a live musician and food for miles that is getting thrown away every time? Do people need to throw over the top weddings where so much more is wasted? I mean is it really hard to empathize just a little bit with your brothers and sisters in Aleppo or Homs or Hama and maybe have a modest ceremony in your homes with your close loved ones? I just can’t wrap my head around it.

To be honest my fellow peeps, here and abroad, until hard labor becomes your status and you put your ego and pride behind you, you will never find peace and success. You will only water the faulty seeds planted in you and the many generations before you.

Six Weeks in Syria: The Happy Life

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March 28^th 2016

The Happy Life

I learned today that only on holidays are we graced with the presence of ongoing electricity, and that is only of course if you are living in the right neighborhood. This weekend was Easter so every Christian neighborhood was honored with light and heat. Muslim neighborhoods were back to on again off again power. Last weekend was Mother’s Day and the entire city faced fewer shortages to celebrate.

In the Arab World, Mother’s Day falls on the first day of Spring, March 21^st. I braced myself for the sudden resurgence of Arabian pride surely to appear on Facebook from a majority of the Arabs I know. The part that irked me the most? When all these Arabs began taking ownership of the day with their nationalities. Everyone began labeling it their own country’s Mother’s Day: “Happy Syrian Mother’s Day!” “It’s Mother’s Day in Egypt and I love my mama!”

Scrolling through Facebook while on this trip has seriously given me a wake up call to the suffocating environment over yonder; and it has been the best remedy to make me seriously consider moving elsewhere.

Why are Arabs so obsessive and possessive that they even have to place a stake and divide something that was never theirs to divide in the first place? It is Arabian Mother’s Day, as in the entire Arab World is celebrating (supposedly in unity) to honor their mothers. Although, alongside my grandmother’s belief, I find it ridiculous to suddenly outpour an exaggeration of a love that is supposed to be ongoing. (And this is applicable to all these once a year personal celebrations.)

I thought about and realized if we cannot even unite or view ourselves as one nation on something as simple as this, what will Arabs ever really unite about?

Another major reason my grandmother expressed her dislike of this day is due to the ongoing crisis. She said in a time where children were losing their mothers right and left for a great many reasons, it is unfair to parade these theatrics of overstated love with photos, flowers and gifts—which is the common practice worldwide and even more so thanks to social media.

Her words resonated loudly as I recalled my visit to the orphanage she developed with her team. If I timed my entire trip, it was no longer than ten minutes total—as I was passing by from a trip to another shelter—and I was only able to visit two dorms. Regardless, it left a terribly deep scar that had me crying on the entire drive back into the city.

We arrived to a gated complex that led to a driveway separating two large buildings. On one side was the girls’ apartment building and the other the boys’. Ahead was a larger building, a designated recreational center that houses a library, nurse’s clinic, social room, computer room, playroom and educational rooms. This was where the boys and girls would gather to mingle, learn and develop a variety of extra curricular skills to help them get ready for the world. Outside sat a variety of courts for basketball and soccer that were filled with children whose screams of joy was melodious.

The woman showing me the site took me in to the girls’ apartment building. It literally looked like we were walking into the lobby of a seven or eight story apartment complex. She rang the doorbell and quickly informed me this was the flat for the older girls, high school seniors and above. Each flat housed six to seven girls with one “den mother” like guardian. The same for the boys.

An absolutely beautiful girl opened the door and welcomed us in. The living room was spacious, with a television on in the background, and sounds coming from the kitchen. A few other girls scurried in behind her and we exchanged introductions one by one. One girl was living in this house with her two much younger and disabled sisters. Another girl was preparing to take a midterm exam. Another girl was busy with her college work.

They toured me through their modest home, the aroma of coffee and soap filling the air. There were two bedrooms with four beds each, a fully furnished kitchen, a laundry room and a study space.

Our conversations were short but one of them asked me, “You’re not from here are you, right?” I laughed. “Is it my accent? Everyone says I have one when I speak Arabic.” She smiled, “No, not really. Your style is different from typical Syrian.” It was no real surprise for me, I have heard that too and I get stares because my scarf is wrapped and draped differently than about 98% of the Syrian girls.

“Are you leaving?” she then asked. I nodded and said, “But I really do want to come back and have a longer visit with you girls.” Her grin was ear to ear as she said, “Yes, please. We will make you a cup of coffee. We really liked you and hope you come again soon.”

As I walked out the door, I felt like I was leaving dear friends from decades ago. I felt like family and it hit me: They are each other’s family. They are all each other have.

