Ceasefire:
The Smoke Clears…For Now
2.27.2016
Jetlag means waking up at 11:49 p.m.
and thinking the next day has arrived, only to discover you’ve been asleep for
only four hours, then trying to close your eyes again. It also means you’ll be
bright eyed and bushy tailed at Fajr (the pre-dawn worship) but wiped out by
Maghrib (the sunset worship). However, being alert and energetic at dawn meant
I could get started on re-exploring Syria.
My grandmother, decades ago, launched
one of the largest humanitarian organizations in Syria, catered to helping many
impoverished and struggling individuals across a spectrum of services. Five
years ago, her work tripled. When people ask me why my grandparents haven’t
left, the answer is two-fold but simple. Syria is home and Syria needs them now
more than ever.
A ceasefire had been in negotiation
yesterday. Over the last few years, that word is almost moot to many of us
because it means the bombs and bullets may slightly decrease, but never really
end. Throughout the night I heard what resembled the fireworks I hear back in
California, but I knew they were far from joyous bursts of color.
At 8:00 a.m Syria was quiet. Usually
Saturday mornings are. The tweets of birds and the occasional honk of a car
broke through the chill. My mother and I stood outside our building, waiting
for the ride that would take us on one of my grandmother’s established
projects: Income and Bread Distribution.
Fifteen families across Syria are given
a large bag of bread and an envelope of funds to support them for the coming
month. All of this is sponsored by donations gathered from whoever is willing
to give. I want to start collecting donations from those interested in this
project.
We hopped into the car, already filled
with two of my grandmother’s friends and colleagues who do this regularly, and
made our way to inner city Damascus. It was completely different than I
remembered. Newly decorated with paintings of the Syrian flag and banners
calling for patriotism and military support. I knew what I was seeing—a cross
between 1984 and The Hunger Games. Civilians eager to stay safe and alive, and while
maintaining their only sources of income.
Every few blocks was a checkpoint with
young armed men in military uniforms, inspecting the riders and the trunks of
each vehicle. As we made it through the first checkpoint, we arrived at our
first destination; a bakery nestled between two run down looking businesses.
The bakery was packed and there were bags and bags of bread piling up on the
floor. On the right was a large glass case, housing a variety of baked cookies—salty
and sweet. On the left was a large refrigerated case housing an eclectic array
of chocolate cakes and pastries.
I so yearned to grab a picture of this
perfect scene. The bakers rushing to fulfill every order. The moody cashier who
just seemed to be done with everything and everyone. The delicious foods that
no one can find anywhere else. The life, that regardless of this war, has gone
on.
We carried about ten bags of freshly
baked baguette style breads that smelled unbelievably divine and went on our way.
“I won’t go down to this house. The route to walk to their front door is too
dark and scary, so why don’t you go with Aunty,” one of the women said to me.
Without question, I followed the other woman out of the car, carrying a bag of
delicious smelling bread.
We were on a main street first but then
turned right into the first alley. Then we took an immediate left where we
had to almost squat to enter a very low ceiling tunnel. It started to get
darker, with occasional holes ahead to let in light from above. The path took a
while and I wondered how many times it had taken this woman before she
memorized these twists and turns. Then I wondered about the family that lived
somewhere ahead and how often they walk this path. Then I wondered how my
grandmother’s team even found this particular family in the first place.
I cast aside these mysteries when we
reached the end of the alley and a tiny white corroded door on the right. The
first two times the doorbell didn’t work, but third time’s the charm. A young
woman opened the door and immediately welcomed the Aunty. “Where’s your mom?”
asked the Aunty. “She hasn’t been able to get up because of her blood pressure.
She’s in bed. Here, come in.”
We walked into a very tiny Arabian
home, and by Arabian I mean literally Bab-el-Hara
style but 1/8 the size. (Bab-e-Hara was a renowned Syrian show that showcased
Arabesque homes and the Syrian culture for what I believe was six seasons.) It
had a small courtyard, three doors and a staircase that I kind of wanted to climb
and discover. One of the three doors was open and a voice was welcoming us. It
was the mother, who looked even younger than the daughter. She lay on the floor
with blankets and sheets, smiling at us with a beautiful face. I cannot even
begin to describe the loving warmth she gave me at my simply stopping by. It
made me want to sit down and converse with her about anything.
The Aunty did all the talking and explaining,
breaking down the amount of money being provided and the current prices of
typical groceries. The mother listened intently but said, “I’m forgetting
things a lot so please tell my daughter too and speak loudly because she’s
losing her hearing in one ear as well.” I pinched my arm to avoid crying but little
did I know that the next stops were going to be even harder.
We gave them the envelope and the bread
and said goodbye. As we weaved back
through the tunnel, I asked, “Is it them two or is anyone else living with
them?” I learned that the son also lived with them but was currently unable to
sustain an income.
Because of the checkpoints, what would
have taken about 45-minutes took approximately two hours. It causes you to take
certain routes and get stuck in the line of inspections and u-turn frequently.
The beauty of Syria once upon a time was you could walk anywhere in under 30
minutes and driving took somewhere around 2 minutes. Syrians considered
distances that took 10-15 minutes in a car to be a full-blown road trip. Being
from California, I always found that humorous.
The next stop was another neighborhood
where two families awaited us. One was a handicapped man who still rode a
motorbike with a basket to work. The two Aunties told us that he was recently
married to a woman who has been generous and caring towards him and they had a
baby not too long ago. He was so sweet and precious, repeatedly thanking each
and every one of us. A few feet away stood a heavy black metal door that opened
to reveal an adorable old woman and her granddaughter. The old woman was
gleeful as she saw us, and we handed her the bread and envelope. She asked very
innocently, “Can you give me a second bag of bread?” I was ready to dive into
the trunk and grab another bag when one of the Aunties said, “I’m sorry, but we
have other families too that need them today.” The old woman nodded
understandingly and thanked us again. She waited for us, smiling at the door,
until we drove away.
More bread. That’s all she wanted. We
sit at restaurants and are blessed with the opportunity to ask and receive a
second basket of bread with butter, and this old woman requested the same. When
I asked about this, the Aunties explained this all comes from donations. If
they had more, they would give more. Each bag had about eight or nine small
loaves of bread, which would be enough to make about that many sandwiches. How
can that even be enough for a family of three generations under one tiny roof?
“The biggest need is food,” one of the
Aunties began explaining to my mom and I. “If you ask what the greatest need is
for our people here and now, it’s food.” Both ladies then continued to explain
the inflation Syrians are facing. Five years ago $1 = 50 Syrian Pounds. Today
$1 = 450 Syrian pounds. Tomorrow it will change. Every day it goes up,
therefore what was barely affordable today will be impossible to obtain
tomorrow.
They broke down the details of how much
a pound of meat, sugar, potatoes, green beans and eggplants cost. All I could
think about was how lucky and blessed I have been to never have to sit and
calculate cost per pound. I get a text from someone at home that we need a can
of corn, six cucumbers, milk and cereal and I stop by the supermarket and pick it up. Just
like that.
But it’s not just like that here, and I
have always known it’s not just like that everywhere in America or the world
either for that matter. Throw in war, fear and chaos, and the situation gets
even harder. Like it was for the last two families we visited.
A woman wearing a black robed dress and
a black scarf stood alone by a street market. We pulled up beside her and she
greeted all of us very softly and then continued to talk with one of the ladies guiding us;
meanwhile the other guide, sitting beside me in the car, told us the story of the woman in black.
She’s a widow with five children. Her four boys have all been drafted in to the
army.
One of the reasons I adore extra large
sunglasses is because it conceals what doesn’t need to be seen. Crying in front
of these strong families who did not cry in front of me was not on my agenda,
despite how painfully difficult it was not to when we met with the last family.
A middle-aged couple stood by a bridge
that was extremely familiar to me. When I looked closer I realized we were
literally seconds away from my home, where we got picked up. I walked down that
bridge numerous times. They were both wearing soft blue colored clothing—she in
a trench coat, him in navy slacks and a button down sweater.
He was blind but you couldn't tell and his beauty illuminated even further when he smiled and very
modestly nodded his head in greeting us. He stood behind his wife, arms folded
neatly and it was a sight that left me in tears for a solid two hours later in
the day. His wife was a beautiful woman who spoke in such a gentle tone that
they really did make a wonderful match.
In the few seconds as we drove to my
house, I quickly heard their story. They were recently married and everyone was
glad that he was blessed with an extremely kind and patient woman. She helps
him out and takes care of him. My grandmother had gotten him an appointment
with a doctor in Lebanon who unfortunately said there was nothing that can be
done for his sight, so his business degree wasn’t as valued in the working
world.
The polar opposite lifestyles in
existence here amazes me. It’s not really new in Syria but I had expected it to
shift when the war started. Every pair of eyes that smiled at me from the
families I visited today remained with me, and they illuminated even more
brightly when at 8:05 p.m. the power went out and I sat in a dark room with my
mother and grandfather, wondering if it would start up again soon or if it
would still be another few hours.
I turned around and saw the hotel and
its extravagant restaurants well lit and alive through our balcony windows.
Shaking my head I wondered how fair was it that they could use up the
electricity with ease while many others remained without heating and light.
Earlier in the day I had asked my
grandmother why there were frequent power outages and she said, “Well, when the
power plants are bombed and still under repair, this is what we get.” I love my
grandma and her sass. I take after her in that department. Then I look at her
with my grandfather and I am just in awe at their loyalty and love for one
another, that has grown stronger during this difficult time.
I can only imagine their pain as they
watch the news and witness the realities around them. It’s far more
heartbreaking from them, those who were born and raised here and gave—no—are still giving their all to their country.
I have only about 20 years of choppy scattered memories from my summer and
winter trips and my six-month stay. They have over 80 years of dedicated
service to their homeland and people. Years of loyalty, pride and knowledge
in its roots, history and culture.
After lunch, my grandfather was telling
me a story about how a certain street in Damascus came to be and he recalled it
like an incident that happened just days earlier. If it weren’t for his
efforts, and my grandmother’s, my mother and I would have never been able to
open our organization, A Country Called
Syria, let alone expand it to what it has become today.
“There goes my chance to take a
shower,” I joked with my mom in the dark. Power outages meant becoming
acquainted with this thing called dry shampoo—which is both a gift and a curse.
Water shortages means gratitude that God was preparing me for it with the
California water conservation efforts.
My grandfather shuffled in to his room
slowly and returned with his bright flashlight. “I have another one. Take this
one and I will walk you to your rooms.” Adorable as ever, he wanted to make
sure my mother and I would safely make it to bed. “We are going to stay with
you a little longer here, then we’ll go to our room.” He smiled and told us to
join him on his evening walk around the house to digest his dinner.
The three of us walked beneath
battery-operated lights from the dining room, through the foyer, into the
living room and back. My mom and I were chuckling and savoring up these blessed
moments with a legendary man, who stopped suddenly and said. “Do you want
chocolate? I have a secret stash.”
Following his flashlight, we entered
his office, my most favorite room in the whole wide world, and watched him open
what I call the secret passage to reveal two golden boxes of award winning
chocolates. In the dark, we said praises to God and enjoyed a piece each. He
walked us to our door, kissed us goodnight and an hour and a half later, the
electricity returned. By then, we were all in bed, ready to bid farewell to the
first day of supposed ceasefire.