I didn’t have too much time to digest the thought because we headed to their neighbor’s door. A woman in her 20s/30s opened the door and welcomed us in. “This is the apartment of infants,” I was informed as we walked to a house with the exact same layout as the one before.

The difference in this flat was what the rooms were used for. Aside from the kitchen and the laundry room, there was only one bedroom for 12 infants, one large playroom, and a physical therapy room. Most of these infants had either a physical or mental disability and I got to meet every one of them.

The room was warm and filled with a variety of sounds: Crying babies, heavy breathing babies, babbling babies, cooing babies and more. I wanted to just set up camp and sit with these cuties for hours and play. The first two infants started smiling at me, both with severe head deformities. The next seven infants were either sleeping or on the verge, drinking milk from their bottles. Another set were just staring at the ceiling, looking a little lonely. Then there was this last baby girl, approximately a year and a half to two years old with down syndrome. Her eyes were gorgeous, embellished with the longest, thickest and curliest brown silky eyelashes I have ever seen.

She kept her eyes on me with great curiosity and I came closer to her. I have this tendency to resort to English when greeting babies and puppies. I don’t know why, I just do. “Hi beautiful,” I said loud enough for only her to hear me. The other den mothers were in discussion behind me over another baby.

I switched back to Arabic when she reached for my hand. As I extended mine I said (in Arabic), “Want to hold hands, yeah?” When my hand was within reach, she grabbed it with her tiny smooth one and held it extremely tightly and bowed her head to the floor.

For approximately 45 seconds she kept her grip, her eyes shut as tight, head still bowing. As unbelievable as it sounds, I felt like she was praying, with me, and so I followed suit and prayed. I prayed for her, all her sisters in the same room and every room in the building. I prayed for each of their brothers in the opposite building and every other child abandoned or separated or lost from his/her parents.

The tears started to well up in my eyes and she suddenly let go. “Khalas?” I asked her (meaning “That’s it?” in Arabic). She resumed bouncing in her bed and waving her arms. “Ready to go?” the woman asked. I nodded and thanked the others for welcoming us.

I got in the car and opened the waterworks. It does not matter how old you are, living without your parents is a difficulty for most, and especially so for all of these young men and women, and children. Regardless of how or when they lost their parents, it’s unthinkable. All I did was reiterate my love to my mom, as I do on a daily basis, and thanked the Lord for my blessings.

Part of our family tradition is treating every single day with value, and that includes recognizing and acknowledging it. Hence, the lack of sparkles and glitter on Mother’s Day or Father’s Day or such.

Actually the Arab World does not identify a Father’s Day, and that’s another reason my grandmother isn’t too fond of Mother’s Day. However, as tough as it is to say this, the reality is many (not all) Arab fathers are simply biological fathers, not parents. Case and point: On Mother’s Day, I was watching television with my mother when an odd commercial came on. It started with a man from a gulf country, walking into a corporate office carrying a diaper bag and a baby, looking utterly miserable. All eyes were on him awkwardly. The next scene is of a man chasing after a toddler running across a large conference table, knocking over phones and drinks, while the rest of the group in the meeting had agitated looks. The scene switching continued and it was clear that it was glimpses of fathers with their children at work, but the purpose behind it remained unclear, until the very end. The screen went black and across came an Arabic message in soft red colors: Happy Mother’s Day. Enjoy your day off!

I let out a loud chuckle in irony. Apparently here, Mother’s Day is a literal manifestation of fathers’ day, as in the day Arab men who have reproduced are essentially taking on this nifty little thing called being fathers and parenting. I wasn’t sure whether the message was meant to be bitter, like, “Jeez woman! You better enjoy this one day we’re sacrificing to babysit these brats because tomorrow you’re back on mother duty,” or if they genuinely were recognizing how much effort and energy mothers put into the childrearing that they will start to share the responsibility?

I informed my grandmother that in America, we do have Father’s Day, but that may be because in America, dads are (possibly) more father-like? I hope the Arab world soon follows suit because a familial revolution needs to happen to abolish the oppression placed upon mothers. All I hear is criticism about mothers who request a night out to themselves or ask for a break. They’re hated on for not being robotic enough to handle it all, on top of the housework, (mandated) religious studies and much more, without a moment to breathe. Listen, boys, if you can’t raise them too, please don’t have them. It’s as simple as that.

And the door swings both ways: Women who don’t want to make the shift to motherhood really need to set their priorities straight. It’s ridiculously unfair to continuously have children who are made to feel like burdens or that are deserted. Though many of the children at these orphanages lost their parents to death, I have learned of many others in Syria being abandoned or even sold to help families get out of poverty.

Children deserve to live the happy life and that doesn’t necessarily mean financial or materialistic means. It means parents who chose to take on this precious responsibility and value it as best as can be. When a relationship includes this much investment, everyday will be Parent’s Day. And this is worldwide!

Six Weeks in Syria: Senses of Syria

March 24^th 2016

Senses of Syria

There are many people who have seen photos or read stories of Syria and have only dreamed of setting foot on this enchanted soil. I cannot relate and it is because of this that I want to share some of the amazing senses from this cradle of civilization.

My brother and I have one childhood memory we looked forward to every summer—Syria’s signature fragrance. That first whiff of gray fog that literally hits you in the face: cigarettes, smog and gasoline enveloping us as we walk down the white stairs of the plane. Indeed unhealthy, but oh so warm of a welcome.

The next tradition we never failed to uphold was swinging by the shawarma sandwich shop on the way home to finally taste the most authentic flavors of chicken, pickles and garlic we waited almost 365 days to eat. This is the only place in the world with the most legitimate shawarma and no one can argue with me. Even the one place in Lebanon we recently discovered is owned and operated by a Syrian.

Our drive home is spent soaking up the diverse colors of misspelled and mistranslated signs from the window, eating that shawarma and sipping Ugarit brand soda—the Syria equivalent of RC Cola, which is hands down, even better than Coke or Pepsi.

Smells

Whenever the strong scent of Mediterranean coffee fills the air, I am immediately reminded of aging and death. Maybe it is because the bittersweet smell of that rich drink is present at every old woman’s gathering and every mourning service. Always served in small gold plated glass cups that clank when stacked.

Nothing can compare with the amazing smell of fried eggplants from my grandmother’s kitchen, as we walk up the apartment building stairs. Or the smell of stuffed grape leaves. Or the smell of grilled kibbeh. Nothing beats inhaling the blessed food we are about to eat at lunch, the lunch my grandfather begins with prayer.

The greatest part of jetlag is awakening early and exploring the world outside, including being the first few to pass by the bakeries that are hard at work kneading dough for the second batch of sweet bread whose aroma is unbelievably blissful. Bread with black seeds, sesame seeds, chocolate, fruits, thyme, cheese and so much more.

My favorite is walking into artisanal shops and inhaling the fragrance of surprisingly sweet paint infused with recently and intricately carved hundred-year-old wood. What’s even sweeter is seeing them working and knowing that someone found this art worthy of purchasing. It’s like the past is defying the odds of the present by being etched so elegantly for the future.

Sounds

The sound of laughing children is a rarity today, but that makes it even more beautiful. Sometimes I can hear it even through their smiles as they skip past me on the streets. However, Syrian streets would not be Syrian without the sounds of loudly honking cars 24 freaking 7. It’s as if they believe their road rage, manifested in pounding that horn, will actually make traffic flow?

Sometimes mornings consist of many sirens, following house shaking booms. Sometimes mornings are full of cars driving around with speakerphones announcing deaths or vaccination services being offered for children ages five and under. More often however, morning alarms are the squeaking breaks of every single car that picks up its speed on the modernized street outside the building.

The most beautiful sounds are the mosques that call for prayer within seconds of one another, the men speaking Arabic loudly with one another beneath my window, and the salesmen yelling out the availability of gum, tissues or socks for sale.

Tastes

I have to say, neither Robeks nor Jamba Juice can compare with the delicious perfection of Ya Hala’s authenticity. Fresh fruit is blended right before your eyes with milk and offered in three sizes—regular, large or to go. It is the tiniest kiosk but the grandest of flavors.

The biggest piece of inspiration to my renowned cake truffle pops has got to be the chocolate of Syria and its extremely eclectic array of flavors. The richness of their chocolates, especially dark, is an indescribable creamy perfection that meshes oh so well with crispy Aleppo pistachio, crunchy brittle and tangy bitter orange.

In the ancient alleyways of Syria, you’ll find stands and stands of candy being sold that is identical to what my mother used to purchase during her elementary school days. My favorite has to be the sugary-coated stretchy colorful candy that is chewy and sticky.

After all this, what one needs the most is a hot gorgeous cup of loose leaf brewed red tea that has an immensely deep flavor and is only enhanced when you sink a bright green mint leaf, cut right from the ground.

Sights

When I was younger, people would ask me what physical characteristics I found attractive. Without thought I would reply, “Green eyes and black hair.” Women would throw their heads back and cackle. “You’ll never find an Arab guy like that. Plus, you don’t want a man better looking than you. He’ll attract too much attention.” Aside from the lunacy, I must burst everyone’s bubble, but whoa does Syria have green-eyed black haired beauties. And I’m not just talking about men. I’m talking about our Syrian youth in the activities I have been a part of recently and the children at the shelters I have visited. There are so many beautiful people, inside and out.

There is a heavy weight of Greco-Roman and Ugaritic history to witness: slabs, stones, walls, portraits, mosaics and more. They once decorated the country, making a mark on what once stood, now falling apart and crumbling in a heartbreaking sight.

The bright contrast of the vivid blue sky and swiftly passing white clouds is gorgeous and it stands opposite of crowded streets, filled with dirty yellow taxis driving by, and I’m not sure if I really would want to have it any other way.

True, there are only four out of the five senses described here, but the reality is each one of these can be felt as deeply as a touch. Every taste, every sight, every sound and every smell is like a fingerprint, leaving its trace upon one’s soul. I only pray that Syrians themselves recognize the value of their roots.

Six Weeks in Syria: Forced Goodbyes

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March 16^th 2016

Forced Goodbyes

I made a list and titled it Things I Miss from California. The list turned out to be shorter than I expected but here was all I could muster:

·       Unlimited access to episodes of MONK on DVR

·       Clorox Wipes

·       Disneyland

·       Boba

·       Freedom/Privacy

My mom said all were moot except the last one, but I have to tell you, Clorox Wipes are monumental necessities here. Actually, even the Swiffer family is needed here. Anyway, I digress. The point is I surprised myself with how much this amazing country, Syria, can give me. So much so that I can easily do without the many things I consider necessities in my daily life halfway across the world.

The riches are immeasurable and I have begun contemplating the programs I could develop and implement for the new generation of Syrians that I have met at the shelters and the orphanages. If I even dared to dream of making a list of what I would miss of Syria, I would publish series and series of never ending novels.

I would miss the birds that awaken me every morning with the sun, singing in a carefreeness to be envied. I would miss the mosques that each call for the five daily worships in a collage of sounds that are absolute music to my ears. I would miss the taste of Dolly’s ketchup (way better than Heinz and the only ketchup I actually eat) on fresh fries and pizza. I would miss my grandfather’s study, my absolute favorite room on this entire planet, despite the itchy green couch. I would miss the atmosphere of being around my culture. I would miss the centuries and centuries of significant history that is etched on every wall, every block, every cobblestone path leading to buildings that house our greatest talents. The values are endless and I am so blessed to be able to witness the continuation of these values despite the grave difficulty weighing down upon every corner of this nation.

When I was a child, I would have dreams that were agonizing to awaken from. I would see myself back in Syria, in its scents and sounds, in the bed down the hall from my grandparent’s room, next to my cousin, staying up all night laughing till the tears streamed down our faces, and living in utter contentment. I’d open my eyes to a California sun and cry daily until a month or two later I had finally readjusted. Around my later adolescent years, my dad taught me to look at it differently when he said, “Think of it like this. You’re blessed to have two homes to go to.” I loved that notion and it became my sacred mantra—just like André Parrot’s beautiful quote on Syria.

Somehow though, I can already sense that phase returning, and when this forced goodbye is ripped from me, it may take a very very long time before the wound closes. Every exhibition we’ll host for A Country Called Syria will become even more difficult to host but even more necessary. It will be like rehashing an unwanted breakup with the most important partner of my life.

I’m going to miss daily lunch at 2:00 p.m. (sharp!) with my grandparents, who spend a good majority of it concerned over my eating habits—supposedly I do not eat enough because isn’t that what all grandparents believe? I love them! And I love the afternoon chats with each of them over cups and cups of freshly brewed assorted teas. Green, earl grey, herbal blends, cardamom, orange cinnamon, chamomile and more—all sprinkled with honey or sugar.

My grandmother left to get ready for a wake she had to attend. In the last three weeks we’ve been informed of three deaths, all of whom were individuals from my grandparents’ peers and I can sense it is taking the greatest toll on them. Witnessing one after the other leave this earth. My grandfather, mother and I remained seated around the dining table, sipping extremely hot teas.

“What story shall I tell you today?” my grandfather asked, breaking the silence in the air. I smiled and let him know that any story would be more than welcome. So he began a tale that left both my mother and I with goose bumps.

On a business trip in America in the 70s, my grandfather hopped into a cab and encountered a very unique driver. He described him as a young man, in his 30s, and I chuckled at the double standard of our culture. At 30 or so, a man is young while a woman, at this age, is nowhere near young.

His exotic look intrigued my grandfather enough to ask him of his origins. “Well, I was born and raised here in America, but my grandfather is from Aleppo.” It was music to my grandfather’s ears, having lived in Aleppo and married a woman from there too.

This opened the door for a gleeful exchange of information on history, backgrounds and work. My grandfather learned that this young man was actually a small business owner, trying to make ends meet. In order to better embellish his income to help start a family, he took on a second job as a cab driver.

The three of us felt the same admiration for this man. For a few minutes we fixated on his work ethic and strength, a quality definitely worth esteeming. It reminded me of the many displaced families and refugees that are beginning to take the first steps necessary to rebuild their lives.

“When we reached my stop, I offered him $500.”

“WHAT?!?!” my mother and I both squealed at the same time. “$500?!?!” He nodded and matter-of-factly said, “Well yes, this young hard working man was trying to catch a break and I wanted to help him.” I couldn’t tell if my heart was breaking out of love for my grandfather or love for the gesture of kindness that my grandparents are both known for in this world. God bless them both.

My mother and I looked at each other and mouthed the word “wow” before my grandfather continued. “Well, he refused. He said he couldn’t accept such a grand offer and would take nothing above the $50 taxi fare.”

It was another long pause of awe. “That is an even greater personality trait than his dedicated work ethic,” my mom said, cutting through our thoughts. This young man, who we all prayed had found stability, success and happiness, left a deep lasting (40 years) impression upon my grandfather in one simple 10-15 minute ride.

“He was a genuine hard working man,” I said, as the conversation started to wind down. My grandfather was finishing up his orange, the typical after lunch dessert, and I just stared at him, like he were a breathtaking piece on display. I am related to two legends—my grandfather and grandmother—and I cannot imagine the forced goodbyes I have to compel out of me.

As he looked out our balcony and taking his last bite he said, “Tomorrow, I will tell you another story. Every day after lunch, I can share story after story.” So until the next one, I will savor every moment, every hug, every jaw-dropping act of kindness they bestow upon us in this beautiful place.

Six Weeks in Syria: Limbo Land

March 11^th 2016

Limbo Land

An abandoned school building sat at the outskirts of Damascus, ready for the taking. The original owners decided to sell at a low cost considering the instability of the neighboring areas, and my grandmother’s organization jumped on board. Upon acquiring the building, the three stories of classrooms were immediately converted into apartments that would each be split to house two families.

As soon as we walked through the black metal-filigreed doors, we were hit with a beautiful and refreshing fragrance of laundry detergent. We were invited into the administrator’s office, a very modest tiny room with one desk, a heater and a battery to operate necessary appliances when the power goes out. The five of us sat around the room, exchanging questions and answers on the current status of the shelter, as well as the families housed within. “We have a new family, well new member really. Did you see the elderly woman in the wheelchair outside? We found her abandoned in the garden not too long ago. We think maybe her family dropped her off.”

I looked out the window behind me and saw her, sitting peacefully on the corner of the building’s front lot. “How could her family just abandon her like that without even bringing her inside?” It left me puzzled for the rest of the afternoon. “Maybe her family members were suffering so badly and thought this place would take better care of her than they can?” That answer left me even more disturbed. Imagine being so financially distraught that you couldn’t even care for your own mother and out of fear of rejection, you decided it would be safer to drop her off and pray to God they will take her in, instead of risking it?

A few more minutes and we were on our way to visit the families and I was half nervous half excited. I had no idea what to expect accept emotion. In honor of Middle Eastern Mother’s Day (March), the organization had raised an extra $50 per family to distribute atop their monthly stipend. The plan was to stop by each household and wish the families a blessed Mother’s Day with their gift.

I faced a culture shock at only the first home. Behind a white painted wooden door with “Room #1” written in marker, was an extremely tiny walkway with two wall openings covered by thick gray wool blankets. Each blanket was the divider in these classrooms converted homes. With nowhere to knock, we called out to the family behind the first blanket and a woman lifted it to reveal the smallest room imaginable. Half the size of a studio apartment—maybe even a third the size—with brown thin carpet, one mattress on the floor, and a few other basic household items stacked in a corner. These were the items provided by the organization to each home. A husband, a wife and four children eat, sleep, change, cry, laugh and live in this small room they have called a blessed home.

 

No home was alike and we saw 52 of them, one of which was a single mother who agreed to take in and share her room with the elderly abandoned woman. Home after home we were welcomed with the warmest and most loving invitations to stay and join them for a cup of tea or coffee. It was hard to say no but we made a promise—and an appointment—to return and do just that. I want to hear the stories of these men, women and children that had to forcefully say goodbye to Aleppo, Daraa and various cities in the outskirts that have been left in ruins. I need to share a my bread with them on the floor of their homes and be someone they can etch a bit of history upon.

One room had a man who had lost his arm, another room had a mother with twelve children, and another had a newlywed couple, who celebrated this union at the shelter. To help them celebrate this joyous occasion, their neighbors treated them to a roll of bright pink floral wallpaper to spread the spirit of the honeymoon. This was probably one of the greatest things about the center—a seriously strong sense of support for one another.

Each floor was reconstructed to include windows, running water at a shared sink, a refrigerator and a heating system. Across every wall ran a clothesline, some that were filled, others that sat vacant. Clothes of all shapes, sizes and colors hung to dry beside different doors, while children ran throughout the halls laughing and playing.

Husbands were proud of the household items they had built with their own two hands, while wives were proud of the way they setup a kitchen nook to feed their families. “Here, come, come, take a picture of this closet.” He led me to a floor to ceiling rack with built in shelves, holding their blankets, sweaters and clothes. His smile was full of pride at his creation and then he asked me to take a photo of his wife’s beautiful kitchen. “See, now your kitchen’s going to be famous,” he joked, just to make her giggle.

The littlest of things made the biggest impacts in every individual’s life and it resonated so deeply for the five of us as we walked from invitation to invitation. One woman called me in and asked, “Don’t you want to photograph my home too? I colored it so that it would be fun for the kids.” She was a young mother who had wonderfully infused blue and red wavy stripes on the walls where the one mattress sat.

From a corner, her handsome young son watched me focus my camera and snap the photo. He seemed so mesmerized by this black contraption and its clicking noises. “Do you want me to take a picture of you too?” After a few silent moments of contemplation he nodded and dashed over to sit on the mattress beneath the bright colors. He was a model.

Another family invited me into their homes and I found their two children playing something like a board game on the floor. They agreed to a photo and when I asked if they wanted to see it, the mother replied, “It’s so nice but it’s such a shame they won’t get to have it.” I looked at her with surprise. “No! Of course they can have it. I will personally print them and make sure you get to keep a copy.” The look of joy on her face was indescribable, but it’s what Hollywood movies call the look of Christmas morning on children’s faces. A picture is worth way more than a thousand words, to them at least. To these families that have lost everything intimate and sacred, this is an opportunity to have tangible memories once again.

I saw this manifested even further when I came across a group of children playing in the hallway, eyeing me. “Do you want me to take a picture of all of you?” I asked them. Their mothers replied in unison, “Yes, they will like that.” I laughed and asked if the mothers wanted to join and they both shook their heads feverously.

One of the boys rushed to me quickly and begged to see the photo. I instantly turned the screen and shared it with the group of kids. He gasped and said, “Wow, I’ve never seen a photo of myself before.” In an era of selfies after selfies flooding my newsfeed, both guys and girls obsessing over their OOTD and duck-faces, there are children who don’t even know what a photo looks like, let alone how they look in one. “It’s nice, right? I’m going to print it for you to keep.” It was like I had given them each a million dollars. When the two mothers saw the photo, they changed their minds and asked me to snap a photo of them too! Their giddiness was the greatest gift I could have ever received.

“Why are you taking photos?” another mother asked me after she smiled at me. “Well, I want to share with more people about what’s going on and I want to get more people to help me support you and your families.” Her eyes watered. “Thank you. Thank you so much and May God bless you and reward you for your kindness.”

Kindness? I could write another entire post on this concept and what her saying it did to me. Think about for just a moment: These families are living off $50 a month. That’s all they would need to be sponsored. That’s $600 a year to help the organization sustain each family living inside a classroom they share with another family. What divides them is one simple wall.

I walked out the same gated doors and found the rest of the children on break from the afterschool program the shelter provides, playing hopscotch and tag in the front lot and garden. At the corner sat the elderly woman on the wheelchair, watching their pure happiness. Their peace, their gratitude, their resilience, painted all over the walls with murals of smiling faces.

As soon as I stepped into the van to head back home, I burst into the tears I held back 53 times. It was the hardest thing to witness and I was immediately overcome with guilt. I have so much, all thanks to the grace and blessings of God, and yet these stunning souls are making ends meet with a smile on their faces.

It took me almost a week to be able to put into words everything I encountered and this is barely even the half of it. You cannot filter down the depth of a woman who offers you a cup of water from her own scarce kitchen. You cannot contain the look in each mother’s eyes when she was wished a Happy Mother’s Day and given a hug. You cannot simply paste words to describe the gravity of their losses and their discomforts. How are two or three generations living in one of those rooms?

Put yourself in their worn down shoes and ponder these thoughts. I’ll be visiting them again this week, along with the second shelter.

The most innocent seem to pay the heftiest price.

Six Weeks in Syria: The First Battlefield

March 8^th 2016

The First Battlefield

It’s International Women’s Day but it doesn’t really feel like it anywhere in this world. My grandfather sat before the television, watching sports news (one of his top picks considering his past involvement with the Olympics). On the screen were women racing on a track field in the skimpiest outfits possible. I couldn’t quite fathom the equation. None of the male racers had to wear “shirts” that revealed their chiseled midriff and bikini shorts that accentuated their seat curves and thighs, so why do the women? On top of that, all the male sportscasters could discuss was the winner’s miraculous ability to win despite her recent absence due to giving birth—and while she did win, she wasn’t up to par according to their expectations. In the 21^st Century we seem to be moving backward not forward.

I finished my tea and moved around the house, thinking about this day, hearing the crowd gather in the floor beneath me. Our neighbor passed away last night and it left us all in a numbing shock, reminiscing on her great and legendary life. She was an older woman who ensured that we felt like family. That was the greatest part of this building—the three families, that each lived on a floor, were one family…are one family. We live fluidly across each level and that’s how my mother grew up.

The funeral march began around 12:45 p.m. and it sent shivers up and down my spine to hear the announcement made via speakerphone on the streets—a common Arab tradition. It felt too surreal. They called out her name, the name of her late husband and the name of her children, ending with a request that the community members and passersby pray for her. As I obliged, I began deeply contemplating us women, Syrian women to be precise, and what our role has been rewritten (by those other than us) to include.

Towards the very end of the film Green Zone, “Freddy” tells Miller a very simple yet vividly powerful statement. “It is not for you to decide what happens here.” He left me in awe and I thought, “Absolutely!” but I took this quote in on a variety of different levels.

Imagine a world where, as a whole, humanity learns this very nifty skill called Letting Others Be. Let’s take a moment to savor this painfully unattainable fantasy. Envision a planet where first world countries don’t automatically ordain themselves the saviors of third world nations and end up leaving them in shambles far worse than their original state. Envision a place where a government truly was for the people and therefore allowed its citizens to exercise their human rights.

Anna Julia Cooper—the only woman and only African American quoted in the redesigned U.S. Passports (Huffington Post, 2012)—beautifully said, “The cause of freedom is not the cause of race or a sect, a party or a class—it is the cause of humankind, the very birthright of humanity.” This couldn’t be farther from the reality we are witnessing today.

In my opinion, if you want to win a war or create a greater nation or establish a better life, the notion that man is superior to woman must once and for all be abandoned. I believe a great majority of what I’m witnessing in my homeland (and many other places) comes from the decades and decades of the marginalization of women. Men and women are equal and I can’t believe this phrase even has to be continuously reiterated to far too many ignorant minds in existence. For further clarification, equal does not mean identical. It is indeed our diversity in the two sexes that makes us equal. We women are the other half of society, thus our exile means the demise of life. And as Cooper says, the birthright of freedom is the cause of humankind. This cause is why we need feminism, especially out here, and it is our responsibility to one another.

While sexism is prevalent in almost every other culture out there, I’ve seen it run especially deep in mine unfortunately and it’s actually become a legendary trademark. So much so that twice I had non-Syrian Arab guys use the following pickup line with epic failure: “I’ve been told to marry a Syrian girl because she apparently makes the best kind of wife.” What am I? Some type of ingredient in a recipe? Like hey, you know, bleached flour makes for a better kind of bread. Within seconds, I burst their fantasy bubbles. That truth is inapplicable to me.

The (traditional) Syrian girl is every misogynists dream come true because she was born and raised with the idea that God created her solely to serve man. The first is her father, then her husband once married, then her son after giving birth. Then she dies. She does no more and no less. She is the ideal homemaker and trophy wife who never argues or disagrees. She is The Stepford Wife and therefore dares not cross any lines of thinking, talking or acting.

I did not grow up this way. My mother, the revolutionary that she is, instilled within me this radical scandalous notion that I am human. That I matter and I can and will make a difference in this world. That I am not some submissive lost soul in search for my other half, but a whole person living my life. A partner is indeed welcome, but not a necessity.

People—like many males and traditional females—disapprove of said belief system and ideology. Of course, it threatens their dictatorships, the way many of these marriages function today. It threatens the cheap foundations of weak men and envious women. It takes away their undeserved power. It’s a shame they fail to see the substantial value a woman can add to their lives—and not by being locked up in her home, prevented from being a contributing member in society.

For years and years they have successfully stunted the mental growth of too many young women, keeping them busy on things like soap operas and plastic surgeries (yes, commonalities in Syria) because women are not often welcome to pursue more. This was recently disclosed to me by a group of women here. Instead of building a platform for women to finally roll up their sleeves and give their diverse input to better the neighborhoods, communities, cities, districts and the nation, they’re being spoon-fed a false manual to life. Does the world fail to recognize the immense value a woman can bring to the (metaphorical) table across every field of life or does the world purposefully have a hidden agenda to destroy itself piece by piece?

Following this revolution, I have to come to see some rays of light, some powerful women who finally got tired of having their mouths taped and are breaking through the darkness to leave an imprint for a better world. Women who have been thrust into this war and have led efforts to protect others, raise awareness and funds for others, cook and clean to serve the homeless, and much more. Women who understand that their education and stability come first before marriage. Women who are completely content with living independently because they realize their success and value is not tied with a man, but with what they offer humanity.

This machismo filled culture needs to be eradicated. I assumed that it had throughout this turmoil but as I explore Syria I have found that the men have not changed their catcalling, stalking and harassing women in the streets. I hadn’t even been in Syria four days before I got a marriage proposal through the dysfunctional Arab matchmaking machine. Our culture has this thing where they simply match any breathing living female with any breathing living male. I am fresh meat, on war torn soil, with an American citizenship. My past is moot at this point.

Through social media, a random woman whom I had been suggested to as fair game, reached out to my mother like this:

Hello.

I’m from the Fa-La-La-La-La family and I got your info from the Do-Re-Mi family. I’m reaching out in regards to the girl. Please give me a call at ####### or send me an appointment time.

If you’re like me, you’re still in stitches, trying to catch your breath from “in regards to the girl.” Trust me, it’s seven times funnier in Arabic. Every now and then I spit out the phrase when I need to give my mother some cheering up. It sends us into uncontrollable laughter during these very dark times.

It amazed me that even in war, these vultures were still out on the hunt for their children/siblings on such shallow levels. One night, I met up with my cousin and her friends for a quick hello to catch up in between all the projects I’ve been working on here in Syria. As we got up to leave, a woman from the table behind us dashed over to stop us so she could ask one of my cousin’s friends if she was single. Apparently, she found this girl appealing enough for her brother/son. The girl was not only married, but had two children. My head was spinning. Really? Like, really? What do you even know of her to chase her down?

What did this other woman even know of me to confidently request an appointment? On top of that, I had zero information whatsoever on the man in question. So I decided to ask. I thought hey, why not? He could miraculously be my knight in rusting armor (read here for more information on the meaning of this quote: http://ladynarrator.blogspot.com/2015/07/the-knight-in-rusting-armor.html). 

So I began laying out my questions. Where does he live? I wanted to know if he was here in Syria or back in the U.S. or in some other country. What did he study and what does he do? While no one can deny the significance of financial stability, I wanted to understand the path of life this man had taken. How old is he? Pretty self-explanatory. Lastly, I shamelessly requested a photo. Considering how this family heard about us, I can assume that my Facebook account was involved.

See, here’s how the standard routine is expected to go. My mom receives this message and she’s supposed to be thrilled that her spinster-divorced daughter is actually attracting suitors. Our response should not have been questions but an actual scheduled appointment, which, I am to prepare for with a trip to the beauty salon and a brand new outfit to impress the women from this man’s family, because, well, the guy doesn’t attend this first appointment. The girl is inspected by the matriarchs and then the evaluation results are relayed to him. If he’s intrigued enough, a second appointment is requested, and this initiation can only come from his end.

They received our message—both literally and metaphorically. It stated beneath the text that it was read and after only 36 hours of silence I chuckled at the realization that they were most probably offended at our “demands.” You know, the basic information I am entitled to have prior to agreeing to launching a journey towards the biggest life commitment ever. The irony? Years ago I had a man demand, I mean explicitly command my mother, over the phone in a condescending manner, that she force me to meet him for a coffee date and that she text him over a photo of me without my scarf because it’s his God given right. Oh Dear Lord. This man had met me numerous times at events in which I showed absolutely zero interest and yet he was relentless and creepy.

We women are not property. We are not items on display in a window at anyone’s disposal. We have the same rights as men do in the courtship process, in marriage, in child rearing, in finances, in employment, in free time, in society and in life. We are productive, intellectual and skilled individuals who deserve a place at the table. And the Syrian woman, as I have seen beneath the rubble here, is beautifully strong deep inside. I’ve seen it at the shelter where over 50 displaced women and their families dwell—many of them single mothers—under the management of empowering Syrian women. The Syrian woman is full of potential and it’s time that that potential is given the avenue to thrive. It’s time that society recognizes we are the other half of this world, therefore until we are included, this world will remain incomplete.

Happy International Women’s Day!